Rock Charisma

By Joan P. Cooley

A ruthless rock star with a secret meets his match, when a beautiful blonde reporter is assigned to interview him.

A sexy, fast-paced rock n' roll fantasy...

Janet Reed...the L.A. Times' top-notch investigative reporter.

Dale Rhodes...the biggest rock star in the world.

He hated reporters. And he harbored a terrifying secret.

She despised rock n' roll. But, she smelled a story. And her nose was never wrong.

It was a match made in hell! Sparks fly when the couple collides in a backstage hallway...

EXCERPT:

Janet grimaced and forced open her eyes. Poised above, she saw a man's face. Blurry. Out of focus. Janet closed her eyes again. Then, someone squeezed her hand and a sultry voice whispered, "You alright, darlin'?"

Janet's eyes flew open. And she blinked at the sight of him. The most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Janet decided she must have died, indeed. And God had sent an angel to guide her into the afterlife.

He had to be that. An angel...he was so perfect. Perfect eyes. A shining, bottomless blue. Perfect teeth, in two gleaming white rows. Perfect skin. Like porcelain. Unblemished and smooth, with the barest hint of stubble on his adorable chin. His hair, a glorious mix of brown and red strands, fell in waves to his broad shoulders. Janet stared up at the impeccable being. His eyes searched her face, and he met her gaze. Questioning.

Who was she? Dale was sure he'd never seen her before. A face like hers he would never forget. She was stunning...even behind those crooked glasses. His thumb rubbed the back of Janet's hand. Her skin was creamy soft, like silk. And her honey-blonde hair was tousled from the fall, like she had just climbed out of bed. Dale wondered what she would look like in his.

He squeezed her hand again. It fit perfectly in his grasp. He smiled...and marveled at her violet eyes. They widened as he stared down at her. Janet's head cleared. And her eyes widened even more, as she recognized his face. She remembered, in a rush...who she was. Why she was there. And she wanted to scream.

Rock Charisma is a complete Full Length Novel: 51,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joan P. Cooley
• Release date: Dec 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497783577

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dale Rhodes paced the concrete floor beneath his feet like an animal in a cage...lean, lithe, and brooding.  As dangerous as a trapped panther.  Or a man headed for the gallows.  Just then, he felt like one.  And not at all like the biggest rock star in the world, with an arena full of fans outside...screaming for him.

He stood backstage alone, in the VIP dressing room...trying to prepare.  The show was at Pickens arena, 5 miles outside of Los Angeles.  The venue had sold out in six minutes.  And a crowd of twenty thousand people waited for him to grace the stage.  They called his name.  Pleading, demanding that he make his appearance.  They chanted the name of his band.  Wick-ers! Wick-ers! Wickers!  He could hear their cries, muffled by the 8-inch-thick walls surrounding him.

Their voices didn’t move him.  They only added to his misery.  He was trapped.  Pushed into a corner.  He rubbed at his eyes.  And he was tired...bone tired.  In no shape to sing.  The cinder block paneled walls seemed to close in all around him.  He shook off a feeling of dread.  Lately, nothing felt right.  Ever since that letter had come.  It had changed everything.

Why had he opened it?  He’d wished a thousand times that he hadn't.  He usually didn't even touch the mail.  A tedious chore. Someone else's job.  But that day, he was at the offices and bored...waiting for some papers to sign.  The bright red envelope, buried in a pile of fan mail, caught his attention.  And lured him in.  It was November, then.  An early Christmas greeting...he had assumed.

He’d peeled open the envelope, pulled out the letter inside, and admired its handiwork.  Calligraphy.  The painted characters were beautiful and intricate.  And the paper was special.  Expensive.  Quite old.  And it crackled like papyrus.  The missive was a miniature masterpiece, with a border of gold doves surrounded by multi-colored stars.  Someone had spent a lot of time working on it.  Their creation wasn't just a letter, but a hand-made card.  An announcement perhaps.  Or an invitation.  The front of the card read, Merry Christmas.  Dale had flipped it open.  The message inside was much more sinister.  You are cursed, it said.  You all deserve to die.

Dale shuddered...remembering.  How he’d turned the envelope over.  No return address.  He’d stood still for a moment, rubbed his neck and sworn out loud, Oh, hell no!  He’d made sure that no one was around.  Then, he’d crushed the paper in his fist.  And stuffed the card inside his pocket.

He had never told a soul.  No way.  He had to keep this to himself, his personal cross to bear.  He couldn't have them all looking over their shoulder.  Not then.  And certainly, not now.

Things were starting to go sour.  The band was having so many problems.  They might not survive another one.  No, he wouldn't risk telling them.  Not with so much at stake.  His future.  His band.  His life.

Ambition drove him to silence.  For, he had seen hard times.  And he vowed never to visit them again.  His father had died when he was thirteen.  Cancer.

After that, it was just the two of them.  Dale and his mother, Sarah.  She never remarried.  No other siblings.  She devoted herself to him, and she was tough as nails.  Sarah broke her back providing for them.

