Rock Rebel

Book 3: Nothing but Trouble

by Tara Leigh

Genres: Sagas; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

He's a rock star with a secret, she's a pop princess with a painful past - can their forbidden romance survive, or will their lies destroy them both? I've earned my bad reputation. A few years ago, I was New York City's hottest classical music prodigy. But I wanted something else, something more. So I chased my real dream, and now... I'm rock royalty. Dax Hughes, lead guitarist of Nothing but Trouble. But to my family and former Juilliard classmates, I'm an outcast. A misfit. A rebel. They're not entirely wrong. I don't give a damn what other people think, and I'm all for breaking the rules... except when it comes to our new opening act, Verity Moore. Rock gods don't tour with pop princesses. It's not personal. Actually, under that fallen diva reputation, Verity's incredibly talented. And her fiery redheaded personality is... intriguing. But I'm convinced the skeletons in Verity's closet are as scandalous as my own, and when we're not sparring, she has a way of drawing out all those secrets I'm determined to keep hidden. Yeah. Verity Moore is definitely off-limits . . . But since when do I give a damn about the rules?"Tara Leigh delivers a gripping rock-star romance that hits all the right notes and is sure to steal your heart." -- USA Today Happy Ever After on Rock Legend "Entertaining, sexy, and heartwarming.... Fans of Kristen Callihan, Kylie Scott, and Erika Kelly will love Rock Rebel." -- Harlequin Junkie

Release date: December 11, 2018

Publisher: Forever Yours

Print pages: 338

Sample

Prologue

Let’s face it—in our lives, there are a lot of days that don’t matter much. Days that go like this: wake up, eat some stuff, do some stuff, say some stuff, go back to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. Years from now, will we remember any of it? Doubtful.

And then there are days—probably only a handful of them over an entire life—that we remember everything. What we ate, what we wore, what we said, what we did, who we were with. An entire day, down to the most minute detail.

Because those days are important. Because everything we do on those particular days matters. Because we know that every day to follow hinges on that day.

For me, that day was today.

I hardly slept, but I was up well before my alarm. I took my time with my hair and makeup, then dressed in the outfit I’d painstakingly assembled last night—Versace blouse, Céline pants, Gucci belt, Jimmy Choo peep-toe heels.

No tight dress or towering heels or smudged mascara for me today. I wasn’t going to a nightclub, standing among strangers with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The cigarette had only been a prop, of course. I knew better than to take chances with the only thing that couldn’t be taken from me, signed over to someone else, or smothered into submission. My voice.

My voice was the reason Travis Taggert had agreed to see me.

It sure as hell wasn’t my reputation.

Shortly after returning to L.A., I’d sweet-talked my way into one of Travis Taggert’s legendary parties and couldn’t believe my luck when I saw the stage that had been set up in his Beverly Hills backyard. Seizing my chance, I’d grabbed the microphone in between acts and belted out an early Gwen Stefani hit, which had captured Travis’s attention from the first note.

Had I sung one of my own, I might have been booed off the stage.

My name wasn’t worth much in this town anymore.

Swallowing the bitterness gathering at the back of my throat, I turned a critical eye toward the mirror, studying the pull of designer fabrics across my body. Expensive armor made of silk and lace and leather.

A frown carved a shallow line across my forehead as I scrutinized every inch of my appearance. Was it obvious I was trying too hard—or was it just the look in my eyes that screamed of desperation? My nervous fingers fumbled with the slippery mother-of-pearl buttons. I shrugged out of the top, throwing my entire outfit across my bed.

And then I started over.

I had plenty of time—my meeting wasn’t for several hours.

But after I finished trying on every item of clothing in the house, only to wind up in exactly the same outfit I’d started with, I saw that I’d used up nearly all of it. Thankfully Beverly Hills wasn’t a big zip code, and I didn’t live far from my future manager’s office.

At least, I hoped Taggert would agree to take me on as a client.

I needed him.

If there was anyone who could restore my tarnished reputation and get my career back on track, it was Travis Taggert. Whether he could be convinced I was worth the effort…I wasn’t so sure.

