Rock Country Read online

  This writing experience has been a blast and I’ve met some really fabulous people along the way. I hope my readers enjoy reading my stories as much as I do writing them. I look forward to connecting with you all!

  Facebook

  Blog

  Twitter

  Email

  Goodreads

  Instagram

  A little more from K Webster……..

  Rock Heart (Book 2 in the Vegas Aces series)

  Coming Summer 2014

  Chaz

  Fuck my life. Manny upped and left us for his secret family. We’ve had shitty luck finding a new bassist. The tour had to be put on hold because Bobby won’t leave June. And now fucking Neve. Three years I’ve put up with her bullshit—and today, she’s royally pissing me off. I swear she finds my button and tries all day every day to push it.

  Bobby, the guitarist for The Aces and my best friend, is cursing and demanding answers from our manager, David, as to where the newest audition is. June wasn’t feeling well earlier, and he hated leaving her alone so far along in the pregnancy. Lifting my phone again, I scowl at Neve’s text and try to formulate a sane response.

  Neve: I think we need our own tour bus. There’s no way I want to spend hours on end with a screaming baby. I cannot stand kids, you know that. You’ve got a shitload of money. I know you’ll make it happen.

  Is she fucking insane? Sure, Neve. Let me throw out a couple hundred grand for another tour bus so you won’t be inconvenienced. Fuck that and fuck her. I love her, but most days, I can’t stand her. It makes no sense. And seeing Bobby and June with their fucking storybook romance, I can’t help but put my own relationship under the microscope. We’re nothing like them and it can’t be any more fucking obvious. But could I ever leave her?

  Me: No. You know we like to practice on the road and collaborate with new songs. With the new bassist hopefully joining us soon, this will be more important than ever.

  I know she’ll be pissed at my response. And two seconds later, she’s fired off her reply.

  Neve: Since you don’t care about my needs, maybe I shouldn’t go on tour this time. You clearly don’t want me there.

  Guilt washes over me. When she’s being bitchy, I can fight easily with her, but when she lays on the guilt trip, I have a harder time dealing with her that way.

  Me: Babe, I want you there. You know I only have eyes for you. It will be an adjustment for everyone but we’ll make it work. I love you.

  She doesn’t respond, and I go from feeling bad to pissed off again. Her head games get so damn old. I can hear Bobby bitching at Donnie for being late as I try a different tactic with Neve.

  Me: After this audition, I’m taking you to dinner. We can go to that expensive ass Japanese sushi house you love. I’ll call you when I leave here.

  My phone chimes, indicating a response from Neve, which makes me smile—that is, until I read her text.

  Neve: I’ve got other plans.

  I’m so furious that I feel like snapping my phone in half. Other fucking plans? With who? Lately, she seems to have lots of “other plans” when we get in a fight.

  “Neve?” Bobby asks as he sits beside me on the sofa. He nods his head at my phone, clearly reading my anger at my conversation with my fiancée.

  “Yeah. She’s being a fucking bitch. I told her I’d take her out tonight for dinner after the audition, but she’s got other plans. What the fuck does that mean? I’ve been dating the girl for three fucking years and she’s never had other plans until recently. If she’s fucking someone behind my back, I’ll be fucking pissed.”

  He’s opening his mouth to say something when the chime on the door snags our attention. In waltzes a chick. Not just any chick, but a hot one. As she scans the three of us, I roll my eyes before she gets to me when I see a bass case that probably weighs more than she does in her grasp. Hell to the no. A fucking girl?

  She looks like she belongs on an episode of Gossip Girl: Rock Star Edition. Preppy-meets-gothic is the best way to describe her. Sexy blond waves streaked in black and pink cascade in front of her shoulders, over her perky tits, all the way down to her waist—a slim one at that. The girl could eat a few cheeseburgers. Her outfit is fucking ridiculous, and it looks like she got it from the thrift shop. The pink top hangs off her shoulder, and I’m assaulted with an overwhelming urge to pull it up so David will quit looking at her like a piece of meat. Just the thought of touching her makes my dick thicken. Why the fuck am I getting a hard-on from looking at this chick?