They hadn't exactly starved, but what she earned was barely enough.  Yet somehow, on his fourteenth birthday, she managed to buy him his first guitar. 

That little blue Yamaha brought a revelation.  Dale already knew he could sing.  Suddenly, he discovered that he could write songs, as well.  They didn't have money for college.

In fact, they didn't have money for anything!  So, music was a way out.  His only way to survive.  Dale finished high school, left Atlanta and his mother behind, and headed for L.A. determined to start a band.

After a few months, he met Paul...with his amazing lead guitar riffs.  They rented a place together.  They shared the same creative vision.  And soon their band, the Wickers, was born.  Dale battled every obstacle to get them to the top.  He was ruthless.  And he didn't care who knew it.  After all, why should he?  Being nice got you nowhere.

Dale knew that from past experience.  His father was a good man.  And religious...went to church every single Sunday.  He had faith and everyone loved him.

When he got sick, they'd prayed day and night for a miracle.  But, that miracle never came.  And on the morning his father died, Dale promised himself.  He wouldn’t ever make the same sad mistake.

What kind of God would let a man like his father die?  There wasn’t a God.  There was nothing divine.  Dale didn't believe in anything, but himself.  He shook his fist at the heavens.  And he swore...he would never get down on his knees again.  Instead, he would make things happen on his own.

So, he had clawed his way to the top.  He’d left a slew of bodies in his wake.  But, he never looked back.

No one could stop him.  He had charisma.

Everybody said so.  Everyone followed him.

Now, his mother wanted for nothing...except to see him.  She never could.  He was never home.  He was too busy raking in millions.

Yes...he had charisma.  And he'd be damned, if he would let anyone or anything destroy what he had worked so hard to build.  So, he kept quiet about the letter...and tried to forget.  They had some of the best security in the world, he told himself.  No one could get to them anyway.

A month had passed.  And there were no more letters.  Nothing unusual.  Dale hadn’t heard anything.  But, the words were still there...eating at his peace like acid in his soul.

Those few, small words.  So real inside his head that he was starting to believe them.  He was cursed.  He was almost sure of it.  His world was unraveling, right before his eyes.  He was losing control of everything.  And it was hard.  So hard, now, to walk upon that stage.

Every time, fear choked him like a hand at his throat.  The fans he used to love had turned to foes.  His enemy could be any one of them.  Or, it might all be nothing...just another hoax.

How could he know?  How could he be certain?  He needed time to think.  Time to decide.  But, that was the one luxury he did not possess.

There was no time.  Contracts had been signed.  The band had been paid.  They had him...trapped.  And there was no way out.  No escape.  Nowhere to turn.

I can’t take much more of this... Dale muttered to himself.  He let out a long, ragged sigh and glanced at a clock on the wall.  It was almost ten.  They would come for him soon.  He could ponder his fate just a few moments longer.  Dale sat down on a green velvet couch, anchored by a plush Persian rug, in the center of the room.  He held his head in his hands, and stared at the floor.  How could he fight an invisible adversary that he wasn’t even sure existed?  Dale’s eyes narrowed.  A dead end.  There was nothing.  Nothing he could do.  But, wait for the next disaster to befall them.  His jaw clenched.  He hated the feeling of helplessness.  It was so foreign to him.

He raked his fingers through his hair, and felt his hand shake.  He forced himself to his feet and stormed into the bathroom.  It was almost time.  He had to get ready.  So, he walked over to the track-light lined vanity, turned on the copper plated faucets and splashed his face with water.  Dale lifted his head, and scowled at the grim reflection in the mirror.  Not good.  He'd been having nightmares.  Vivid, frightening in their intensity.  In the dreams, the red envelope liquefied into blood on his hands.  And he’d been waking up...heart pounding, two or three times a night...in a cold sweat.

He hadn't been sleeping and it showed.  There were dark smudges under his azure blue eyes, framed by a mane of shoulder-length wavy auburn hair.  Dale glared at his haggard image.  He was still drop dead gorgeous.  But, close up he looked exhausted.  And older.  A bit older than his 26 years.  They had been working too hard.  And now, he was paying for it.  He should have listened.  He had been warned.  Ten solid months of touring would do you in.  It'll make you old before your time, their manager Sid had cautioned.  Or worse.  It'll make you crazy.

And maybe it had.  Was he losing his mind?  The curse might only be a figment of his weary imagination.  But no, what he felt was all too real.  And Dale knew he wasn’t crazy.  No reason why he should be.  He didn’t do hard drugs.  He took care of himself.  Most of the time.  At least, until lately.  Snorting, needles...that stuff was for losers.  Never was his style.  And he used to wonder, when they first started out on the road, why everybody wanted to get high.  Really high.

He didn't wonder now.  He’d realized how people came home fucked-up and strung out.  No sleep.  No life.  They were tired.  Too tired...like him.  But, he would make it.  Just nine more dates, and the tour would be over.  Nine times straining his acrobatic voice.  Nine times sweating under the 90-degree lights.  Just nine more nights.  Yeah...he could make it.  Because he must.

