The Lightning Field: Angel Interceptors, #3

By Elizabeth Corva

There's no shelter when you're in love with the storm.

As a freshman at Arizona State, Jasmine Ashcroft lucked into a Rock star's inner circle.

Not just any Rock star, either; Strange Angels frontman Jonathan Fox.

He of the chiseled cheekbones and haunted gray eyes.

The body of a Greek deity clad in custom-fitted suits.

The screw-it swagger of an 18th-century aristocrat-turned-highwayman.

For one heart-stopping moment, his love was almost in reach.

(That kiss. Holy hell that oh-so wrong, stupid friggin' amazing KISS…)

 

Now a grad student in North Carolina, Jasmine's got one last shot at making forever happen with her dream man. When she's in Jonathan's arms, they fit like they were custom-made for each other.

But stitching their radically different worlds together the same way?

While ghosts from the past are fighting like hell to tear them apart?

That's a totally different story.

This story.

 

The Lightning Field is an 83K-word New Adult Rocker Romance novel with steam and a guaranteed HEA.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Corva
• Release date: Jul 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201136987

Book preview

© 2022 Elizabeth Corva

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

Major props go to:

The real Jonathan from Belfast: Cheers for fact-checking Chapter 20 and being an all-‘round sweetheart. \m/

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Sharon and Tammy: I truly appreciate the badly-needed promo help. You’re the real Rock stars!

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Josie and Dajana: The generous gift of your honest feedback has been a real game-changer for this series. Hvala vam/Thank you so SO much!

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Cover design by Adrijus Guscia/Rocking Book Covers

Author Note:

Like the rest of the Angel Interceptor series, this book contains scenes based on events which I witnessed while working and attending shows. The music business can attract a lot of...strong characters. You might think that some of the behavior found in these pages is exaggerated for literary effect. Believe me; it’s not. If anything, I have toned it down. I write to entertain my readers and provide an escape, not to disturb and upset them. Any mistakes in this book are mine.

Also, there are references to underage chat room groomers, but no explicit depictions of this behavior. That said, this is a Rocker Romance, so expect strong language, consensual sex, and alcohol use/abuse. Mature readers only!

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Where would a Rockstar novel be without a writing playlist?

Sixx A.M.—Skin

Revolution Saints—Talk To Me

*Young Guns—After The War

Attitudes & Altitude—Late

A Day to Remember—Homesick

Gemini Syndrome—Mourning Star

Cold—One That Got Away

Russian Circles—1777

Stone Sour—Hesitate

Torche—Transmission

Metric—Nothing But Time

Mott The Hoople—Roll Away The Stone

Papa Roach—Come Around

A New Revenge—The Way

Alter Bridge—Watch Over You

Thin Lizzy—It’s Getting Dangerous

Motörhead—Devils

Red—Part That’s Holding On

Fozzy—Wordsworth Way

Through Fire—If You Love Me, Leave Me

Asking Alexandria—Alone Again

M83 - Outro

3 Days Grace – Redemption

*Young Guns come very close to the way I’ve always imagined Strange Angels sounds. I’m sorry they broke up – they should have been huge.

Chapter 1

I got the idea from an outdoor art installation in New Mexico. As the name implies, it’s a vast field full of tall steel rods. I was drawn in by this concept of inviting lightning to strike, as it’s usually something to avoid at all costs. There are human lightning rods, too. I suspect I’m one of them.

—Jonathan Fox, on the inspiration for The Lightning Field album

~∞~

Dallas, TX

Late January 2004

Right, off to face the firing squad, Jonathan thought as he left his top-floor hotel suite, leather duffel bag in hand. A glance at his Patek Phillipe wristwatch told him he was running a bit early.

Well, and when was he not?

Humming a sketch of a new song—always, ever composing—he strode down the corridor, Italian loafers soundless on the thick carpeting. Julien, their tour manager’s assistant, was sitting on a baggage cart by the elevators. He scrambled to his feet as the Strange Angels singer approached. Hey, I figured you’d be the first one to show up.

Jonathan laughed. You’ve been with us for all of three days and you’ve already worked our habits out. Nice one. He slung the bag on the cart before strolling to a nearby sun-drenched nook to gaze out the tall window at the sprawling city skyline.

America, the Rock-and-Roll promised land. This country had the power to either make you or break you. Almost fourteen years ago, it had made Strange Angels into a world-class band. And now they had the chance to conquer the U.S. all over again, one venue at a time.

