Rock My World Read online

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Cate Masters on Smashwords

  Rock My World

  Copyright © 2014 by Cate Masters

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  Thank you for buying my book!

  I hope you’ll love my characters as much as I do.

  You can find more books by Cate Masters at

  http://catemasters.blogspot.com

  or select online book retailers.

  For Gary, who always rocks my world.

  Rock My World

  Chapter One

  “Honey, you need a makeover.” Tia set her glossed pink lips in a frown.

  Cynthia Winterspoon chafed under her friend’s scrutiny. “Thanks, but I’ll settle for a new outfit.” She angled in front of the triple mirrors to check her appearance in the suit, stiff with newness. “Am I overreacting, or does this make me look like a school marm?”

  One side of Tia’s face scrunched. “A school marm on steroids.”

  Ugh, even worse. “I should never have agreed to do the show.” A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to promote her brand, but too stressful, even the simple task of finding something suitable. The suit—that was the problem. At barely five foot four, why was she even trying them on? She flew into the stall, strewn with half a dozen suits she already knew were wrong for her, and put on her jeans and tee, then reappeared outside the dressing room. “Where are the dresses in this crazy-huge place?” A clothing store so vast, she was tempted to suggest they hand out GPSs to customers at the entrance.

  Tia snapped her manicured fingers, a crazed gleam in her eye. “That’s exactly what you need. A little black dress to show off your sexy side.”

  If, after discovering her husband was a lying, cheating asshole who cared nothing about how much he’d hurt her, Cynthia could remember where she’d hidden her sexy side. “It’s not the image I want to project.”

  “Sex sells, sweet cheeks.” Tia steered her by the shoulders down a wide aisle.

  “But my brand is all about shabby chic.” If Cynthia thought she could get away with wearing jeans, she’d settle for a new pair, plus a nice top. Life had stopped being that blissfully simple years ago.

  Tia gasped and veered to a rack. “Here. Is this perfect or what?”

  Giving the dress a scan—which took all of two seconds because there was so little to it—Cynthia would have to go with the latter ‘what’ option. “A bit short.”

  “Not on you.” Tia wore her perky face, overselling the point.

  As if Cynthia needed the reminder of her diminutive height. Not that anyone ever described her as petite. If she followed Tia on her manic fitness and diet plan, she could lose that pesky twenty pounds that had crept up on her these past ten years. But she preferred to enjoy the food she ate.

  Her friend’s evil laugh matched her arched brow. “They’ll lose themselves in your cleavage.”

  Horror burst out in a laugh. “What a fun image, but no. Those spaghetti straps won’t hide my flabby arms.”

  Wide-eyed and innocent, Tia blinked. “No one will be looking at your arms, hon.”

  She lifted the dress hangar, and light shone through the fabric. “This material’s too sheer.”

  Tia’s eyes grew wider. More manic. “All the more reason.”

  “The idea is to sell my business ideas, not my body. No.” She firmly placed the hanger back on the rack and paused to send Tia a stern look.

  Totally unfazed, Tia dragged her to another aisle. “We’re not leaving here without a new dress.” Another gasp. “Oh. My. God. Look. At. This.” She whipped out another little black number and held it against herself.

  “Not bad.” Sleeves three-quarter length, tapered to show off her curves.

  “Dressed up with some pearls, you’ll be a smash.” Tia pressed it into her hands. “Try it on.”

  Cynthia carried it into the dressing room, stripped and slipped on the dress. In the single mirror, she couldn’t see anything wrong, but stepped out to where the triple mirrors stood. The real test.

  Eyes wide, Tia brought her hands to her face. “That’s the one. It’s perfect.”

  She had to admit, the dress played up her good points—the darts around the bust helped accentuate their full curves—and played down her wide hips. The hem skimmed her knees, not too long to be stodgy but not too short to make her uncomfortable. “I love it, too.”

  Hooting, Tia bounced on her heels. “You’re going to knock them dead.”

  “I hope not. Then who’d buy my stuff?” The price tag tapped Cynthia’s wrist, and she absently lifted it. And nearly fell over. “No.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  She whirled her back toward Tia. “Unzip me. I can’t afford this.”

  “Honey, you can’t afford not to.”

  “It’s four hundred dollars!”

  Tia checked the tag. “Three hundred eighty-nine.”

  “Plus tax. So four hundred.” Counting the interest she’d have to pay on her credit card.

  “But you’re going to be on Late Night with Jimmy Kane! You have to dress the part. Be a star and shine.” Tia raised her fists, clenched so tight her veins stood out.

  Blood draining from her head, Cynthia wobbled. “Sterling’s lawyer will hold this dress up as evidence that I can afford to pay the full freaking alimony he’s demanding.”

  “Sterling.” Tia practically spat. “His mother should have named him Platinum, for all he thinks he’s entitled. I’ll be glad when you’re finally free of him.”

  “You and me both, sister.” The divorce couldn’t end soon enough. She preferred drama in novels, not in her life. But true to his publicist nature, Sterling had a talent for creating it. Too bad he was clueless about when to drop the act.

  “Tell you what.” Tia took on her signature hell-on-wheels posture. “I’ll buy it, and you can pay me back on the sly.”