  My eyes continue their perusal of her petite body until they make their way back up to her face. She’s dolled up to really fit the part, and that’s exactly what she’s doing. I can see that she’s gone out of her way to look like a badass rocker, but the look doesn’t look natural on her and I see cracks in her self-confidence.

  “I’m Taylor Ryan, but you can call me Ryan,” she says in a sexy voice that I can’t help but want to hear more of.

  My gaze finds her dark-colored lips and my fucking cock leaps at the thought of them staining my dick as she sucks me off. What in the fuck? I have a fucking fiancée for crying out loud, and this chick is making me want her without even trying. I’m pissed as hell about the entire ordeal.

  From the corner of my eye, I see David stand and walk over to her. “Nice to meet you, Ryan. Are you ready to see if you’re a good fit for The Aces?” he asks as he shakes her hand.

  Bobby flicks a glance over at me in confusion before turning back to Ryan. When her eyes meet mine, I can’t help but glare at her pretty blue eyes. I expect her to cower away. I’m nearly six feet tall with tattoos covering a good portion of my flesh and cut like a motherfucker thanks to endless hours at the gym when I avoid Neve for being a bitch. Shit. Neve.

  But Ryan doesn’t cower away. She lifts her chin defiantly, narrows her eyes at me, and pins me on the couch with her hateful scowl. Her neck is turning pink, either because she is pissed or intimidated. She’s tough to read.

  “Show us what you got, Barbie.” I throw in the nickname because I want to see what she’ll do. My lips curl into a half-smile when she drops her jaw and tosses her hair over her shoulder in a Valley Girl move before following David into the sound room. Shit, this girl needs to go home and watch Clueless. Bobby smirks at me as we go and take our places. He gets me.

  Bobby, ever the professional, finally speaks to her. “I’m Bobby and this is Chaz.”

  “I know who you are,” she snaps, avoiding my gaze as she pulls out her bass and plugs it in.

  While Bobby orders the song to be played, I stare boldly at her. This job is tough—and if she can’t handle a little pressure, then she doesn’t fucking belong here. The way her tits jiggle while she adjusts the tuners on her bass are distracting me more than I’ll ever admit. It doesn’t matter if she’s good. I’m not hiring her.

  After snatching the microphone from the stand, I turn it on before directing my attention back to Ryan as the drums start playing from the track since dumbass Donnie isn’t here to play his part.

  She is playing every bit of Manny’s part much like he would. I’m shocked and fucking mesmerized as the tiny thing owns the song like she’s been playing it her entire life. Because she doesn’t use a pick, her fingers slide over the strings almost sensually. When she closes her eyes, my cock once again hardens. I’m so distracted by her that I miss my part.

  “Fuck!” I snap loudly into my microphone. The room becomes quiet aside from the drumming cadence in the background. I’ve nailed that song thousands of times, but not tonight. We’re most definitely am not hiring this chick—something about her clouds my brain. “I’m off my fucking game tonight,” I confess. It’s true too. Between this girl and Neve, my head is a mess.

  “A chick?” Ryan questions as she arches an eyebrow up. I know she’s meant the look to be condescending, but it just looks sexy as fuck. Damn her.

  The other two idiots in the room start laughing, and I throw them each a dirty look.

>   “Let’s start again,” I bark at David.

  We thankfully make it through the next song without any mistakes. I force myself to sing to the wall instead of at her, which helps in not getting distracted by her, but at the same time, it has me admitting that she plays just as good as Manny. The girl is really good—much better than any of the other assholes we’ve auditioned. Fuck.

  “How old are you? Where are you from?” Bobby asks, clearly just as impressed as I am.

  Once again, she lifts her chin in an effort to appear braver. “Twenty-four. Flagstaff, Arizona,” she provides. Nothing less, nothing more. Yep, she’s definitely guarding herself for whatever reason.

  Bobby’s phone goes off, playing the stupid-ass ringtone he gave to Donnie, and they are soon in a heated conversation. I take the time to look at Ryan once more.