A slamming door yanked him from his reverie. He glanced over his shoulder as Silver Blackwell slunk down the hall, pulling a leather motorcycle jacket over his SKATEBOARDING RUINED MY LIFE T-shirt. The guitarist gave him a quick, canted grin. You look like you’re dressed for a trial, not a press conference.

Aren’t they the same thing?

Kinda, I guess. Silver thumped his bag onto the cart. Hey, Julien. Betcha didn’t say anything about Jonathan’s nice new suit. Probably hurt his feelings real bad.

Compliments are out of my pay grade, the younger guy shot back. Looks like he’s already picked up on Silver’s smartarse tendencies, too.

Unfazed, Jonathan flexed his wide shoulders, testing the fawn-colored jacket’s fit. Bespoke from Hong Kong. Best tailors in the world.

Oh, yeah? I thought your clothes were all sewn by Irish elf maidens.

No, you’re thinking of my torc designers, Jonathan corrected Silver, touching the heavy pewter ring sitting under his shirt collar in place of a tie.

Ha, you guys could be a comedy duo, Julien broke in.

When you’ve been bandmates for half your lives, you learn to riff off each other.

Pun intended, Silver added as the elevator opened to reveal the band’s head of security.

Rachelle’s asking everyone to take their seats, Clive announced, bracing a well-muscled arm against the frame.

Then Tony and Nick best get their arses movi- ah, speak of the devils, Jonathan said as the missing half of Strange Angels emerged from a room a few doors down, their raucous laughter bouncing off the walls.

Hey, Clive! Didja see anyone from t’ tabloids downstairs? Tony called out.

I was only doing bag searches. Rachelle was checking credentials. The Londoner scrunched his sandy brows together. "Don’t tell me you’re hoping the gutter press will show?"

Of course, Jonathan answered for the bassist. If they’re here, we’re relevant again.

Clive heaved a patient sigh. Regardless, we’ve a gauntlet to run first.

Lotta people in the lobby? Silver queried as the elevator began to beep in protest at being held open.

To say the least. It’s a zoo down there. We’ll need to move fast.

The rest of the band followed Jonathan into the wood-paneled space, their laughter turning to silence when Clive quit blocking the door.

I’ve got 14 floors to shift gears. Rock stars walked among the public as serene demigods, implacable, above the mere mortals. No goofy grins. No waving. And any show of nerves was right fucking out. The door shut with hollow thump. And go!

First, he freed his ombre mahogany-to-black hair from its ponytail holder, careful not to snag his silver fox head ring in the straight, shoulder-length strands.

Next, he took a pair of smoked gray aviator shades from his jacket and slid them on like a superhero donning a mask.

Now came the last step: summon a larger-than-life persona. He straightened to his full 6’2" height, inhaled through his nose, and envisioned a white-hot orb of charisma igniting in his chest like a fist-sized supernova.

"Lobby. Floor," a robotic female voice intoned from overhead as the elevator slowed to a halt.  A collective inhalation whispered into five sets of lungs. Jonathan held his breath for an extra second, letting adrenaline blast away the last of the chaos in his head. Ready.

The doors opened, letting in a flood of excited voices. After two hotel security guards moved in to flank the elevator, Clive jabbed his index and middle finger at the ceiling twice.

At the ‘go’ signal, Silver, Tony and Nick exited single file. Jonathan waited three heartbeats before striding out behind them, showing a hint of a worldly smile as though he had dirt on everyone there.

And holy shite, everyone was there. Fans of all ages, many wearing Strange Angels shirts, were packed shoulder-to-shoulder on both sides. Curious onlookers crowded behind them. Cheers and clapping echoed through the high-ceilinged space as the entourage set off toward the conference rooms on the other side of the building.

In the wake of the security detail, the musicians moved in a tight quadrant, a wolf pack on the hunt. And people wonder why we wear sunglasses indoors, Jonathan mused as flashbulbs popped off from all sides. Better to look like an arrogant prick than get retina burn.

About time y’all got back together, a guy yelled. Feigning deafness, Jonathan gave him a mental thumbs-up. Damn straight, mate.

Three and half years ago, Strange Angels were undisputed Rock royalty. They dominated the charts. Sold out coliseums. Had their own 757 airliner. Made headlines without trying.

And then Nick’s wife Athena was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor and overnight, everything changed. The news was too personal to share publicly. Nobody wanted to deal with nosy idiots.

So they broke up. No warning, no farewell tour, no apologies. Just a surprise show in their hometown of Nottingham on Boxing Day 1999, where Jonathan announced onstage that it would be their last.

With the shackles off, they veered in different musical directions.  Jonathan composed film soundtracks and had a brief flirtation with the Americana genre.  Silver married a rising Country star and joined her backing band. Tony returned to his technical Metal roots, while Nick dabbled in Worldbeat to keep his chops up while he cared for Athena.