  In installments over about a year? Staring at the price, Cynthia blew out a long breath. “You’re sweet, and I love you, but I can’t.” Sadly, she changed into her clothes and stood in front of Tia again. “I’m going to check the consignment shop.”

  “The consignment shop! No.” Tia gagged on the very words.

  “With or without your help, I’m going.” Cynthia headed for the exit. At least, she thought she did. The doors were nowhere in sight. Every direction she turned, all the aisles had the same glitzy, surreal appearance, like an adult fun house. She wasn’t having much fun, more like a panic attack.

  “This way.” Tia linked arms with her. “Which shop did you want to hit first?”

  Cynthia sent her a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, it’s what I do. Pep talks, shopping buddy, whatever you need.” Her voice ratcheted up to a pitch only dogs could hear. She leaned in for a rocking hug.

  “Sweet.” A little less drama on Tia’s part would be nice, but Cynthia wouldn’t complain. She needed all the support she could get, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to get it from her ex.

  *~*~*

  The Green Room. Cynthia would never have guessed the walls would actually bear green paint. Hideous green, like mold growing over puke, with the trim in another horrendous shade of pine. Ugh. Now, if she could redo this space, she’d go with a lovely sage on the walls, and cream for the trim. Ditch this stiff leather sofa for somet
hing puffy and comfy, toss in some colorful throw pillows, and voila. A cozy, shabby chic.

  Thinking about the redo at least gave her something to do besides knock her knees together. She slid her hands between to steady them, but it didn’t help much. Where was everyone? Dread shivered through her. Oh no. She wasn’t the only guest tonight, was she? The confirmation email mentioned one other, some man she’d never heard of but who apparently played in a rock band. Had he turned up a no-show? Even if he did appear, she could imagine it now—conversation would grind to a halt with her lack of knowledge of current music.

  She twisted the chunky bracelet on her wrist, and adjusted the matching necklace, second-guessing the choice. She smoothed the dress out of habit rather than need. Rayon didn’t wrinkle. It probably didn’t melt if exposed to radiation.

  What was I thinking? Such a huge mistake, wearing a dress purchased from a consignment shop. Thank goodness this was late night, not prime time, TV. Still, millions of viewers would watch. Then millions more on YouTube. They’d see right through her to the fraud she was. What made her think boots—worn leather up to her knees—would look anywhere near all right with this dress? Tan with yellow flowers, rayon that moved with her, not too clingy but come on, she wasn’t some clueless teenager. Worse—a clueless woman.

  Shock tempered her fear. Breathe. She blew in and out, in and out. Not helping. Tiny black stars circled her head. She bent in half, head tucked between her spread legs.

  At least she’d splurged on a hair stylist. Her one good decision—and she’d just ruined it. A high-pitched whine sounded. The vibrations in her chest were the only clue the whine emanated from her.

  A thud. Footsteps. Black boots appeared in her vision.

  “Everything all right?” a deep voice asked in a lovely English accent.

  Sure. Obviously. “Yes. I…” Lost a contact? No, he’d find out she didn’t wear any. She groaned. “I’m trying to calm myself.”

  A chuckle. “First time?” Leather sighed, the boots moved back and went askew.

  She threw her head back and exaggerated a smile. “Pathetic. I know.” The sight of him took her aback. So this must be the rock star.

  The sheen on his long, dark hair made him look as if he’d stepped out of the rain. Strong jaw lined with stubbles. Lanky, legs stretched out in front, perfectly comfortable. He might have owned the damn place, probably gave the same impression wherever he went. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes.

  “Better now?” His lips quirked, curved hooks on either side of his mouth.

  So glad she could provide the evening’s entertainment. “Yes.”

  He slung his arms across the back of the sofa, the image of icy calm. Well, except for his bouncing knee.

  A dead giveaway. She arched a brow. “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  “Nervous?” He threw back his head and shook his hair. The long layers immediately fell back in place. “If wanting to be anywhere else counts, then I’d have to say yes.”

  She wrinkled her nose. Gotcha. “Yeah, probably does.”

  “Ah, very funny.”

  “What don’t you want him to ask?” The talk show host had a wicked reputation for prying into whatever his guests tried hardest to hide.

  He shifted, shoulders stiffening. “Everything. I’m a private person.”

  She bet the tabloids had a different take, but not being one to scour the entertainment headlines, she had no way to know for sure. “Then why do the show?”

  “My bloody manager scheduled me without asking.”

  His accent swung from Brit to Aussie with each question. “Time for a new manager, then?”

  “Harv’s okay. He’s been with us since the beginning. And he’s right, I need to do my part to promote the new album.” He tilted his head up, presumably to watch the skit the host was currently performing.

  “But?” she prodded.

  “What are you, a psychic?” he deadpanned.

  “Kind of.” She shrugged, a flirty move she couldn’t believe she was stooping to. “I’m a decorator.”

  His mouth opened in a crocodile smile. “Funny girl.”

  “I’m told,” she said, “I’m a good listener.”

  He went still. “Sure you’re not from one of those rags, here to pump me about the split?”

