#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1)

#KISSING

Ellie Brixton

Copyright © 2016 by
Ellie Brixton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

Cover Design by Panagiotis Lampridis

#Kissing/Ellie Brixton
. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

www.elliebrixton.com

"One must still have chaos in oneself to become a star."

―
Friedrich Nietzsche

PART ONE

SITTING IN A TREE

CHAPTER 1

I used to be a good girl. I used to be many things. Now I just make it up as I go along. Most of the time I don't even know what I'm doing. Only that right now, I like the way this feels.

My moan disappears into the grinding of a guitar as I squeeze my eyes shut. I make my own stars as phosphenes flicker and dance behind my shuttered lids, winding through my vision in silver and yellow. I'm close, but not close enough for my mind not to wander.

JQ and I found a field as far from town as we could, dimming the city light. His fingers rested just inches from mine. We were young and nervous enough to make an excuse: a science project for Mr. Wilkins. We watched a celestial show in the sky that night, drifting to sleep under a summer blanket of stars. When dawn kissed our cold cheeks awake, we clasped hands. Then he kissed me, and I ran away.

Our lives went in parallax and here I am, my back arching as I call out with pleasure while my boyfriend has his head between my legs. I shouldn't be thinking about someone else. But he accidentally called me Heather once—whoever that is. These days the line between right and wrong is a blur. But pleasure is pleasure. And I can't deny Niko makes me feel good. I'll settle for good.

Balanced on top of a speaker, in a blind corner of the club, the pulsing heat in my pussy flares, and I search for those stars, but all I have is a rock star going down on me. I tilt my head back, not quieting my moan. He rubs his hands along my smooth legs, his thumb massaging a ticklish part of my skin close enough to my folds to tease me as he expertly licks and sucks, and twists his tongue against my clit.

There's a certain kind of melancholy amidst the mildness of activity in a music venue when the lights are up and the sun, still masquerading for the coming night, paints squares on the sticky floor. The bartender restocks bottles and cans, wipes down glasses, and checks the taps. The bands load in and do sound check. Various members of the entourage scurry around checking and rechecking to make sure everything is ready for tonight. I only notice all of this because try as I might to focus on the, ahem, matter at hand, Niko's name echoes through the club. #OrgasmFail

It was good while it lasted because he isn't drunk yet. I might be, but sometimes that happens just from breathing. My grandmother, Bubbie, used to joke that I was drunk on life, but that was before I'd actually tried alcohol—she'd pour grape juice in a wine glass for me when she had her friends over for cards so I didn't feel left out. Now I try to keep myself on the edge of reality or completely out of it as often as possible. She also used to tell me to make sure I made every day a party. And I am, Bubbie. I am. Though I don't think this is exactly what she had in mind.

Someone nearby clears their throat. Niko swipes behind him, universal gesture for
go the fuck away
; I'm gettin' my girl off.

If my mind was wandering before, now I completely lose the thread that held me to this moment, to chasing the ever-elusive
O
. I was a goner when my thoughts detoured to that summer before everything changed, but it doesn't help that someone interrupts.

I push Niko off, tugging down my skirt. "Go. Do what you need to do." I turn my lips down. I've become an expert at the sexy pout.

He slides up so we're face to face. He nips my neck and behind my ear. He cracks a smile and purrs, "Josie, I need to do
you
." Most of the time I'm babe, but when he really wants it, I'm Josie.

I love hearing him say my name in his sexy British accent.
Josie
—the
E
at the end sounds like a tease. Everything else he says sounds like a sin.

Ours is the kind of verbal foreplay that is sexy and scandalous when in good company. These days I'm rarely in good company.

It wasn't his dark brown eyes and his rock and roll sneer that hooked me. It was the music, rock and roll in all its reckless glory and his voice that lured me. Just thinking about it, I'm hot and wet all over again. It's deep, rich, and melodic.

"No, seriously, Niko, we have an interview. Now." The command, belonging to a guy with an absurdly enormous hand, tugging him away, belongs to Mitty, the bassist. Niko's skill with his fingers is legendary, but I don't imagine Mitty got the name by accident.

I seize Niko's jaw between my fingers, which have a talent of their own, give him a long kiss, tasting myself on his lips, and then shove him toward Mitty.

He saunters away, already in conversation with his best friend.