Sliding behind the wheel of my white Range Rover sport—not that it was in my name; nothing I’d ever earned was in my name—I checked my reflection one last time in the rearview mirror, smoothing down a few flyaways before shifting into gear. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hair anymore. On The Show, I’d been contractually obligated to keep it long. And like the good girl I once was, I’d obeyed.

I wasn’t such a good girl anymore.

I’d nearly hacked it all off at least a dozen times in the past month alone. I was so sick of being The Girl from The Show—a once-beloved child star my former fans now loved to hate. Or, if not hate, then at least dismiss as an overindulged, unremarkable Hollywood flame-out.

Could I really blame them?

My wake-up call had come last month. Even now, cocooned within a luxury SUV, thousands of miles away from the place where I’d finally hit rock bottom, my spine shuddered with revulsion.

Never again would I put myself in a position to be so vulnerable. It had been a hard lesson to learn, but I knew now that if I didn’t clean up my act and take care of myself, no one else would bother.

Forcing a confidence I didn’t feel, I parked the SUV and stepped into the agency’s sumptuous office with my head held high and my shoulders back. Most talent managers lined their lobby with head shots of their clients. At Travis Taggert & Associates, they didn’t have to. Taggert was the best in the industry, and everybody knew it. And I still had talent. I was sure of it.

A hunger that had nothing to do with not eating since yesterday churned in my belly. I wanted to be someone again.

Someone important.

Someone admired.

Someone safe.

I gave my name to the receptionist and took it as a good sign that she stood up from her desk and escorted me to Travis’s office rather than have me cool my heels in the waiting room.

“Verity Moore.” Travis’s voice boomed as I was ushered into his personal sanctuary. Rather than the handshake I’d expected, he gripped me by my shoulders, kissing me on both cheeks before gesturing at the chairs facing his desk.

Sunlight poured in from the window at his back, making me squint uncomfortably as I adjusted to the glare. I’d sat across from desks like this often enough to know it was on purpose, a not-so-subtle show of power that would disappear only if I became his client.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” I began, my tone steady, my smile bright. Betraying none of the nerves quivering beneath my skin.

“Of course, of course.” Travis waved his hands expansively, as if he would take in anyone off the street. Hardly the case, and we both knew it. “So, you were previously managed by your mother, correct?”

He sighed at my nod, silently transmitting his disapproval. Bad idea.

So I’ve learned.

“I’ll be honest, you’ve surprised me. And I’m not often surprised.”

“Oh?” I braced myself for the worst. What did he know? What had he heard? What had he seen?

“It’s been what—three years since The Show ended?”

“Two,” I corrected.

“Same difference. I’ve seen your picture in plenty of magazines since then, and the paps still have a hard-on for you…but I haven’t heard your name up for any shows. No pilots, no modeling contracts, no upcoming gigs. Why is that?”

I cleared my throat, relieved that the pictures he alluded to weren’t the ones I’d been worried about. “I wanted to move away from TV to focus on my singing career. I took a bit of a break from the industry, but I’m ready to come back now. I really feel—”

“You’re ready to come back?” Travis gave a throaty chuckle, his gold Rolex glinting as he rubbed the dome of his shaved head. “This business doesn’t operate like that, and you know it. But”—Travis held my gaze, his dark eyes silently appraising my motives—“I can make it happen, if you’re willing to put the work in.”

“I am. More than willing, actually.” My stomach gave a lurch at the words tripping from my mouth. Not that willing. There were things I wouldn’t do for my career. Not anymore.

But Travis didn’t leer at me from across his desk or give any indication that he expected me to crawl beneath it. Instead, he pointed a small remote at his window and lowered the shades to half-mast, then picked up a pen. “Okay, let’s talk about what you want, and how we’re going to get it.”

I pressed my lips together, restraining my triumphant grin into a more professional Mona Lisa smile.

I was Travis Taggert’s newest client.

Chapter One

Being back in New York City had me on edge.

These were my old stomping grounds. I’d been born and raised here, in the rarified air of the Upper East Side. I attended LaGuardia High School for the Performing Arts, then Juilliard.

I wasn’t supposed to become a rock star.

Hell, until six years ago, I hadn’t played anything but classical music.

