Stone: A Standalone Rock Star Romantic Comedy (Pandemic Sorrow) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Stone

  Phoenix

  Acknowledgments

  Stone

  A Pandemic Sorrow Novel

  Stevie J. Cole

  Contents

  1. Stone

  2. Phoenix

  3. Stone

  4. Phoenix

  5. Stone

  6. Phoenix

  7. Stone

  8. Phoenix

  9. Stone

  10. Phoenix

  11. Stone

  12. Phoenix

  13. Stone

  14. Phoenix

  15. Stone

  16. Phoenix

  17. Stone

  18. Phoenix

  19. Stone

  20. Phoenix

  21. Stone

  22. Phoenix

  23. Stone

  24. Phoenix

  25. Stone

  26. Phoenix

  27. Stone

  28. Phoenix

  29. Stone

  30. Phoenix

  31. Stone

  32. Phoenix

  33. Stone

  Acknowledgments

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION:

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to, or downloaded from file sharing sites or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of Stevie J. Cole.

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  Created with Vellum

  1

  Stone

  The fog machine pumps a thick cloud over the stage. The lights flash in tune with Pax’s drums while Jag wails out the last lyrics to the song. I strum the final note on the guitar, and Rush crotch thrusts at the edge of the stage, sending girls into screaming fits as they reach up to touch him. The lights fade to black and the crowd goes insane.

  In-fucking-sane.

  Girls scream my name. Jag’s name. You can literally feel the buzz from the audience like a palpable being thumping through the air. Sweat beads down my brow. I glance over the full arena, trying to soak it all up as I breathe in the last high this tour has to offer. I am a fucking rock star and right now, nothing can topple me.

  Nothing.

  Jag drops his guitar, and I grab the few remaining pics from the stand, tossing them out to the screaming fans as we walk off stage. “Killer show, bro,” I say, slapping Jag on the back.

  “Never gets old,” he grins over his shoulder at me.

  But, it does get old… I smile and nod, following the rest of Pandemic Sorrow through the dressing rooms and straight out the back exit. The second the doors fly open we’re met with screaming girls. Hands grab at my shirt, my ass, my cock, and I just smile. Rush hops up on the brick wall and grabs his nuts, shaking them at the crowd as he throws up the rock and roll sign and yells. Cameras flash. The adrenaline just keeps pumping. You’re a rock star. A legend…

  We’re ushered to the waiting limo by security and climb in, the doors quickly slamming shut behind us. Before we pull away, women plaster themselves to the windows. Palms and lips and bare tits. I grab my phone from my pocket and lean against the window, sticking my tongue out so it looks like I’m licking that perfect nipple pressed against the glass as I snap a picture. Instagram will love that…

  And the limo drives away, honking its horn.

  I fall back into the plush leather seat and groan, dragging my hand through my sweat-soaked hair. “Where’s the party?” I ask.

  “Fontaine Blue,” Jag says with a grin as he snorts a rail of cocaine up his nose, then passes the bag to me.

  “Tanned Miami poon-tang pie for miles,” Rush laughs as he rubs his palms together. “All you can eat buffet.”

  Pax high fives him. Jag shakes his head. “Rush, shut the fuck up, we all know you’re fucking Jules.”

  “I fuck a lot of girls. I can’t remember their names.”

  “You’re shit at lying,” I say, swiping a bottle of beer from the cooler. “That’s why Becky Rogers broke up with you in 9th grade when you told her you were a virgin.”

  “Wasn’t a lie,” he snorts, adjusting his dick, “I was a Becky Rogers virgin.”

  We all laugh. The guys keep talking about pussy, and I kind of just go into my own world, staring through the window at the crowded strip. The traffic on Ocean Drive is always slow as shit and full of tourist.

  Everyone stares at the limo, squinting to see if they can get a glimpse of who is inside. All those people on the outside wishing they were in here–and here I sit chanting that I’m a rock star over and over because when this high from our last show burns off, I’ll burn out. When I’m low, I’d give anything in the world to be one of those fuckers on the outside looking in.

  The limo pulls into the drive circling in front of Fountaine Bleu. One of the staff opens my door, and I set one foot onto the pavement. I stand up and a single girl notices me, nudging her friend before they both scream. The rest of the guys crawl out. The crowd around the limo grows thicker until there’s people shoving phones in our faces, handing us anything and everything to sign. I’m scribbling my name over a plastic Solo cup when Rush grabs hold of my elbow and yanks me away. “Sorry,” I say, tossing the cup and pen back to a girl in the crowd.

  We walk inside the club straight to the VIP area. Drinks are waiting. Blow covers the table. Jag grabs Rush and they walk off to the side of the room. I take a shot and down it, then another. The hard music thumps through my chest. The strobe lights flicker. And just as my buzz really starts to set in, a warm hand brushes over my arm. I turn around, my lips instantly meeting the woman’s standing behind me. Her fingers thread through my hair before she presses her body against mine. “I want to fuck you,” she whispers.

  “Well, isn’t that quite an offer?” I say before I’ve even gotten a good look at her.

