Fallen for Rock Read online

  Nicky Wells

  Fallen for Rock

  Love, life, loyalties. Nothing stays the same when Emily gets drawn into the world of rock.

  Praise for

  Fallen for Rock

  ‘A riveting story depicting the power of music. Fallen for Rock is one hot rock ‘n’ roll thrill ride you do not want to miss!’

  Kelly at Perusing Princesses

  ‘Fallen for Rock takes the action off stage to give readers a full rock ‘n’ romance experience!’

  Carol Wright at Dizzy C’s Little Book Blog

  ‘Striking all the right chords and never missing a beat, nobody writes the music quite like Nicky Wells—I absolutely loved Fallen for Rock!’

  Tanya Farrell at After The Final Chapters

  ‘Yet again Nicky Wells has delivered an outstanding rock and roll love story that will entertain you and make you wish you could have your own rock star adventure! Fallen for Rock will thrill you and spark a desire to follow your dreams, jump aboard that tour bus, grab a rock god and rock on. Fallen for Rock has the WOW factor!’

  JB Johnston at Brook Cottage Books

  Copyright © 2014 by Nicky Wells.

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to the Internet, photocopying, recording), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author. This includes sharing any part of the work online on any forum.

  Nicky Wells asserts her moral right as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Nicky Wells

  http://nickywells.com/

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Names, characters, places and plots are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  First paperback edition printed by

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform, June 2014:

  ISBN-13: 978-1499356373

  ISBN-10: 1499356374

  Author photograph by Deborah Smith

  Cover design: Nicky Wells

  Cover image: “Back of Guitarist” © Viorel Sima via Dreamstime.com

  Dedication

  To the Three Greats in my life:

  Bon Jovi, Europe and FM.

  You gave me the rhythm, the words, and the passion.

  Thank you for the music!

  A British Novel with British Spellings

  Following the success of last year’s Christmas novella, ‘Spirits of Christmas’, which was written in British English for that extra touch of local colour, I decided to write this full-length novel in British English too. It is fitting, after all, as the novel is set entirely in the UK and populated with British characters throughout.

  Therefore, my North American audience will find that the characters in this story like colours, proceed with honour, make judgements, apologise, and resist generalisations. They travelled, dialled and marvelled. They wear undies rather than panties and pyjamas rather than pajamas, and they use mobiles instead of cell phones. They also say ‘cor’ quite a lot, which denotes surprise, excitement, admiration or alarm (and sometimes all of the above at the same time). The list goes on…but I hope you’ll enjoy the ride despite these strange spellings and the occasional unfamiliar expression! Thank you for bearing with me. Rock on!

  Chapter One

  ‘Emily? Emily! Miss Trenden, you’ve got mail!’

  My elderly neighbour’s voice rang out shrill and piercing through the hallway, greeting me before I had even reached the third floor. What did she do, wait up and watch out the window for me all evening? It was nearly ten o’clock on a Friday night.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Bowden,’ I called wearily while I climbed the last four stairs. ‘Any idea what it could be? Not a final demand from the debt collectors, I hope?’

  Might as well give her the satisfaction of some gossip, not that I was really at risk of being evicted.

  ‘I don’t know, but I don’t think it’s anything like that,’ the answer came immediately. ‘The address is typed, and there’s a sender’s stamp here that says Rock Radio FM.’

  Rock Radio FM?

  I finally reached the top of the stairs and wiped a loose strand of hair out of my face. I was bone-tired after a long week at work and fancied nothing more than a quick bath and a sit-down with a glass of wine. Alas, there was small talk to be made.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said when I reached my landing.

  My neighbour stood inside her own front door, adjacent to mine. She wore her customary day coat, and her wispy grey hair was piled high on her head in an old-fashioned, slightly straggly and lopsided bun. I lifted a hand to my own chignon, which I kept deliberately severe for work, and I wondered if I would look similarly bizarre in my old age.

  ‘The postman woke me from my midday nap,’ Mrs Bowden informed me as if this were somehow my fault. ‘I had to sign for this, you know.’

  Ah. It was my fault. I fixed a smile on my face. If she didn’t hand over the mail soon, I would go mad. My feet hurt, and I felt sticky and uncomfortable. Working fifteen-hour days as a financial analyst in a city bank might not be the same as working down a mine, but it certainly left me feeling grotty and irritable all the same.

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s from that rocker boyfriend of yours,’ Mrs Bowden continued, still holding on to my mail. I hadn’t even had a chance to set eyes on the mysterious envelope yet.

  ‘I don’t suppose that’s any of your business,’ I offered tartly before biting my tongue. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit tired. Thank you for accepting my mail on my behalf. I really appreciate it.’ I smiled as brightly as I could. ‘You’re quite right, it’s unlikely to be from Nate, especially since we haven’t been dating for nearly a month now.’

  I paused and looked at her pointedly. Finally, she proffered the envelope. Brown and slim but rather large, it bore my name and address in bold printed letters. At the top left-hand corner sat the Rock Radio FM logo.