Which was when wearing a suit became the exception rather than the norm.

Swearing at my reflection, I fumbled with the knot of my tie. I wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours. Only within the snobby circles of classical musicians was a multi-platinum, Grammy Award–winning musician looked upon with disdain, as if playing sold-out arenas filled with thousands of adoring fans was some sort of rebellious phase.

With a last tug at my collar, I left my hotel room. As I headed down the hall, my phone buzzed in my hand.

Shane: Dude, you’re in NYC!

Me: Yeah, just for a couple of days.

Shane: You free tomorrow night?

Me: Not sure yet.

Shane: K. If you are, come over.

Me: The new place, right?

Shane: Yes. Bring whatever chick you’re not telling me about.

I smirked. Now that Shane was head over fucking balls in love, he wanted everyone else to be, too.

Fat chance. I was definitely a lost cause.

Me: I’ll let you know.

The elevator doors slid open, and I darted aside just in time to avoid the kid who burst from the car and streaked down the hall, someone I assumed to be his harried nanny chasing him. With a sigh, I shoved my phone in my pocket and jabbed the button for the lobby. It didn’t change color. I pushed it again. Nope, still bright yellow. Realizing that every button was lit up, I cursed again. No wonder the kid had run. He must have pushed every damn button before he took off.

“Hold the elevator!”

My arm shot out instinctively, my years in Manhattan training me to hold the elevator for any and all who asked, because you never knew when you would need the favor returned. Karma was a bitch best left unprovoked.

Something that kid had yet to learn.

“Thanks.” At first glance the girl who burst breathlessly into the elevator car could have been anywhere from seventeen to twenty-seven. Her hair was piled into a messy bun on top of her head, her bright green gaze clear-eyed and direct, and she was wearing running sneakers and a thick sweatshirt that would have been too big on me. It was also unzipped, revealing a tight tank top and tiny bike shorts.

Goddamn. Just looking at her had my pulse stuttering for a few beats, then taking off at a gallop.

Her body didn’t belong to a teenager, that was for sure.

She pulled one of her earbuds out, wisps of red hair framing a heart-shaped face. Haphazard and disheveled. “Can you press the one for the gym?”

Sexy as fuck.

I jerked my chin at the lit-up display on my side of the elevator. “Apparently we’re on a local tonight.”

Her full lips, a berry-pink shade that hadn’t been painted on, twitched up at one corner, revealing a dimple etched into her left cheek. I felt a tug of desire deep in my stomach, and a ridiculous curiosity to know if it was part of a matched set. “Courtesy of the little boy who ran out of here like he’d just shotgunned a can of Coke?”

“That’d be my guess.”

She broke into a full-fledged grin. I stared back, feeling like I’d won the lottery. Dimples, plural.

“Knew it,” she said as the doors closed and the elevator trundled down a flight.

I should have kept my mouth closed when she looked back down at her phone, but I wanted to feel her eyes on me again. “Don’t get too cocky. That was an easy guess.”

She raised her head, a look of surprise on her face. Her familiar face.

Did I know this girl?

The elevator doors opened and closed. Again. And again. And again. With each floor, the energy in the confined space expanded, charged by something I didn’t quite understand. The smile that had played on her lips disappeared, the bow of her mouth drawing tight. She crossed her arms, clearly piqued. “So any girl that dares to voice a correct assumption is cocky?”

The redhead was more spitfire than leprechaun.

A bolt of lust charged down my spine. “Only when it’s too easy.”

“Easy, huh? How about you give me a hard one, then?”

Jesus. Talk about a loaded question.

She arched a brow that was the same red as the hair on her head, which sent my mind down another direction.

A direction that was apparently all too obvious. “Whenever you get your mind out of my pants, of course.”

I forced a gruff chuckle. What the fuck was wrong with me? Two hours in this city and I’d transformed into the horny kid I’d been when I left six years ago.

But before I could come up with a hard question, she changed the subject. “I’ll bet I can guess your sign.”

“My what?”

“Your zodiac sign.” I must have still looked confused, because some of her irritation smoothed away as she leaned against the dark mirrored glass at her back. “You don’t read your horoscope?”