  This is what fame is like, at least for us. It’s a hedonist’s wet dream come true, and even if you aren’t a hedonist, it’s easy to get swept up in the raw, animalistic nature of it. When it all boils down, fame turns people into animals. To these women, all I am is a bragging right, and to me, all they are is a means to an end. Shitty? Maybe, but it’s use or be used in this industry. Fuck or be fucked…

  So, I wrap my arm around the woman’s waist, and I kiss her back. I down drink after drink because I’m already on that downward spiral, so why stop now? The descents always fun until you hit the bottom.

  _________

  My vision swims. There’s no more dance music, no sweaty bodies or strobe lights. I have no recollection of how I got… wherever I am. And now? Now someone’s pawing at my zipper and–“Shit,” I say when she shoves me back on a bed and straddles me. I grab the bottom of her tight dress and work it over her hips and over her head before I glance up at her. No bra. No panties. My dick instantly grows so hard I swear it’s going to split.

  I fist her hair and yank her down to me, slamming my lips over hers. The kiss is messy. Hard. Hot as fuck… The room’s spinning
, and I’m trying to remember what she said her name was, but right now her mouth is working down my stomach and... My toes curl when her warm lips slide over the length of my dick. She’s just shoving it down her throat like she’s angry at it, gagging. Damn, right. Suck that shit dry.

  “I want to fuck you. Right now,” she says, grabbing my wrist and yanking me down.

  I toss my arms over my head. “Take full advantage of me,” I say, and she grabs my wrists, pinning them to the bed. Her blonde hair falls in front of her face when she leans over me.

  “I fully intend to,” she says.

  She jumps up from the bed and comes back with a pair of handcuffs, smiling as she straddles me again.

  “I mean, I’m not really into–”

  “Did I ask you?” she snaps, her eyes wild.

  “No, but–”

  Huffing, she rolls her eyes. “I thought you were a rock star, not a pussy?”

  She fastens one of the cuffs to my wrists and the other to one of the wrought iron rails of the headboard. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen with a 125-pound woman handcuffing you to the bed?

  I wake up with a horrendous pain shooting through my dick. “What the…” A sharp pain radiates down into my nuts and I throw the cover off, nearly shitting the bed when I see my swollen cock. It’s massive and purple. Throbbing. A broken condom is tangled around the shaft and cutting the circulation off. “Shit,” I hiss, grabbing the latex and ripping it off my dick. I fall back on the bed and inhale a deep breath while I jiggle my junk in an attempt to lessen the pain.

  A warm hand glides over my chest. I glance to my right at the naked woman in the bed. I shift and a few empty bottles from the mini fridge roll to the floor.

  “Oh, hi,” I say, still shaking my shit.

  She leans over. She older. A lot older. Typical Orange County Housewife type with a plastic smile and fake tits. I don’t remember shit from last night, and that’s probably best. I sit up in bed and my asshole stings a little. What the hell did we do?

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I don’t expect anything.” She grabs her dress from the floor and slips it over her head. “Bucket list item marked off for me. Stone Steele.” She grins and I just stare at her.

  The feeling suddenly rushes back to my dick, and let me just say, pins in needles in your cock is not a good feeling. “Cool…” I say and flop back on the mattress. I mean, what the hell else am I gonna say?

  She smiles, grabs my jeans, and tosses them to me before she walks–still naked– to the door and opens it. I shove my legs through the legs of my jeans. I don’t bother to zip the fly as I stumble to the door and walk out into the hall. No shoes. No shirt. Stinging asshole.

  Party like a rock star and all that shit…

  __________

  The second I step into the tour bus the guys applaud. Jules rolls her eyes, tosses her hands up, and walks off, I’m pretty sure she’s grumbling about not stopping at a clinic to treat STDs or some shit. Dragging my hands through my hair, I fall back on the couch and the bus engine rumbles before we slowly pull out of the parking lot.

  Jag glances at me and grins. “Have a rough night, bro?”

  “Oh, I bet he had a great time,” Rush laughs before glancing at me. “You left that party with some old cougar. Cougar’s will fuck your shit up.” He arches a brow. “Grr-fucking-grr.” He goes into a fit of laughter before shoving me.

  “I vaguely recall getting a thumb rammed up my asshole.”

  “Aw man,” Rush claps, and his eyes light up, “no-no hole play! You dirty fucking dog. Did you get a Rusty Trombone?” He wiggles his eyebrows.

  “Rusty trombone. Dirty Sanchez, who knows.” I squint against the sunlight streaming in through the windows before thumping my shades over my eyes. “Woke up with the condom cutting the circulation off to my dick.”

  “Thank god!” Jules shouts from the back of the bus. “At least one of you has some fucking sense.”

  Rush rolls his eyes. “Get one case of the clap and you never live it down.”

  Jag snorts. “One case…Rush,” he pats his shoulder, “come on now, man. It’s been more than one case.” Rush swats his hand away. “Hey, man,” Jag says, “you got any blow?”

  “In my bag…” Rush says.

