From the First Verse

By M Robinson

From Wall Street Journal & USA Bestselling Author M. Robinson, a rock star contemporary romance filled with angst and all the feels.

Dear diary,

Once upon a time...

There was a girl with long golden hair who had the truest, bluest eyes that turned white when she cried.

She lived in a kingdom far, far away in a tower made of stone, but her mind was made of glass that she kept sharp as knives.

Where her memories hid behind her darkest doubts.
Her deepest thoughts.
Her diary became the only thing she could rely on.

No one saw through her looking glass.
No one cared.
No one tried.

Until the villain presented himself as the hero in her life.
He took and took and took some more.

With no regret.
With no shame.
With no apology.

The page never turned.
Their story didn’t end.
Tomorrow never came.
His life of debauchery was their journey to nowhere.

She’d give anything to go back in time.
To walk where she had walked.
To see what she had seen.
One step.
One breath.
One day at a time.
Though in the end, “I love you” were just words.

That destroyed us inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M Robinson
• Release date: Jun 13, 2021

Book preview

COPYRIGHT© 2020 by M. ROBINSON

All rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, dead or alive, are a figment of the author’s imagination, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s mind's eye and are not to be interpreted as real. Though several people, places, and events portrayed in this book are historically correct, the story is fiction that the author has made up for entertainment purposes only.

LYRICS TO THE SONGS USED HAVE BEEN CHANGED FOR COPYRIGHT REASONS.

DEDICATION

To Jennifer Pon and Kris Carlile

You guys are EVERYTHING! Thank you so much for the quick suggestions and feedback. Especially listening to my rambles just so I could work the storyline out in my mind. You have no idea how much I appreciate you both! You ladies were my sounding board.

I love you.

Prologue

<>Journey<>

June 29

Dear Diary,

Once upon a time…

There was a girl with long golden hair who had the bluest, truest eyes that turned white when she cried. She lived in a kingdom far, far away in a tower made of stone, but her mind was made of pieces of glass that she kept as sharp as knives.

Where her memories hid behind her darkest doubts and deepest thoughts. Her diary became the only thing she could rely on.

To make her smile when she wanted to cry.

To make her laugh when she wanted to scream.

To make her feel when she wanted to die.

No one saw through her looking glass. No one cared, no one tried.

The girl knew there was no end in sight until the villain presented himself as the hero in her life.

She begged.

And she prayed.

And she fought.

Until she died a little more inside…

The villain took and took and took some more.

With no regret.

With no shame.

With no apology.

They were long past that. Merely words with no meaning coming from a brilliant musician, he was a paradox of contradictions.

The villain disguised as the hero pleaded with her through the wooden door to show him what love was. 

Journey… Juniee… He sought out her soul. 

In some city.

In some suite.

In the middle of who knows where.

His life of debauchery was their journey to nowhere.

The page never turned.

Their story didn’t end.

Tomorrow never came.

Living within a broken record of albums they played.

Journey, she heard him whisper. I love you. You know I fuckin’ love you.

His words.

His presence.

Rang in her ears like the vibration of his guitar.

Junieeeeeeee … baby … show me what love is, he slurred, sliding down the wooden door.

Knowing exactly what to say, what to do. How to manipulate her by playing with her existence as if she was the strings on his electric guitar. Effortlessly, he strummed her chords, creating yet another narrative from their tainted love story.

Except, she was no longer the little girl who had a crush on the older boy from down the street. Now, she was the woman in love with the man who was a slave to his very own demons. 

If she walked away.

If she stopped loving him.

If she started over today…

It all would have still been worth it.

Even through the terrible mistakes she’d made and would unmake if she could. Even through all the ups and downs, the highs and lows.

Losing herself to save him when nothing else mattered but the ring of fire he burned in.

Her biggest mistake was believing the truths amongst his lies when he promised the world to her.

Silly, stupid girl.

Believing in the fairy tales with happy endings, always taking place on the last page of the book.

And they lived happily ever after…

She’d give anything to go back in time.

To walk where she had walked.

To see what she had seen.

One step.

One breath.

One day at a time.

Though in the end, I love you were just words.

That destroyed us inside.

Chapter 1

Music makes me high on stage, and that’s the truth. It’s almost like being addicted to music.

-Jimi Hendrix

<>Cash<>

Now: Twenty-nine-years-old

Cash! Cash! Cash!

The sold-out stadium yelled my name as loud as they fuckin’ could. Over and over again.

Cash! Cash! Cash! Their voices roared through the hazy smoke, bellowing over the crowd of faceless people.

They craved.

They wanted.

Me.

Only fueling the adrenaline spiraling full speed through my veins.

Hard.

Fast.

Throbbing.

Like a soaking wet pussy about to come on my face.

Cash! Cash! Cash!

Nothing in this world compared to the sensation coursing through my body, taking me under right before I stepped on stage.