But Rock was their first love, and none of them could resist its siren song for long. Last fall, Jonathan’s planned solo tour of England turned into an impromptu Strange Angels reunion.  This led to album reissues, then their American comeback tour, which kicked off yesterday.

For everyone, especially Jonathan, the reunion felt like putting on a favorite pair of broken-in boots for the first time in ages: comfortable, familiar, and missed.

He was Johnny the Fox again.

The fast-moving entourage reached the large ballroom hosting the press event. Jonathan spied their P.R. rep shooing a few stray people through the first set of double doors. He managed to catch her eye as he passed. Kicking arse and taking names then, Rachelle?

Just initials, the tall African-American woman called out in an amused, dulcet voice. No time for names.

Clive led the band to a second entrance farther down the hall. Two more guards were posted on either side to turn people away. The musicians didn’t need passes to get by—anyone with half a brain could tell they were the main attraction.

This part of the room was sectioned off from the audience by floor-to-ceiling curtains. Silver, Tony, and Nick gathered beside them to chat in low voices, waiting for Rachelle.

In the meantime, Jonathan peered through a gap in the panels and spied a woman leaning against the ballroom wall a few yards away. In a tan sweater dress, brown suede shrug and matching knee-high boots, she wasn’t trying to stand out. And yet she was all he could see.

She was empty-handed—no purse or mobile phone. And no accessories other than a narrow belt circling her trim waist and a press pass clipped to her jacket lapel.  

Her chestnut brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, ending in large, loose spirals. He wanted to gently tug one just to watch the shining curl spring back into place. Her legs were on the short side, but strong and sculpted. She clearly took care of herself.

He slid his Ray-Bans down his nose to inventory her heart-shaped face over the rims. Almond-shaped, whiskey-colored doe eyes a man could drown in.  Cute turned-up nose. Full, cupid-bowed lips. Hoy! You and I. Someplace private. Now.

Her expression was a study in ennui, as though she didn’t give a toss about hanging out thirty feet from Rock stars. It only added to her allure.

You wouldn’t look bored in the sack with me, darlin’.  The idle thought was replaced by a sudden vision of them tangled up in the hotel bed sheets, bodies drenched in a sheen of hard-earned sweat—arrgh, stop!

As if she had a hotline to his thoughts, their object glanced in his direction. Before she could look away, Jonathan slid his sunglasses up to push his long bangs back, revealing the gray eyes the lasses went mad for. The straight ones, at least.

She held his gaze, but didn’t register a flicker of recognition, never mind interest. Gonna make it a challenge, then? Fine, resist this. He launched the nuclear option: a discreet wink and a brief flash of his trademark gentleman rogue grin; the one with the power to make knickers drop in nanoseconds.

Boom! Target locked. She dipped her adorably dimpled chin and broke into a smile which was sweet, shy and promising all at once.  Gets ‘em every time.

Time to knock off the flirting before his bandmates noticed and subjected him to some world-class shit talking. After replacing his shades, he turned to face the other guys, who went quiet and gave him their undivided attention. For bloody once.

Okay, lads, same routine as always: Don’t comment on any out-of-bounds questions or hog the mic, he announced in a low voice. "And for the love of fuck, do not refer to the local football team as the Dallas Cowgirls. I’m looking at you, Blackwell."

I’m a Steelers fan. What th’ hell else am I supposed to call ‘em? After four years of living a stone’s throw from the Tennessee/North Carolina line, Silver’s once-gentle Virginia accent was taking on harder Appalachian overtones.

Rachelle darted through the gap in the curtain and pulled it shut behind her, inadvertently blocking the pretty brunette from Jonathan’s sight. He clicked his tongue in disappointment and put on a smile as the publicity agent approached, clipboard tucked under a suit-jacketed arm.

Hired for the reunion, Rachelle had a decade of experience with Hip-Hop and R&B artists. Their old publicist had been stuck in the early 90s pre-Grunge, pre-Internet era, when Rock bands ruled the charts unchallenged. Rachelle’s no-bullshit approach was just what they needed. Everyone’s seated, she told the four musicians. We’re going for 15 minutes max, correct?

Aye, works for us, Tony replied. The bassist’s wide, angular cheekbones were almost as ruddy as his wavy, tumbling mane. Jonathan suspected the Newcastle native had hit his room minibar hard.