  “Your band’s splitting up?” No wonder he was so agitated, poor guy.

  “My fiancée,” he said softly.

  Much worse. “Sorry. I’m worried about the same thing as you, honestly. My husband just ran off with his assistant.” She heard the bitterness turning her voice acidic. Some internal valve had opened, and words kept gushing out. “Such a cliché. Eight years wasted on him.”

  Now she was a cliché, too—the bitter ex who bored everyone with her sorry tale. Either this guy was listening, or he’d fallen asleep. No way to tell.

  He pressed his lips together and gave his head a shake. “Must be a real loser to leave a woman like you.”

  Suddenly self-conscious, she held her knees as her whole body tightened. “You’re very sweet. But I’m worried he’ll ruin my business. It took me twelve years to build it up to the success it is now, and he thinks I owe him sixty percent.”

  He blew raspberries. “Tell him to piss off.”

  Oh, Sterling would get a laugh out of that. “Might be worth paying to get completely rid of him.”

  “Hell no.” Jaw set hard, he leaned forward and pounded his fist against his leg. “Stand your ground. What kind of man robs a lady of her hard-won success?”

  She blinked in surprise. Not the reaction she expected. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump my problems on you. You have your own heartache to deal with.”

  He wheezed a laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Was he high?

  “Heartache.” In peals of laughter, he crumpled against the cushions.

  “You didn’t love your fiancée?”

  He composed himself, to a degree, but lounged on the sofa as if he were poolside at his mansion. “Oh, I did. When I met her three years ago, she was perfect. I was smitten to my balls, and that’s saying a lot. I wanted only her.”

  So sad. “I hate to hear about perfect couples breaking up. What hope does that leave for the rest of us?”

  “We were far from the perfect couple. I found out later she put on an act. That was the girl I fell for—the beautiful, wholesome, natural girl. Turns out she had an addiction to money, and used me to feed it. The moment we broke up, she clutched the ring, said she was keeping the rock ‘for collateral damage’. The spoils of war and love, eh?” He snorted. “Gives new meaning to the phrase, rock and roll. Third time this has happened, you see.”

  “That’s terrible.” Especially because it had left him so bitter.

  “No, it was for the best. I simply wished her happiness, if someone so consumed with wealth can find such a thing. I can literally roll in my money, but it means less to me than the soul-gift of creating music I love that resonates with others.” He tossed a nonchalant, totally unconvincing grin. “If I can’t find a woman to share my heart, at least I can share my soul with fans.”

  How sad, and kind of familiar. “I guess we have something in common.” She tried to say it like a joke. Yeah, real funny.

  He went silent.

  If only he’d take off those damn sunglasses, she’d have a better idea of what he was thinking. Maybe.

  “They were right.” He jutted out his chin.

  “Who?” Had he heard something? Known all along about her husband? Maybe he was the real tabloid spy. She released an inward groan. She really needed to learn to shut her yap.

  “Whoever said you were a good listener. I’ve never bared my thoughts to anyone else.”

  She practically melted with relief. “You are, too. I feel better having let it all out.” To a complete stranger. Not her smartest move.

  “So do I. I actually feel as if a weight’s been lifted from me.” He tore off the Ray Bans and leaned toward her. “Don’t let
any man treat you less than a princess.”

  She ducked her head. Not even as a girl had she dreamed of being royalty. Frilly dresses? Too hard to climb trees wearing them. Nor were palaces her style, debutante balls or any of the other nonsense. None of it seemed much fun.

  “I’m not very good with pedestals. Unless I’m giving it a makeover.” But she could imagine him a prince, easily. Light blue flecked his dark blue eyes, the effect mesmerizing. “You have lovely eyes.”

  A slow smile crept over his face. “Too much mascara and liner, I’m told.”

  “A little.” Way more than her. “But I imagine you need the look to maintain your image. And you wear it well.”

  Brows furrowed, he leaned even closer. “Who are you?”

  Warmth flushed her face. “Should have introduced myself earlier, sorry.” After recovering from the near-faint, perhaps? Or should she have waited until after insulting him? “Cynthia Winterspoon.” She extended her hand.

  “A princess name if I ever heard one.” He bent his head to touch his lips to her fingers, cradled gently in his hand.

  Excitement tiptoed across her skin. She forgot to argue against the royal title.

  “Well, Cyn.” He made it sound so sexy and slightly devilish. “You have lovely eyes, too.” His gaze swept down to her lips, her cleavage. “Lovely… everything. But your eyes, they’re captivating. The term ‘doelike’ comes to mind. I haven’t seen any woman pull off such an innocent-sexy combo since Marilyn Monroe. I bet you’re a real man eater, aren’t you?”

  No, but she’d be willing to learn. She almost forgot to breathe. And something even more important. “What’s your name?”

  Surprise flickered across his face. “Rex Reynolds.”

  “And you’re in a band? What do you do, play guitar?” Up close, he lost some of the bad boy mystique. His scruffy look had been carefully cultivated—too much hair product gave the stringy effect. His clothes were rumpled, but clean. The scent of coconut and lime teased her senses. The stubble on his chin couldn’t be more than a day old.