  ‘Here you go, dear. I’m glad to help out a young filly like yourself, working all the hours that God gave you. But you do look rather peaky, you know, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  As usual, she didn’t acknowledge my announcement that Nate was no longer my ‘rocker boyfriend’. I had told her at least a dozen times that he would no longer trudge up the stairs at all hours of day or night, banging guitar cases against the bannisters and chipping the paintwork. But still she asked.

  I took the letter out of her hands. ‘Thank you, Mrs Bowden. And a good night to you.’

  ‘Why, I wish you a good night too, Emily. Aren’t you going to open it?’ Her eyes dulled with disappointment at missing the conclusion to her drama.

  ‘In a little minute, perhaps. Or maybe in the morning. I doubt it’ll be important.’

  ‘Oh, but it must be! Otherwise I wouldn’t have had to sign for it, now, would I?’

  Her logic was compelling, and a tiny spark of excitement sprang up in my heart. What could be in this strange letter from Rock Radio FM? Nonetheless, I remained firm. This was my letter, and goodness knew what was inside. Perhaps Nate had taken a job at Rock Radio FM and started sending me hate mail, just for the heck of it. I hadn’t been terribly subtle about my reasons for ending our relationship, after all. Nor very kind. I still cringed at the memory, but quickly assured myself that it was for the best.

  ‘If it’s anything interesting, I’ll let you know,’ I promised my neighbour. I offered a final smile and turned on my heels towards my own front door, unlocking it and stepping inside in one smooth move. The door fell shut behind me with a satisfying clunk. Home at last.

  Cha
pter Two

  VIP. Access All Areas.

  I stared at the pass dumbfounded, but the words wouldn’t go away. They definitely said, VIP. Access All Areas.

  My tired brain refused to wrap itself around this surreal reality. Why did I hold in my trembling hands two all-inclusive concert tickets and backstage passes for a MonX concert? Somebody other than me would kill for these.

  ‘There has to be some mistake,’ I announced to thin air. I put the passes on the coffee table and grabbed my glass of wine instead. Restless and agitated, I rose to my feet and paced the length and width of the lounge.

  Step, step, step, stop. ‘There has to be a mistake,’ I reiterated.

  Step, step, step, to the other side of the lounge. Quick look at self in mirror above fireplace, but ugh, no, look away. My hollow-eyed appearance held no clues to the mystery.

  ‘I don’t even like MonX.’ Step, step, step, stop. Sip of wine.

  ‘I mean, I know the whole world seems to have gone crazy about them, but they’re not my cup of tea. So how come I got these tickets?’

  MonX were a new rock band phenomenon very much on the up-and-up. Their first album had recently gone platinum, and they had gained airplay even on the most commercial of chart radio stations. This band was the hottest UK rock sensation since Tuscq, or so the media said. Girls and rock lovers all over the world were going mad for them. These tickets and passes in my hand would be worth a fortune to a fan. But not to me.

  I sneaked another look at myself in the mirror. ‘I don’t even like rock,’ I snorted, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the situation. ‘It’s too loud and too crude. Let’s face it, it’s only noise with no skill.’

  The truth was I couldn’t stand rock music. I liked classical music. Give me violins and cellos, skilled musicians, and singers with big, beautiful voices any day. Mozart, Bach and Beethoven ‘rocked’ my world. The great tenors would make me go weak at the knees. But rock music? Ugh.

  Unfortunately, I had voiced my opinion about rock to Nate one time too many, and he had taken it personally. Of course, I hadn’t meant it personally, but we had had the mother of all rows, at the end of which, in the heat of the moment, I had asked him to leave and never come back.

  You see, Nate loved rock. Nate lived and breathed and played rock. Nate would have gone delirious over these tickets…

  Nate! Of course, Nate. A memory clawed at the back of my mind. A Saturday afternoon, a few months ago. Oh, what was it?

  I ran my hands through my hair in frustration and, when I couldn’t rake to my heart’s content, I swiftly undid the chignon, leaving my fingers to create havoc with my curls.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Emily, think. What was it?’

  A Saturday afternoon… Plans to go to an exhibition at the Islington Arts Factory quashed when…when…when Nate had glued himself to Rock Radio because… Yes! Because they had a competition going for some exclusive tickets to see MonX. Nate had behaved like a teenager, punching the air, thrumming his fingers on the table, texting the station, tweeting and leaving comments on Facebook, all to win these ridiculous tickets.

  I had watched with frustrated amusement, and in the end I had taken myself off to the exhibition alone. By the time I came home that evening, I had forgotten all about the contest, and Nate had never mentioned it again. Could this be the source of the letter? Had he actually won? But why was my name on the package?

  I sat down on the sofa once more and picked up the brown envelope for another inspection. When I had first opened it, the tickets and passes had fallen out straightaway, but perhaps there was something else, something more?

  I turned the envelope upside down and shook it. Sure enough, a with-compliments slip fluttered out and settled on my lap.

  It was a handwritten note on Rock Radio FM stationery.

  Dear Nate, it said.