Not booze.

Not drugs.

Not even being balls deep inside of some random groupie.

It was pure magic.

The freedom.

The excitement.

The high before the rush.

Cash! Cash! Cash!

There was always an indecipherable energy in the air. This electricity, this spark, this bone-crushing awareness of having the world at my fingertips.

Where women screamed my name.

Where men would give their left fuckin’ nut to be me.

Where the only thing that mattered in the moment, in this second, was the performance they were about to experience.

All at the hands of me.

Cash! Cash! Cash!

I threw back the bottle of whiskey in my grasp, chugging it straight down. Completely numb to the amber liquid burning its way down my chest.

I was a creature of habit in every sense of the word. This scenario wasn’t unfamiliar territory for me. This was my goddamn routine.

Motherfucker, I muttered, wiping away the excess alcohol from my mouth with the back of my hand.

We want Cash! We want Cash! We want Cash!

You ready? Jim, our stage manager, questioned.

Whose sole purpose was to make sure my ass got on that fuckin’ stage.

Drunk.

High.

Fucked up as shit.

No one gave a damn ’cuz the simple truth was…

Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, baby.

It wasn’t just a bumper sticker on the back of a 1966 Mustang Sally. It was a fuckin’ lifestyle.

A stigma.

A curse.

Cash! Cash! Cash!

The crowd hoot and hollered, consumed with the desire to hear me jam out on my electric guitar. We were the closing act every night for this weekend rock-and-roll festival.

Fuckin’ headliner.

Pulling out the pill bottle from the back of my jeans, I shook out a handful and swallowed them down with my bottle of whiskey.

Nothing started or ended without the legend, Cash Motherfuckin’ McGraw, lead front man of Life of Debauchery. It was everything I ever wanted. What had I sacrificed every aspect of my life for, if not for the love of music?

Making all my dreams come true.

I owed it to my fans who kept me alive when I was killing myself inside.

Jim handed me my guitar, as I reluctantly passed him my half empty bottle of whiskey.

Cash! Cash! Cash!

Heart pounding.

Head spinning.

Eyes wide open.

I made my way on stage.

This was my favorite part. The beating of color right before the storm. The blinding lights didn’t take away the fact I knew all eyes were on me the instant I came into sight. Immediately hearing the audience lose their minds.

Cheering.

Chanting.

Applauding.

Crying and screaming out my name exactly like the fuckin’ groupie who came on my cock last night. 

Life of Debauchery was larger than life.

Nothing.

No one.

Could. Touch. Us.

We were unstoppable.

Cash! I want to have your triplets!

Cash, I love you!

Cash! Cash! Cash!

I grinned, throwing the guitar strap over my shoulder while shooting my right hand up in the air. Symbolizin’ the universal sign for rock and roll with my fingers. Feeding off the energy the audience provided, which was always the best high in itself.

Bringing my fingers together, I gestured, More, in sign language. After all these years, I kept my promise to her. It was how I opened every performance, no matter where I was. My fans knew it was part of my trademark when they saw us in concert, often doing it themselves when they screamed out, More!

It was one of the questions the press always hounded me with. Cash, at your shows, why do you gesture more in sign language?

Repeatedly answering, ’Cuz I always leave ’em wantin’ more, brushing off the subject.

Beck, our rhythm guitarist and secondary vocalist mocked, Nice of you to join us, princess.

Eat shit, I replied, laughing.

Beck and I were the closest in the band. He was mostly known for making a lot of bad decisions that often ended with our PR doing damage control. Jude, our bass guitarist, wasn’t far behind him, and Stixx, our drummer, well, he was a constant shit show everywhere we went. Together we summed up Life of Debauchery, living up to the name of our band was what we did best. We weren’t just a group, we were family. A family of fuckin’ trouble.

I didn’t look at the crowd.

I didn’t take anything in.

I was long past that.

Instead, I handed the arena the first taste of the power I held in my hands, all from the lick of my guitar. I controlled the rhythm, the pace, their pleasure.

They loved me for it.

Worshipped me.

Making them beg for more, and mercy was my specialty. 

With my calloused finger on the G chord of my Fender Stratocaster guitar, I teased them with the slow progression of the rock tune I effortlessly strummed. The music came alive beneath my fingers, vibrating my core.

Stixx tapped his drumsticks to the same beat coursing through the air, while Beck and Jude followed my lead with the harmony I created.

The crowd went fuckin’ wild.

I had them eating outta the palm of my hand, riding the climax as hard as I could. Head swaying back and forth, foot tapping sharply beneath me, leaning forward and then backward as I finger fucked the chords like it was my favorite pussy.

Getting lost in the melody, it always provided me an escape from my reality. Music found me when no one else cared to look.