I drop off of the speaker, land on my feet, and bend over to pick up my black platform heels. The room tilts sharply away from me. The sunlight suddenly forms hazy clouds, fogging my vision. I grab the edge of the speaker to steady myself.

Fucking pancreas.

I hurry to the bar and order a ginger ale, take a couple of swigs, spilling some on my shirt in my haste. I glance around, and wipe it away, hoping no one saw me chugging soda like a sorority girl with a beer at a frat party. I have nothing against sorority girls. I would have been one, but that was before.

I will the room to still while I find the ladies bathroom, begging my legs and my vision to cooperate at least until I'm alone.

The graffiti and the stickers on the wall blur as I kick the lid of the toilet down and take a seat. Drawing deep breaths, my hands shake while I get out my insulin. I do my best to ignore how I'm likely in contact with the residue of bodily fluids that aren't mine. I squirm and pull up my shirt.

I usually don't use my abdomen, but I'm desperate as I plunge the needle into my flesh. I'm about as good at monitoring my glucose levels as I am at remembering to take the pill, which I pop in my mouth, swallowing it with the rest of the ginger ale.

Bubbie, if she's watching, is shaking her head and
tsking
. I hope she's not watching. I wouldn't bring Niko home to meet her if she were still alive even though he could charm the devil out of hell. I wouldn't go home period because she'd be ashamed of me. Sometimes I'm not proud of myself either.

Someone knocks on the door. "Wait," I call. My voice is raspy from night after night of shouting along with the band, chatting in the backs of clubs, and faking it when Niko comes and I inevitably don't.

In the chipped bathroom mirror, my bleached blond hair sticks to the cold sweat dotting my forehead. I reapply my lipstick—as red as temptation—, smooth my strands, adjust my shirt, and fling the door open with my sneer locked and loaded.

I push past the girl waiting outside the door and follow the laughter of what's surely The Halos, Niko's band, giving the interviewer exactly what they want—badass rock and roll attitude with a side of crazy stories that are almost impossible to believe.

Except they're true. Every single one of them.

I was there and usually the muse or the mastermind.

Bubbie always said a little mischief is good for the soul. I took it upon myself to replace a little with a lot.

#RockAndRollForever

CHAPTER 2

I park myself at a table by the window in the front of the club; half listening to the Halos piece together the well-worn tale of how they formed the band.

The reporter is middle-aged with a soul-patch—an unfortunate little tuft of hair below his bottom lip—, but he asks all the right questions, earning laughter like gold stars.

The other half of my attention turns to daydreaming, a pastime my mother tried to squelch, but Bubbie encouraged.

Outside, a woman clicks by in heels with a feathery little dog leading the way. Workers, wearing safety yellow or maybe it's green—lime on acid—puzzle out a complicated bit of scaffolding across the street. A deliveryman rolls in aluminum kegs of beer. Two girls scurry by, deep in conversation. They don't look like the type to skip school, though neither did I.

I pull out my phone, the bane of my existence, aside from diabetes and my mother. It's almost four. The girls probably aren't skipping. School, nothing more than an unpleasant memory for me, is over for the day. Friday. I've lost track of so many days in the last few years.

As if tapped into my thoughts, Niko says, "Every day is the weekend when you're in the Halos."

"Amen," the reporter says, eager to agree with anything out of the leader of the band's mouth.

I daydream a scenario that brings a smile of amusement to my lips.

Reporter: "Tell me more about your involvement with Josie."

Niko: "She's the hottest chick I've ever seen. I can have a different girl every night of the week, three on the weekends, if I wanted to. But I choose Josie. I'm going to settle down one day and marry her. Mark my words. But for now, we're living the rock and roll dream."

My sentiments exactly. Screw college, graduation and a nine-to-five, home improvement and yard work on the weekend. Forget a staid life in the suburbs with a perfectly trimmed hedge and generic music on a sound system yearning for the throaty growl of a bass, the wild beat of drums, and the grind of a guitar, real music. I saw that particular life model bomb, and I suffered from the fallout.

However, on days when I wake up before noon, I worry that this lifestyle has an expiration date. On those occasional agonizing mornings, when I'm painfully hungover, I dream of a house with a wide front porch and a sprawling backyard. Inside, it always smells like fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. Kids giggle and a puppy frolics. I always wanted a dog, but my mother insisted they were too messy.