At least he won’t be hitting on all the redheads this time ‘round, Jonathan thought. The lanky Geordie was touring with his wild heart already spoken for. His girlfriend, an Irish-American (going by her last name, Riley) from Arkansas, was also the band’s new wardrobe mistress. Meris was a firecracker—no, a quarter-stick of dynamite—in a voluptuous auburn-haired package.

Jonathan was praying Tony wouldn’t set her off while they were on the road. Next to the sound man, the crew person you never wanted to piss off was the one who made sure the band didn’t show their arses onstage. Literally.

You rehearsed the answer about future plans? Rachelle asked in a schoolmarm-ish tone.

We have, Jonathan assured her. Several times.

Nick knitted his brows and ran a hand through his hair—near-black thanks to Greek heritage, not dye. Of course I’ve got the sudden urge for a smoke. Ah well, I’ll live.

Silver chuckled. Man, things have changed. Remember our first press conference in ’92? Everybody was smoking the whole time. Us, the reporters, the photographers, our P.R. team...

Neither me nor my asthma misses those days, Rachelle shot back with a grimace. Okay, guys, let’s go.

More flashbulbs—the professional kind this time—fired off as they followed her through the curtain. A long table was set up on a low platform in front of it, with a placard at each seat: JONATHAN FOX (Vocs/Guitar/Piano), SILVER BLACKWELL (Lead Guitar), NICK STINSON (Drums), and TONY GORMAN (Bass).

The band paused for a photo op in front of a smaller version of their stage backdrop before taking their designated seats. And we’re off, Jonathan thought, scanning the rows of eager faces staring back at them.

Rachelle turned on her headset microphone and clapped her hands twice. Except for the occasional click-click of a camera shutter, silence fell. Okay, you have 15 minutes. Please raise your hand and I’ll call on you. We ask that you be respectful. Questions about personal lives are off-limits. Also...

While the P.R. queen laid down a few ground rules, Jonathan caught sight of the brunette, who had moved to a chair on the end of the front row. God, she was riveting. Her poise, her sweetly attentive expression, the intelligent look on her face...

Hoy, press conference. Focus, eedjit.

The first person to raise her hand was Anne Lancaster, a longtime D.J. with a syndicated FM network. Back in 1990, she led the push to put Strange Angels on heavy rotation from coast to coast. Hi, fellas! she called out from her seat in the front row.

Hiii, Anne, the four men called out in unison, making the room crack up. She had broken countless bands in the States but never demanded credit. Just doing what any Rock-n-Roll fan would do, she always said. But Strange Angels still thanked her in the liner notes of every album and gave her the VIP treatment whenever she came to a show.

The petite, middle-aged woman with silver-streaked blonde hair gave them a cheery grin and then got down to business. So I think the big question on everyone’s mind is: why’d you reunite?

We were broke, Silver said before anyone else could respond. Nah, I’m kiddin’. It’s actually kinda complicated...uh, Jonathan? Why don’t you take over from here?

Oh, put me on the spot right out of the gate, the singer shot back, but with a laugh. So in short, I had booked a short UK tour in support of an Alt-Country side project. But the record got shelved, so I rang these guys and suggested we bring Strange Angels back from the grave. Fortunately, they were on board-

"Because some of us were broke," Nick cut in with a dry laugh.

Jonathan shot him the side-eye. Anyway, the reunion gigs went far better than we hoped, so we decided to keep going.

Question Two was from a reporter for a major UK Rock magazine. What led you to rebook most of the shows on this tour?

Silver took this one. We weren’t sure about ticket sales, so we went with smaller venues at first. All those dates sold out in a heartbeat so we moved to bigger places. And they’re sold out, too.

Scaling up caused some chaos on the logistics side, but it’s leagues better than having to scale down, Jonathan added. We’re all floored by the response. And relieved. Humbled, too...

We fookin’ love America! Tony bellowed, sparking a round of cheers.

Next up was Revolver. Okay, give us a rundown of your touring schedule and then tell us: will there be a new album in addition to the reissues?

Over the next six weeks, we’re hitting the South, the Mid-Atlantic, and finishing in New York, Jonathan explained. He gave Silver’s leg a discreet kick under the cloth-covered table, signaling for the guitarist to take over.

After this tour ends in March, we’ll finish writing songs for the new album, Silver announced. We’ll tour Japan and Australia in early May and then record all summer. Aiming for a release by Christmas.

Nick took over. The second leg of our U.S. tour will kick off after the new album drops. We plan to be in bigger venues by then.

Tony closed the question out. Then we’ll tour Europe and maybe pick up a couple of dates in t’Middle East if we can swing visas. Three years in Southern California had smoothed the edges of his thick Geordie accent, making it much easier on American ears.