I closed my eyes and became one with my guitar. It was an extension of my body, the one thing I could rely on, my best friend, my self-expression, the shield I hid behind.

When words failed me, my Fender did all the talking.

Besides, the only words people wanted to hear outta my fuckin’ mouth were the lyrics of our songs. It was the only time what I said mattered.

You see, I didn’t become a rock star for the countless pussy, the infinite amount of money, the endless booze and drugs. I was Cash Motherfuckin’ McGraw for my God given talent, and I never let anyone fuckin’ forget it.

I was music.

Music was me.

We were one and the same.

I needed it like I needed air, like I needed water, like I needed a reason to live.

It was my home when I didn’t have one.

Shit…

It was still my home even though I now owned an arsenal of them.

Furnished to the nines.

Decorated by the best.

Imported this, imported that.

Except, I couldn’t tell you the fuckin’ address I lived at.

That was how much it meant to me.

Nothing.

Until finally…

The crowd gets to come.

Nice and hard.

All from the first verse I sang in the microphone, What do ya strive for when you have everythin’?

However, this wasn’t just a song.

It was a question I asked myself.

Constantly.

Chapter 2

With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt with sounds.

-William Christopher Handy

<>Cash<>

Then: Thirteen-years-old

CASH! My old man pounded on my bedroom door.

Bang!

Bang!

Bang!

Turn that thing down!

I rolled my eyes, turning the amplifier up louder, before I hit the distortion pedal on my guitar. Rocking out with Metallica’s song, Whiplash. The heavy metal tune rumbled the walls and rattled the door my father was still pounding on.

CASH! I mean it! Turn that damn thing down!

I was just getting to the good part.

Dave Mustaine was about to do his solo, a fast chopping heavy metal progression.

CASH! Open this door! Now!

Strumming chords from E to G, I jammed out with them. Hitting every note perfectly, as if we were actually playing together.

Eyes closed.

Head banging.

I bounced all around my room, kicking things over, jumping off my bed like a true rock star. 

Singing, Whiplash, every time Dave did.

Not paying any attention to my father whatsoever. I was used to his bitching, it never stopped. He was always harping about one thing or another when it came to me—his only son. Going on and on about my grades, my future, the life he wanted me to lead.

Do you think he noticed how I kept up with Metallica’s talent?

How I didn’t miss a beat.

How it flowed effortlessly through my fingers.

How I played like my entire life depended on it.

Hell no.

He didn’t give a shit about any of that. All he cared ’bout was whether or not I did my homework or studied for whatever test I had comin’ up in school.

CASH! If you don’t open this door right now, you’re grounded for the rest of the we—

I opened the door, locking eyes with him as I backed away, still rocking out.

Cash—

Unable to hold back my stubbornness, I didn’t hesitate to slide to my knees in front of him just to prove the point he never cared to see.

Scraping the edge of the pick on the strings, I let my guitar do the talking. Producing this ear-piercing, high-pitched vibration between us. Causing my surfing trophy to smash to the ground.

Good.

I hated surfing.

He made me learn the sport, saying some shit about it building character.

When I saw his jaw clench, I didn’t hesitate leaning back on my heels while my fingers soared from one chord to the next. Keeping up with the professional like the badass I was. The breakdown of the song moved my fingers faster and faster with no end in sight.

I shut my eyes again, pretending like I was playing for a sold-out arena and not in my bedroom with my old man who didn’t understand me at all.

The imaginary crowd chanted my name…

Cash! Cash! Cash!

When all of a sudden, my guitar was ripped from my arms, and the reality of my actions came into focus.

My father, none other than Oak Island’s Detective of the Year, Dylan McGraw, loomed over me.

Pissed as shit.

Cash, he snarled. How many times have I told ya to keep it down in the house?

More than I care to remember, I bit back.

The biggest problem wit’ my old man and me was we were so different yet exactly alike.

His stubbornness.

His controlling ways.

His trait of always having to be right no matter what.

Though when he loved, he loved with everything inside of him. 

Yeah, I checked all those boxes too.

Not to mention, we even looked the same.

Deep-set hazel eyes. Wavy, shoulder-length dirty blond hair. A small nose, thin lips, slim jawline and a killer shit-eating grin that often spoke for itself without having to say one word.

From the stories I heard about him growing up, my father was quite the ladies’ man. He was also quite the asshole. Never giving a rat’s ass what people thought about him until he met my momma.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I knew my old man loved me. I was his kid, his last born, his only son. Before I entered the world screaming like a banshee outta hell, he was stuck in a house filled with four women. My momma and my three older sisters.

Talk about PMS overload.

’Cuz of my sisters, I experienced the blessing and the curse that came with having boobs and a fruity tooty. A term my best friend Harley Jameson used to refer to her girly parts.

Yes, you read that correctly.

My best friend in the whole wide world was none other than a spitfire girly girl. One who always looked as