I push these imaginings away for several reasons.

1. They're ridiculous. I'm evidence of the failure of the institution of marriage. Nothing, not even me, could keep my parents together.

2. There's no such thing as true love. Also, exhibit A. My parents supposedly loved each other, but then all of a sudden they didn't.

3. Niko isn't the type to settle down. Ever. That much I'm sure of—not even if we got married.

4. I can't spend the rest of my life with a man who can't make me orgasm. End of story.

All of this slaps me back to reality.

Someone in the entourage comments about getting the party started.

Another grumbles about being hungry.

Kenji, the drummer, lights a cigarette.

Jill, the other guitarist, her expression in a state of permanent irritation, asks, "When can I leave?"

Like my fantasy life, the illusion of the Halos being a rock solid band who're best friends, diligently working on their next album, dissolves.

"Love, we're just getting warmed up," Niko says to Jill. He calls everyone
love
so this shouldn't bother me.

Jill rolls her eyes.

Slade, the Halos' manager, slings his arm around her shoulder. "I know what you need."

She tosses his arm off. "Can I be done?" Without waiting for an answer, she storms off.

Mitty shakes his head.

Someone else says, "She used to be so chill."

Niko adds, "Those were the days."

"Should I start looking for a new guitarist?" Slade asks, sliding his signature sunglasses on top of his head. I'm convinced they haven't replaced their manager because buried under the depths of their rock-and-roll
fuck-yous
, the Halos pity the guy who calls himself Slade—torn straight from the nineties or some other decade when cool was relative. Also, he's connected.

"Fuck no," Niko says, getting to his feet, loyal to Jill for reasons I can't fathom.

Slade lifts his hands in surrender. "Ok, ok. No need to get upset. Just asking. Doing my job, whatever."

In the graying light of the afternoon and looking fierce in an I-don't-give-a-shit kind of way, Niko makes my insides swim with lust. It's that particular bubbling in the belly and chest that makes me want to pounce on him, right here on the table. It's been done, but not in this club. We could give the ladies walking their dogs and the workers a show, a preview of what life could be if they just.
Let. Go
.

That was one of Bubbie's last pieces of advice.
Let it go
. I have, but probably not in the way that she meant for me to.

"One last question and you can go cause trouble." The interviewer's practiced smile makes me want to puke. So much about this world is fake—false confidence, fake boobs, feigning interest in stories, fake orgasms. #FakeEverything

He asks, "Fans and those in the music industry say you play dance rock. Is that a genre you identify with? Was that your intention?"

Niko's expression turns smug. "We play rock music that we like, what calls and speaks to us. It's all original, straight from the guts. It's not intentional. We're not here to make you or anyone else money. We're here to cause a riot, to create a revolution, and if chicks want to dance to it, I won't complain."

Classic Niko answer.

However, the question wasn't unfounded. The Halos play music girls dance to because that's what they like and that's what guys want to see—girls like me who let themselves fall into the spaces between the notes, forgetting our troubles, where we come from and where we're going. It's sex appeal and lust. And LOUD.

#Win

There's no denying that the whole thing, intentional or not, swerves toward misogynistic, but I've seen the truth of it play out night after night. The crowd revs up, everyone gets sweaty, inhibitions disappear, clothes come off, and lips lock, and we all just let it go.

The interviewer checks his notes. "Spoken like an artist. I have everything I need, boys. Thank you for your time," he says. "Good thing we took the photos before she took off," he adds delicately. Like everyone else, this dude, old enough to be their father, panders to the blokes from Britain, or Norway, or Japan, or America or whatever distant reaches of the planet they came from where their talent quietly simmered before meeting at an elite art school in Italy. They decided to name themselves the Halos, and the rest is rock and roll history.

Niko curls his lips into a sly smile. "Make sure you end the interview by saying that I told you to fuck off."

He isn't kidding, but they both laugh.

Now he's mine again. I pace toward my boyfriend, my Niko, ringing my finger through his belt loop. He's so hot when he talks rebel. "All done?" I ask.

He's the chiseled, tattooed sexiness of Adam Levine and the swagger and magnetic pull of Harry Styles rolled into one hot body. When he breathes into my ear, tickling my neck, he says, "I thought we were just getting started."

I'm hooked.

#Swoon.

Gone.

Rock and roll me out of here.