A reporter from the Showbiz network went next. This question is for Jonathan, she began, aiming a hopeful look at the singer.

He let out a patient sigh. "A question about Firebird Records, right?"

She was a pro and therefore unfazed. Yep. Are you going to be back for Season Three?

Nope. I had a blast filming the show, but music is my first and true love. As his bandmates snort-laughed at his purple prose, he added, Also, the director told me I’d have to cut my hair if I rejoined the cast. Not bloody happening.

His declaration was met with a mix of yayys and groans from the women in the audience. Miss Sweater Dress stayed silent. Ach, you can’t please everyone. Sometimes you just have to please yourself.

Uhh, phrasing, Silver stage-whispered, causing everyone to laugh.

Rachelle called on a guy in his early 20s with gel-spiked blonde hair. He introduced himself as a reporter for CelebStories, inarguably the king of the bottom-feeding gossip rags. After trading amused looks, the band turned to him and leaned forward in their chairs as one.

So, Silver. Are you and Mish McKendrick splitting up like the rumors say? the guy demanded.

Mish and I have never been better...friends. At Silver’s last word, prefaced with a dramatic pause, the tabloid reporter’s eyebrows shot up. Along with almost everyone else’s.

"Uh-huh. Can we do an interview later?" the guy pressed.

Yep. Rachelle, hook him up.

Aye-aye, Capt’n, Rachelle murmured before raising her voice to call for more questions. The webmaster for an online magazine dedicated to music and body modification got to ask the last one: You guys have any new tatts?

I do, Tony said, as he hopped up and lifted his maroon T-shirt to show off a stylized willow tree design which took up most of his left side. There’s a story behind it, but it’s way poorsonal. Sorry.

None for me. I’m the boring one, remember? Nick deadpanned.

I got this the day after my son was born, Silver chimed in as he rolled up his shirt sleeve to display the words Shelton Sterling - 6/26/01 inked in cursive script on the inside of his forearm.

Next, all the faces turned to the band’s frontman, who shifted in his seat. Err, not lately. But I’m always looking for...design inspiration.

The pretty brunette shot him a cryptic look before standing up, unclipping her pass, and handing it to Rachelle on her way out the side door.  Jonathan put his shades back on to track her departure without being obvious.

And we’re done, Rachelle announced. Thank you all for coming. If you have any follow-up questions, my email’s in your press packages. See you at the show!

Applause filled the room as the band got up and exited through the curtain and back out to the hallway. They regrouped and set off for the hotel’s side entrance, where a fleet of cars were parked, ready to hustle them to the venue.

Julien fell into step with them near the exit. You’re in the second car from the front. I’m riding with Tony, but I got my radio, the P.A. told Jonathan and Clive out of the corner of his mouth.

Two security guards flung the doors wide to let the entourage walk outside without breaking stride. The Texas evening was seasonably cool with a cirrus-streaked sky painted in orange and purple pastels. A couple dozen vigilant fans had gathered on the sidewalk nearby, kept at bay by blue police sawhorses and two uniformed officers.

A short thirtysomething woman in a Strange Angels ‘99 tour shirt held her arms out over the makeshift barrier, her round face lit up with joy. We waited for four years, y’all! she yelled.

Jonathan dropped the Rock God act and detoured to clasp her hand. Thank you for keeping the faith, he told her, making her huge eyes well with tears. Our fans are the feckin’ best.

After signing her No Mean City CD, he headed toward the second Town Car idling at the curb. Using the rear door as a shield between himself and the fans, he paused to sign a few more items before climbing into the back seat, followed by Clive.

The brunette was there, a tumbler of neat whiskey in hand. Jonathan sank his hands into her silky hair and held her head steady for his classic triple kiss: the forehead first, then her snubbed nose, and the third on her smiling mouth. Their lips came together like two halves of a broken vase restored. Sheer heaven.

Wow, Kit. The plan worked great, she told him, handing the glass over as the Town Car pulled away from the curb.

Indeed. We’ll have to do this more often, Wild One, he rejoined before taking a big sip of Jameson. My girl is here. I can breathe again.

She exhaled too, perhaps having the same thought. So what’s next?

Everything, Jas. So strap in and hang on tight.

Chapter 2

Dallas, TX

Laughing at his response, Jasmine slid across the soft leather backseat and molded herself to Jonathan’s side. The energy radiating from his lean frame made his distinctive cinnamon-ozone scent even more amped. Blindfold me and I could still pick him out of a crowd. Hopefully ‘everything’ includes dinner. I didn’t get to eat before I flew out.

First order of business after soundcheck, Jonathan promised before knocking the whiskey