  Jag gets up, grabs Rush’s bag, and rummages through until he finds the blow. I watch him dump some out and cut up a few lines. I notice the slight shake in his hand, the fact that it’s not even noon, that we don’t have a show, but what can I say to him? He’s my younger brother and one thing I know, you tell Jag not to do something–he’ll do it ten times over. Pretty sure that’s how he ended up nearly overdosing last time.

  The door to the back of the bus swings open. Pax and some brunette come waltzing out. She’s all smiles and he’s got huge circles below his eyes.

  “Shit, we’ve left?” he asks.

  “Uh…” I point out the window at the waterway. “Yeah, dumbshit.”

  “Damn.” He face palms, and that girl giggles.

  “Oh, well,” she says, grabbing his shirt and yanking him close to her for a kiss. “Just a little more time together, I guess.” His eyes lock on me for a second before he closes his eyes and throws his head back.

  “Jules!” he shouts. “Jules!” He grabs the girl by the shoulder and moves her toward the couch I’m sprawled out on. “Just…” he groans, and then he walks off.

  She flops down next to me and sighs. “I’m Bridgette,” she says, twirling her hair, her eyes drifting from my eyes to my crotch before she leans in. “You’re my favorite,” she whispers in my ear. The smell of vodka washing over me sends a wave of nausea through me. I take a single finger, place it on her shoulder and push, moving her away.

  “Thanks. But no thanks.” I smile.

  Jules come storming out from the back, mumbling. She gives the girl a passing glance. “We’re stopping to let you off.”

  “But…” she starts.

  “You got a phone?” Jules asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Call someone to come get you.”

  I glance around the bus. Jag’s high as shit. Rush is putting porn on the TV, his hand already on that girl’s thigh. Pax–the shithead that used to get swirlies all the time Junior year–is annoyed that a hot girl fucked him. And my asshole still hurts. Fame’s a son of a bitch, so I lie down, close my eyes, and decide I’m just going to ignore all this shit until we get back to LA.

  Fuck it.

  2

  Phoenix

  I sign my name on the dotted line: Phoenix Wilson Rage Edwards aka Phoenix Savage, and slide the contract back across the table. James signs. Henry signs.

  Honestly, I’m glad to leave those other names in the dust. I am the result of a one night stand between the biggest band whore in the history of Rock and Roll and Zeve Zevens. Yeah, the Zeve Zevens. Rock god extraordinaire. And no, I’ve never met him. I’m just the result of his orgasm. Lucky for me, he signed his rights over and gave my mom a nice lump sum of money to stay hush-hush about me, you know, since he was “happily” married to some Playboy bunny named Margo. Jesus with the clichés already…

  James glances across his desk at my beloved step father Henry Edwards, former drummer of Sons of Rage and CEO of Deviant Fault Records. “She’s got talent,” James says. “Sounds like a female version of Zevens.” Huffing, I roll my eyes and sink down in my chair.

  “We need to get her in a collaboration. Who’s the hottest act out right now? Those dickheads–” Henry snaps his fingers. –“Pandemic Sorrow, right?”

  “Yeah.” James leans back in his seat, the hinges creaking as he folds his hands over his lap. “But, you don’t want to do that to her.”

  “What, give her the best exposure possible?”

  “Put her with those shitheads. Jesus, Henry, they’re…” he shakes his head. “There is no word for what those boys are.”

  “Ah, she can handle herself.” He smiles and winks at me. He’s pretending he’s doing
this out of the kindness of his heart, but I know better. If my album does well. He does well. Really, all it boils down to is business, not kindness. Henry’s a dick.

  “I’d rather just,” I say, “you know. Do my own thing.”

  “Phoenix, I know the industry, why go the long way around when you can just,” he holds one arm out steady and pulls the other back, pretending like he’s aiming a bow and arrow. He flicks his fingers. “Pew…shoot to the top?”

  “It’s fucking cheap,” I say, “that’s why.”

  Henry groans, tossing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. “You have talent, Josie, you do, but this industry is tooth and nail, if you weren’t who you are…” he looks at James like he needs some type of approval. “I mean, this has been handed to you on a silver platter, either take it all or don’t take any.”

  My jaw clenches. I’ve loved singing since I was little, before I knew who my sperm donor was. Before my mom went from lead singer to lead singer to drummer to Henry. It’s in my DNA, but I don’t know that I want all the crap that comes along with fame. But I did at least want to try and make it on my own.

  “I don’t want to do it, Henry.” I glance at James even though I know that spineless creep won’t be any help.

  “Well…” he sighs, drumming his finger over his desk, “those boys won’t be too ecstatic about it, that’s for sure.”

  “And you think I care? It’s my label. My company.” Henry pushes up from his seat. “Do it, James.” And with that, he walks behind my chair and opens the door.

  “One song,” James says.

  I glare at him. “Can’t wait…”

  _________

  I open the door to my apartment, well, Henry’s apartment, if you want to get down to it. He gave me this 2 million-dollar apartment in Beverly Hills on my 16th birthday just to get me out of his 14,000 square foot home. I mean, after all, a kid cramps a man’s style, I guess.