“Ah, no.”

“You’re not exactly making this a challenge.” There was something tenacious about her stance, the sharp set of her jaw. Like she had something to prove to me.

Or maybe just to herself.

“That what you’re into?”

She stared at me with one finger pressed against her lips, those emerald eyes of hers narrowed at the corners. I ground my teeth, trying to tamp down the want flooding my veins with heat. Unsuccessfully.

“I was torn between Aries and Taurus, but you settled it for me. Aries, definitely.” Holding her phone with both hands, she attacked it with her thumbs. “Born between March twenty-first and April nineteenth, no?”

I frowned. “How—”

“Oh please, you’re a ram through and through.” She flashed her screen at me. “Want to know your horoscope?”

“Not re—”

“Your love of the chase is your greatest weakness, but what you seek is already inside yourself. Today is a day to appreciate the road taken and go where your heart leads you.”

I snorted, jabbing at the DOOR CLOSE button. “And that’s supposed to mean something to me?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Does it?”

I was silent for a minute, watching our descent on the screen above the doors. The redhead stepped forward as they opened on the third floor, the scent of vanilla and cloves rising off her fair skin. My mouth watered.

She was close enough to touch, and my fingers throbbed with the temptation of freeing her hair from the band holding it captive. She glanced up, meeting my eyes. “This is me.” Her voice was soft, almost breathless, even though she’d long since recovered from her sprint down the hall.

The doors opened. “So, if I’m a ram, what are you?”

She crossed the elevator’s threshold and turned back to face me, her elegantly sculpted features embellished by a mischievous half smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The elevator doors had closed before I could open my mouth and say anything else.

She was right though. I would like to know.

What’s gotten into me?

Since when did I flirt? And with Dax Hughes…really? I’d seen him before, of course. A few times in person, hundreds more within the glossy pages of celebrity magazines. Flaunting bedroom eyes, shredded jeans, and an aloof expression, Hughes was every inch the cocky celebrity I made every effort to avoid.

Granted, in a dark suit, tugging at his collar, pulling at his sleeves, his normally tousled hair slicked back, Hughes had been more approachable than the rocker I’d seen before. More than approachable. Appealing.

With each one of Dax’s heated glances, I’d felt the unwanted prick of desire sting my skin, as sharp and distinct as the snap of a rubber band. The damn man had made my head spin and my knees weak. My fingers twitching with the urge to tear off his tie, unbutton his shirt, and lay claim to everything beneath.

I had no idea if the feeling was mutual, and frankly, I didn’t want to know.

I was taking a hiatus from men, from dating, from serving as a prop for someone else’s overinflated ego. I was finally taking control of my life, my career. Putting myself first.

Thankfully, Hughes hadn’t seemed to recognize me. Not that I should’ve expected him to. I mean, he didn’t exactly fall within the targeted audience of The Show. And without so much as a swipe of lip gloss and dressed in workout gear, I wasn’t exactly looking like the scandal-plagued party girl that was a favorite of all the gossip magazines.

Replaying the exchange my head, I groaned. Wouldn’t you like to know?

So embarrassing. The man was Dax Hughes, for Christ’s sake. The guitarist for Nothing but Trouble was exactly the kind of trouble I didn’t need. And besides, he could have any girl he wanted—what would he want with me?

Verity Moore, disgraced pop princess.

The description followed my name so often, if I died tomorrow it would probably be carved into my headstone.

Why not? It was true enough.

Not for long, I reminded myself as I scanned my key card at the door. Travis never would have signed me if he didn’t believe that I could overcome my bad reputation.

Meanwhile, at least the gym was empty and I could wallow in my mortification alone.

I pumped up the incline on the treadmill, setting the speed faster than I normally ran. I welcomed the sweat breaking out on my forehead, the shortness of my breaths, the strain in my muscles. Chasing an emptiness I craved, a zone where my body detached from my mind.

It took a couple of miles to get there, but when I did, I felt invincible, unstoppable. My self-defeating thoughts smothered, at least temporarily. Exactly the headspace I needed to be in to win over the cynical industry execs tomorrow.

