Always Rayne (The ALWAYS SOMETIMES NEVER Rock Star Romance Series)

Always Rayne

The ALWAYS SOMETIMES NEVE
R

Rock Star Romance
Series

Sierra Avalon

Copyright © 2014 by Sierra Avalon

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

This is a work of FICTION.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's offbeat imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead or previously dated by the author, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Viola Estrella:
http://estrellacoverart.com/

A SHORT ON TIME BOOK:

Fast-paced and fun novels for readers on the go!

For more information, visit the website:
www.shortontimebooks.com

One

“Why do you listen to that crap?” I grab a yogurt smoothie from the refrigerator and take a seat at the small kitchen table with my roommate, Brooke.

She’s listening to The Morning Hipsters on the radio even though she knows I despise them. They’re San Diego’s very own shock jocks.

“They’re so crude,” I add. “And idiotic. And juvenile.”

She takes a bite of the powdered donut in her hand. “I know,” she manages to mutter between chews. “That’s why I like them.”
             

“Why do you eat that crap?” I know I sound like her mother but I can’t help myself. It just pops out of my mouth.

Brooke gives me a cold stare. “It’s better than the alternative.”

“Sorry. You’re right.”

Brooke’s been in recovery since we graduated from college five months ago. She says sugar helps to keep her from relapsing. A donut is definitely better than booze first thing in the morning.

I give my smoothie a shake then remove the lid. Before I can take a sip, Brooke jumps from the table.

“Nic Rayne!” She screams so loud I’m afraid the neighbors will knock on the wall and yell at us to quiet down. They’re an older couple and very set in their ways.

Brooke glances down at me. “Did you hear that?”

When I don’t immediately react Brooke elaborates, “Nic Rayne. He starred in
Fire in the Twilight
. It’s like the highest grossing movie ever. It made more money at the box office than
Harry Potter
and
The Hunger Games
combined. Now he’s on the road touring with his band, Always Rayne.”

I glare at Brooke. “I know who
Nic Rayne is. I work for an arts and entertainment magazine, remember?”

“Chatter’s not a real magazine. I don’t know why you call it that.”

“Just because it’s online doesn’t mean it’s not a real magazine.”

“And what’s the circulation? Twelve?”

“Ha, ha, very funny. We’ve already got a few thousand subscribers. It’s a start-up.”

“And you can just about pay the rent and your share of the utilities. What are you going to do when your student loans come due
and add another five hundred dollars to your monthly bills?”

As much as I
don’t want to hear it Brooke has a good point. My job at Chatter barely pays enough to cover my bills. Adding my student loan on top of that will stretch my budget to the breaking point. And as much as I don’t want to admit it, I’ll have to get another part-time job to supplement my income if I want to stay at Chatter. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t like
Nic Rayne.” My roommate looks incredulous. As if it’s a sacrilege not to be head over heels in love with Nic Rayne like every other female on the planet.

“I actually can tell you I don’t like him because—newsflash—I’m not some drone programmed by the media to fall in love with whatever movie star of the month the
y’ve decided to shove down our throats.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “You can’t tell me you don’t think he’s hot as hell.”

“I can. He’s not my type. There’s nothing about him that I find even remotely interesting or attractive. I’ve seen some of his interviews on television. He comes across as being dumber than a rock. He never says more than two words in response to any question and then he gives his so-called signature smile, which everyone seems to think is so sexy. To me his smile just looks smug and arrogant. I’m not going to follow the masses falling down and worshipping at his feet.”

“That smile is sexy as hell,” Brooke insists.

“Please. The guy reads lines in front of a camera and sings in a band. It’s not like he’s written a word that he recites or sings. He’s a pretty face with limited talent and not much going on upstairs, apparently.”

“I’d still fuck him in a heartbeat. I don’t care what’s going on u
pstairs. I just need to know what’s going on downstairs. And from all accounts, his downstairs works just fine.”

I can’t help but scrunch up my nose at the thought of sleeping with someone like that. “He’s probably a walking Petri
dish of diseases. Not only has he made his way through every actress in Hollywood, he’s now working his way through all of the models. I’m sure the singers will be next. Pretty soon there may not be a celebrity left for him to screw.”

Brooke raises her hand. “Well, I’m willing to volunteer when he runs
out of Hollywood women.”

“Just make sure he uses a condom.”

“Listen.” She points to the radio.

We both listen as the morning radio hosts describe their latest co
ntest to win tickets and backstage passes for tonight’s Always Rayne concert.

“I’m entering,” Brooke exclaims.

“You’re really going to go down to the station in the skimpiest bikini you own?”

She shakes her head.
“Oh, hell no. I want to win those tickets. I’m going to stop by Naughty Nate’s Adult Superstore and buy a stripper’s outfit. Like little pasties and a string thong. I’m going to pass it off as swimwear so I can actually win the contest.”

“We could just buy tickets to the show.”

She shakes her head. “The show is sold out. And buying tickets doesn’t include backstage passes. Plus Leo Donovan, lead guitarist for Always Rayne, is one of the judges of the skimpiest bikini contest. I wouldn’t mind hooking up with him either.”

I take one last sip of my smoothie. “I’ve got to get to work.”

Brooke grabs her empty plate from the table. “And I’ve got to get to the adult superstore.”

“What about work?”

She starts coughing. “I think I’m coming down with a cold. I’ll call in sick. I don’t want to spread these germs to anyone else.”

“It’s a good thing you work for you
r dad. Otherwise I think you’d get fired.”

“You and I both know I’m the world’s shittiest employee. I don’t think I have to worry about getting fired from a job though because I don’t think anyone but my dad will ever hire me.”