  Thank you for entering the MonX VIP Backstage Extravaganza Giveaway. I’m delighted to tell you that you’ve won! Way to go, man. Per your direct message on Facebook, I’ve made the tickets out to your girlfriend. I hope she appreciates what you’ve done for her! I can’t wait to see you both at the gig. The band says hi too.

  ~Sam

  I stared at the note wordlessly for some time. I was reeling with a mix of confused emotions.

  ‘I hope she appreciates what you’ve done for her,’ I read out loud, then let go of the note and reclined on the sofa.

  ‘Oh Nate, you moron. Now what am I going to do?’

  Chapter Three

  Neither the scalding hot water splashing on my head nor the scent of my favourite luxury shower cream managed to ease the chaos in my mind. After my blinding insight into the provenance of the tickets, I had dropped everything onto the coffee table and fled the lounge.

  Nate had really loved me. Really loved me. More than I had ever appreciated. He must have done, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked for the tickets to go in my name.

  And okay, he knew I hated rock. But he had never given up in his quest to get me to see the light, to understand the music. He had patiently taken apart some of ‘the greatest rock songs ever’ to explain the complexity of the composition and the harmonies. He had laid them next to a Bach score and drawn out the parallels. Literally, with pink marker pen.

  ‘These rock songs, they’re like mini symphonies,’ he had assured me, but I had simply laughed. I had never really listened.

  And despite all of my disdain, when he had gained the opportunity of a lifetime, he had dropped it in my lap.

  I turned to face the shower jets and let the water wash over my face. The grime of the day had long since run down the plughole, but my head failed to stop spinning. By now, the bathroom resembled a first-rate sauna. I could see layers and layers of steam wafting up to the ceiling like fog rising on a damp November morning. Glittery droplets of water sparkled all over the inside of the shower doors, forming into bigger drops and eventually little rivulets as gravity got the better of them. The visual association took me right back to the day Nate and I had met.

  It was in November, barely six months ago. A Thursday, if memory served. I was going for lunch at one of the small coffee shops in a secluded corner at the back of Covent Garden. It was raining heavily, and the whole place was steamed up. I ordered my chicken and pesto panini and scanned the tables while I paid. There, bingo! A prime space right at the window.

  I picked up my tray and made a beeline for the table, reaching it and taking a seat at the exact same moment that a really attractive man grabbed the other chair. We sat and faced each other for a moment before he broke the silence.

  ‘Hi.’

  Not the most eloquent of opening statements, perhaps, but he looked thunderstruck, somehow. Dazed. As if he had been hit over the head with something. Against my better judgement, I found myself smiling.

  ‘Hi.’

  He breathed out and relaxed. ‘I’m sorry, but I got here first. Would you care to join me?’ He made a grand gesture as though inviting me to sit down.

  ‘I got here first, incidentally, but I don’t mind if you join me.’ I giggled.

  I giggled? What in God’s name was going on? I never giggled. Well, obviously, I did giggle, sometimes. I wasn’t a sad case of terminal grumpiness or anything, but I never giggled in a flirtatious way after having met someone for all of ten seconds.

  Ten seconds is all it takes, a voice piped up in my head. What the heck?

  ‘That’s good news. Thank you.’ The man flashed me a smile, and warmth flooded all through me. Instinctively, I crossed my legs and sat up straighter, but the unexpected heat wouldn’t go away. I wiggled on my seat—surreptitiously, I hoped—and made myself think of the large pile of work I had waiting for me on my desk. But I caught sight of the stranger in front of me, and it was no good. Within seconds, I was positively frothing with desire. That had never happened before. And yet here I was, eighty percent orgasmic because of a deep voice and a bit of humour? Clearly I was losing my mind.

  ‘You’
re dripping.’ His voice cut drily through my thoughts.

  ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  Did he have laser eyes or something?

  ‘You’re dripping. Pesto sauce, I think. Onto your trousers.’

  Eek! Sure enough, my best black work trousers were spattered with drops of crushed basil in extra virgin olive oil. I grabbed a napkin and rubbed at the stains ferociously. At least my hot flush had come to an abrupt end.

  ‘Leave it be. You’re only making it worse. Besides, it won’t show on black. Trust me.’

  He reached out and touched my hand lightly, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Heat soared from his fingertips right to my brain. I could feel little beads of perspiration form on my brow. I so wasn’t prepared for this.

  He let go of my hand and sat back, hopefully oblivious of the impact his touch had had. Moments later, he picked up his bacon butty and lifted it to his mouth.

  ‘I’m Nate, by the way,’ he offered before sinking his teeth into the sandwich.

  Crunch. His pearly whites detached a bite of meat-in-bread. Clench went my inner muscles. His tongue flicked out to collect a small crumb from the corner of his mouth, and I nearly fainted. My breathing grew shallow as I watched his jaws moving rhythmically. A trickle of sweat ran down my back. In a second, I would be hyperventilating and doing the When-Harry-Met-Sally thing. My head lolled back ever so slightly, and I swallowed hard. Get a grip, Emily!

  I clamped my fingers around the edge of the table to stop myself from falling off the cliff. Apparently, that made matters worse, because Nate cleared his throat and shot me a devastating smile. Mischief danced in his brown eyes.