Dale massaged his left shoulder and straightened to his full height of six-foot-three.  The cold water had awakened him.  He felt better now...a little better.  But, he needed to relax.  He had to forget.  Dale eyed a bottle of whiskey and a shot glass, lying by the sink.  Just one.  To take the edge off.  He picked up the glass and started to pour.  But, he knew that he couldn’t.  And he slammed the bottle back down on the counter.  Band rules...personal rules.  No drinking, no drugs before a show.  They always played sober.  And they partied after.

Later, he would empty the bottle.  It was the only thing that helped him sleep.  For now, he would have to suffer.  His stomach churned.  And he wanted to scream.  There was no way out.  No way.  When all he wanted to do was find the nearest exit, and flee the scene.  Dale heard a knock on the dressing room door.  And his hand gripped the shot glass.  No!  Not yet!  Just a few more minutes!  A little more time!  He took careful aim and hurled the glass clean out of the bathroom.  It crashed against a wall behind the couch.  And Dale cried, Leave me alone! as he watched the shot glass shatter into pieces.

Sid Williams heard the sharp tinkle of breaking glass.  But, he could barely make out Dale’s voice.  He pounded on the door, louder this time.  Alright, golden boy.  We’re on in 30 minutes!  Sid was a big, bearded bear of a man.  And his robust British accent boomed down the hallway outside, Dale?  Are you alright in there?  Sid waited anxiously for a response.  There was nothing but silence.  And Sid’s brow furrowed.  He was a top-tier manager of world-class bands.  So, he was used to prima donna singers and their antics.  That was part of the job.

And he knew Dale liked his privacy before a show.  But, somehow this reticence was different.  Sid had been watching Dale all day.  And his condition raised numerous concerns.  Dale had been in a foul mood, since he'd stepped off the tour bus.  At the hospitality, he had barely eaten anything.  He'd only picked at the salmon...his usual favorite.

He'd stumbled through the sound check.  And he had been much too quiet...like he was holding something in.  It was a sure sign that his temper was ready to blow.  Nerves got frayed by the end of a tour.  It was a dangerous time, when people said things they didn't mean.  Fueled by fatigue.  It was the time when bands break up.

Sid should know.  He knew plenty about bands, what made them tick.  He’d started out in A&R...molding talent for record labels.  And he’d managed groups for 15 years, the Wickers for six.  Sid discovered them on a tip.  Four wide-eyed kids playing in a roadside dive, with a front man you couldn't take your eyes off.  They played a ten-song set and Sid never stopped smiling.  Their performance was exceptional, and he’d told them so.

Dale was relatively guileless back then, and he’d begged Sid to represent them.  Besides...Dale had never been shy about asking for what he wanted.  And Sid couldn't believe his luck.  The singer's charisma was palpable.  He had an intoxicating, masculine beauty.  He radiated an excitement that drew you in.  He was hard to say no to.  Then...and now.

So, Sid took on the band that night.  With a handshake, they agreed.  Sid got 20 percent of everything.  Equal partners.  And Sid was worth it...he was simply the best.  He commandeered a record deal, and guided them all to stardom.  At forty-five years old, Sid loved them like a father.  He knew them better than anyone.  And right now, Sid knew.  Dale was in trouble.

Chapter 2

Why’d you pick me to write this damned article? Janet Reed yelled into her cell phone, over the din of the traffic around her.  I can't stand rock music.  You know I like classical.

Janet pouted.  Her editor, John Levin, had done it again.  She could see it coming.  Another celebrity interview, when he had promised not to ask her again...at least for a while.  She liked hard news.  And everyone knew it, including John.  That's why she’d gotten into journalism in the first place.  That's why she’d come to work at the Los Angeles Times.

They had some of the best investigative reporters in the country.  And she was one of them.

A story about Dale Rhodes?  She certainly didn’t deserve to write that kind of drivel.  And at the last minute, to boot.  It was 9 o'clock on a Friday night...she’d been driving home when John called.  Janet grimaced.  No way was she covering some ill-mannered, out-of-control rock star.  No matter how rich and famous he was.  What a waste of time!  They would just have to find someone else.

Something in the lane beside her caught Janet's eye.  A sudden flash of red.  A cherry colored BMW Z-4 roadster passed on the right, and swerved in front of her.  Janet’s tires squealed, as she slammed on the brakes.  She leaned on the horn and shook her fist at the driver.  That was close!  The car sped forward, switched lanes again...and Janet quickly followed.  She stepped on the gas ‘til she was right on his tail.  Her headlights lit up the car.  And she could actually make out the man's face, in his rear view mirror.

A handsome bastard.  He wore a simple black turtleneck and wrap-around mirrored sunglasses.  And he was laughing!  Janet flipped the man a bird.  He waved back, smiled wider, shifted gears, and pulled away.  Janet strained to read the license plate.  She had never seen one like it before.  Red...with a border of gold doves and multi-colored stars.  The curling letters looked like calligraphy.  Very pretty.  But, they shouldn't allow that.  It