  Her phone chimes and she quickly pulls it from her pocket to read her text. Boyfriend? My chest tightens and I feel irritated for some reason. Whatever comes through on that text transforms her. Ryan goes from being an angry rocker chick putting on a show to a happy, innocent-looking woman. Her lips curl into a genuine smile, and goddammit if it doesn’t have my cock hardening again.

  She lifts her eyes to me and they’re shining with what looks like pride. As soon as our eyes meet, I’m awarded a glimpse into the real her. Her guard is down and she seems…sweet. My heart pounds wildly in my chest because I feel the urge to put that smile on her face. Before I can stop myself, I grin back at her.

  I watch her neck turn pink under my gaze, and she quickly looks back down at her phone to type out a reply. Her walls are going up quickly before me and it fucking pisses me off for some reason. I have no right to this girl, but for some reason, I want to. I want to stalk over to her, grab that sweet, pink neck, and plant kisses all over it—see just how red it will get.

  My cock is painfully hard after that image, and I adjust myself in an effort to not look like a fucking creeper if she happens to look over. Since Ryan walked into this building, all I’ve thought about is her. Not my fiancée of three years. No, just her. This is a problem. A big fucking problem.

  She looks back up at me and gives me the cutest fucking shy smile. Instead of awarding her another grin like I really want to, I scowl at her. My heart sinks when she frowns, looking genuinely hurt. This girl affects me bad.

  We’re so not hiring her. Not a chance in fucking hell.

  Fuck my life.

  Apartment 2B (A Standalone Paranormal Erotic Romance)

  Available Now

  She approaches me with the glassy, far-off look, and I cower away from her. There is no escaping her when she goes into one of her moods. When she’s like this, I refer to her as Clean Momma. I plead with my eyes, not daring to voice my prayers. You never speak to her when she has that look in her eyes. Speaking will only make things ten times worse.

  “Sidney, baby, are you dirty?” she questions, the sweetness in her voice thick as syrup.

  I blink a few times to rid the tears that are threatening. Clean Momma hates tears.

  Quickly shaking my head from side to side, I once again plead with her nonverbally to not go to the inevitable. When she takes a step toward me, I flinch, and the corners of her lips turn up into a sickening smile.

  Momma is as twisted as they come. Even being a very naïve, sheltered fifteen-year-old girl, I know that there is something sick in her brain. Thankfully she allows me to borrow books from the library. Because of those escapes from hell, I know that I am living in a nightmare that is far from a normal life.

  As if reading my mind, she glares at me with all the hate she can muster, it seems, and I nearly vomit. But I choke it back because you certainly do not do that in front of Momma. Only a few times in my life has it happened, and I paid dearly for them.

  “Sidney, you are a very dirty little girl. When you went to the library today, you were exposed to some nasty things. I can practically seem them crawling on you. Momma needs to wash you clean.”

  This time, the tears fall on their own accord, and I slowly inch myself away from her. Even though we are nearly evenly matched with our height and weight, she has just enough crazy in her that I will never be able to fight her. Breaking my vow of silence, I finally succumb to begging.

  “Momma, please,” I begin in a whimper, “I was so careful not to get dirty. I wore clothing to cover my arms and legs. Plus, I remembered to wear my gloves.” I didn’t really, but I threw it in for good measure, hoping it might work this time.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk…”

  I gulp, once again trying to push down the rising bile in my throat. There is no way around this. And since I’ve spoken, it will be brutal.

  “Get into the bathroom right away and undress. I’ll get my supplies.”

  When I don’t make any moves toward the bathroom, she picks up one of her many switches that are scattered about the house from the end table and cracks it across my upper arm with surprising force for a woman of her size. I howl in pain and pull away from her, hurrying into the bathroom. The last thing I need is a bunch of open lashes while I endure my punishment. My arm stings, and without looking, I know she’s broken the skin.

  Not wanting to push her any further, I quickly strip out of my clothes as I wait for her. I know the drill. She will bathe me as if I’m a child. Problem is, she will do it in such a sadistic manner that it will take me days to recover. Again, I feel like puking.