Spending our entire meeting worrying about what they’d heard—or worse, what they’d seen—would hardly leave a favorable impression.

I ran and ran and ran.

And when finally the burn in my legs and my chest were too painful to ignore, I pumped up the speed and ran another mile.

Almost. MOM suddenly appeared on my phone, cutting off the music pulsing through my earbuds. “Damn it.”

I slammed the emergency stop button and accepted her FaceTime call, wiping my sweaty skin with a towel. “Hi—”

“Where are you?”

“I’m working out. What’s up?” I would have preferred to ignore her, but I’d learned that the only way to keep physical distance between us was to be reachable by phone.

“I can see that, but I asked where you were.”

“I’m in New York.”

The image wobbled, as if she’d grabbed her device, and then my screen was filled with a close-up of my mother’s face, an age-progressed replica of my own. “What are you doing in New York?”

“Just a few meetings to see what’s out here right now. I mentioned it last week.” I hadn’t, but I uncapped my Swell bottle and took a long drink, knowing she wouldn’t bother arguing the point.

“You’re going to see Jack, I hope.”

Jack Lester. I nearly spit out my water. “No, I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t. Millie called me the other day, and—”

“Millie called you?” I clutched my stomach, the water I’d barely managed to swallow transforming into curdled milk.

“Yes. Such a sweet girl. She said Jack is developing another show. I’ll bet he’d put you in it if you—”

I wasn’t doing anything with that man ever again. “Absolutely not.”

Her features hardened. “Verity, I have been more than patient with you, but I am not only your mother. I am your manager. It’s time for you to get back to work.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I interjected, then immediately regretted it. I hadn’t told my momager that I signed with Travis Taggert. And I wasn’t going to—until I had a contract in my hands and money in a bank account without her name on it. My mother couldn’t know that I was taking control of my own career, of my own life. Yet.

I had planned my escape as meticulously as a wife fleeing her abusive husband.

“That’s it. I’m getting on the next plane. You can’t make important decisions without me.”

I already have. “I’m not making decisions. I just want to show my face around, let people know I’m ready to get back to work. I’ll tell you how it goes, and we can strategize next steps.” I’d already warned Travis that those next steps might involve sending my mother a cease-and-desist letter after she was fired.

She squinted at me. “Well, if you run into Jack and Millie, be nice. They’ve been so good to you, and I think Millie feels like you’ve taken them for granted.”

“One day I’ll be sure to let them know just how grateful I am. Don’t worry.” I nearly gagged on the words. “But I don’t think I’ll run into them here.”

“Why not? They’re in New York right now, too.”

Blood rushed to my head, and I flung out a hand to grip the treadmill’s sidebar. “What?”

“They’re showing a new script to the networks, I think. Or maybe they’re trying to lock down a record label first.” My mother shook her head and sighed. “One or the other, I can’t remember which.”

The urge to reach through my phone and choke her neck was almost overwhelming. “I—I really have to take a shower now. I’ll let you know how things go.”

“You do that,” she said.

Anxiety spiraled through my nerves as I sat down on the floor and leaned against the side of the treadmill. I launched the Internet browser, my trembling fingers managing to get Jack’s name right after several tries. On the second page of my Google search, I found what I was looking for. An article about his new project—another music-driven, show-within-a-show concept. Just like his last—the one I’d starred in.

I would move into a homeless shelter before accepting a role in one of Jack’s productions ever again.

Once I caught my breath, I hauled myself to my feet and left the gym, bypassing the elevators in favor of the stairs. My sneakers felt like they’d been made of lead and I was a sweaty mess, but the thought of a stranger’s eyes scraping my skin was painful.

My mind was untethered, bouncing from Dax Hughes to Jack Lester to the ghosts of boyfriends past that still called Manhattan home, painful memories twisting my stomach into knots. With each step, I was pulled backward through time, felt the touch and press of unwanted hands, the harsh male cackle of intimidation assaulting my ears. My lungs tightened, each short, shallow breath echoing against the cement.

Needing a distraction, I pulled my phone back out of my pocket and opened the horoscope app I had used with Dax. I might as well admit that I hadn’t act. . .