She has a point. I’m not sure why she even went to college other than to party for four years. Her dad owns a very popular sandwich and smoothie shop near Mission Beach. Brooke has worked there since we were in high school and she probably always will. She earned a degree in American Studies and I have no idea what anyone does with that. Brooke said she chose that major because it required the least amount of math.

“Wish me luck.”
She gives me a big smile.

“Good luck, I guess.”

She takes the empty smoothie container from my hand and tosses it in the trash with her used napkin. “And you’re going with me to that concert tonight. Be ready to go by six thirty.”

“You sound awfully sure you’re going to win.”

“You know I always get what I want. Especially when it comes to men.”

***

“What about a story on the comeback of scrunchies?” Heather Anderson suggests. Heather and I are the newest employees at Chatter. We started on the same day three months ago. She’s supposed to be a fashion expert, but based on the story ideas she pitches I have my doubts.

“What do you think about the
scrunchie idea?” My boss, Luke Taylor, glances around the table at his stable of writer/editors.

There are six of us and we’ve each got an area of expertise
in the primary sections of the arts and entertainment news we cover. My area is books and authors. Something I’m extremely comfortable with. I was a dual major in college: English Lit and Journalism. Plus I love to interview writers and I rarely have to see them in person, or even speak to them at all. Most of them prefer written interviews, which suits me just fine.

Everyone looks down at the table but I’m not quick enough and Luke catches my eye. “Harper, what do you think?”

Shit. I think it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life and I can’t believe anyone would even try to pass that off as journalism. I want to say Chatter isn’t some crappy teen magazine, but I also don’t want to piss Heather off.

“Maybe it can be part of a larger story about the resurgence of 90s culture in the 21st century,” I suggest.

Luke gives me a warm smile. He’s only a few years older than me but he’s already going bald. I kind of feel bad for him because he’s a good looking guy, but I think girls my age tend to discount him because of his lack of hair.

“I like where you’re going with that, Harper. Why don’t you work on the story with Heather?”

I want to protest but I know it will be in vain. Once Luke makes up his mind about something he doesn’t change it. Of course, I’ll be stuck writing the story and it will have both of our names on it because Heather won’t be able to contribute anything beyond scrunchies.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Heather says as we both head back to our cubicles after the meeting. “You’re such an awesome writer and you’re so smart. I can definitely use your help.”

“No problem,” I say. Now I feel bad that I was ready to put her down. I know she means well. I’m just not sure she’s cut out for journalism.

I spend most of the afternoon showing Heather how to do research as we discuss the most popular music, movies and fashion trends of the 90s.

***

By the time I get home, I’m thorough
ly exhausted. If I never see another scrunchie in my life it will be too soon. And I’ve got long, thick, wavy hair that I like to pull back on occasion. Heather has ruined scrunchies for me for the rest of my life.

I know as soon as I get inside the apartment Brooke is going to e
xpect me to get ready to go the concert. She’s already texted me multiple times to let me know that she won the tickets and expects my full participation in her evening activities.

About the last place I want to be right now is at a rock concert.

“Get changed.”

I’ve barely make it in the door and she’s already ordering me to change my attire. As if I have anything even remotely appropriate for a concert.

I pick the jeans and top that I think Brooke will find the least offensive and put them on.

“You can’t wear that,” is the first thing I hear as I step back into the living room.

Brooke eyes my outfit with disdain. She’s wearing the tightest black skirt I’ve ever seen. And it’s so short I’m not even sure it can be classified as a skirt. It looks more like a long belt that covers her mid-section. And she has it paired with a barely there crop top.

“It’s comfortable,” I protest.

I realize my outfit makes me look like I’m going to spend a quiet afternoon in the library, but that’s because it’s where I’d rather be right now. And it’s not like I have anything else to wear. My wardrobe is simple and utilitarian.

“We’re going to a rock concert, Harper. Not to one of your hippy-dippy bookstore readings.”

“There’s nothing wrong with meeting authors and listening to them read from their books. And it’s part of my job anyway.”

“You’ve always been a book nerd. And I still love you in spite of it. But you don’t have to dress like one.”

“Fine,” I retort as I head back into my bedroom. I search through my closet for something that looks even remotely rock concert-ish.

The only thing I can find is a long flowered skirt and a matching pink sweater.

Brooke’s eyes are wide when I reenter the living room.

“Better?”

She shakes her head. “Now you look like a hippy librarian from the 1970s. But we don’t have time to deal with it. We’re already late.”

***

The concert is packed with 20-somethings all dressed like Brooke. I definitely feel out of place. Not that I feel like I actually belong in very many places. I often feel like a 40-year-old woman trapped in a 23-year- old body.

My only saving grace is that we have VIP seating, which keeps us off the floor and out of the mosh pit.

“I still can’t believe you dragged me here,” I yell at Brooke over the noise of the crowd.

“Can you just be young for one night? Please?”

“I’ll try.”

“
Don’t try. Just do.”

She’s throwing my own lines back at me. It’s what I always tell her when she feels like she can’t stay sober.

The concert is everything I imagined. The sounds of unbearably loud music, mind-numbing lyrics and nerve-grating tones fill the auditorium. It’s like being trapped in a nightmare. It’s the kind of obnoxious rock music I imagine the military playing when they want to torture hostages. Being forced to listen to Always Rayne would definitely be worse than waterboarding. This is not my kind of music at all. I’d much rather be sitting in some small Jazz club listening to Diana Krall.

And watching
Nic Rayne strut around the stage half-naked like some absurd peacock is enough to make me gag. I wonder if the guy actually owns any shirts. It seems like every time I see photos of him he’s got his shirt off. We’re seated so close to the stage I can actually see the sweat glistening on his extremely muscular chest.