  I can sense her presence before I see or hear her and step out of her way as she comes into the bathroom. She’s in her ‘uniform,’ as she calls it, donning long yellow rubber gloves and goggles. Heaven forbid she gets any bleach on her precious skin. Spinning around so fast that I yelp out in surprise, she glares at me. The woman can sense, even in my mind, when I have the smallest inkling of defiance rolling through me. Her look is enough for me to wash it away immediately.

  Stalking over to the tub, she draws what I know from experience is a scalding-hot bath. I’m already whimpering as I mentally prepare myself for what’s to come. As it fills, she adds the entire bottle of bleach into the tub. It instantly burns my eyes and nose as it fills the air, mixing with the steam. I try not to choke and take shallow breaths as not to inhale it all and send myself into a coughing fit. Clean Momma is bad, visiting frequently, but Nurse Momma is the worst. A cough would bring her out in a flash, and I simply can’t deal with Nurse Momma.

  “Dirty child, get into the tub. We need to wash the filth from your body. Momma needs to make you clean again.”

  I blink the tears from my eyes, which are now a mixture of fear and chemical irritation, and approach the tub hesitantly. Because I must be going too slowly, I am immediately attacked with the switch again across my bottom, and I wail out in surprise. This, too, has broken the skin, and I curse myself for making things worse on me.

  Raising my foot over the top of the tub, I try to ease my toes in, testing the temperature of the water. Of course it is beyond scorching, and I whine as I force my foot into the blistering abyss. Escaping to the mental holes in my mind, I think about anything but the pain that is slowly rising up my leg as I fully submerge it. Once my toes graze the bottom of the tub, I get my footing under control before I pull the other foot into the tub.

  Momma calmly watches as I lower myself down, grabbing ahold of either side of the tub. This part always hurts the worst. If I don’t do it in a manner that she views is quick enough, she’ll help me along. I do not like it when she helps me along.

  Biting down on my lip, praying to distract myself from the pain, I lower my bottom. I feel the heat on my sensitive flesh between my legs before it even touches the scorching water. When I hesitate just a fraction of a second, I know I’ve made the worst possible mistake.

  Momma slams her hands onto my shoulders and pushes me into the piping-hot water. My screams are otherworldly as the liquid fire lashes at my flesh. Tears roll down along with snot as I try not to move a muscle, hoping not to inflict any more pain on untouched skin.
<
br />   My breaths are coming out shallow and ragged as I throw all of my willpower into not hyperventilating. I still have a death grip on the edge of the tub so that she doesn’t fully submerge me if I am caught off guard. Every muscle in my body is tight as I brace myself for what she has plans for next.

  From the corner of my eye, I watch with bated breath as she pulls out a bristly scrub brush. Thankfully this one only has plastic bristles. If they ever ran out of the plastic ones at the grocery store, she was in no way opposed to buying metal scouring pads. Momma has her own business as a cleaning lady with many affluent clients and I often wonder if she cleans their bathtubs like she cleans her daughter—very thoroughly. Carefully, she pours a little bleach over the scrub brush and turns to me. Clenching my eyes closed, I hold my breath as she begins her relentless scrubbing.

  She burnishes my skin, meticulous in removing every single perceived contaminant. My skin burns as the bleach and slowly cooling water irritates the raw places. Every single place she can reach, she does her ritualistic cleansing. Momma never goes above my neck.

  “I think we managed to take care of your dirty little problem. Now I suggest you finish up in here and get off to bed. Momma’s tired from all of this hard work,” she says without any indication that what she has done to me is wrong. No, Momma doesn’t see anything unusual about her behavior, which only solidifies how sick in the head she is.

  “Yes, Momma,” I agree softly, not looking at her.

  “Very well then. Goodnight, love.”

  Her words are just that—words. She may call me “love” or “baby,” but they are empty. There is absolutely no feeling behind them. Momma has deep-rooted psychological problems for which she’s never received any type of professional help. In my many trips to the library, I have read through tons of books looking for her disease. There isn’t anything in those books about cleaning your child in bleach because of imagined germs—at least not as far as I could find.