Give In To The Night: Angel Interceptors, #2

By Elizabeth Corva

It's been three years since Jasmine Ashcroft got her naive heart skewered by her teenage crush, singer Jonathan Fox. Since then, she's had plenty of time to grow up. To get over him. To move on. Or so she thinks…

Jonathan Fox has been burned by love. Again. Now he's ready to jumpstart his career and become the most Eligible Rock Star in Town. Which town? All of them. While he tours the world, he'll also play the field. Or so he thinks…

Jasmine and Jonathan's paths are about to cross in the last place they ever thought they'd meet again. For once, the timing is right: Jasmine wants someone to rock her lonely nights. Jonathan wants someone who can keep up with his wild life. But when regret and unrequited desire collide, the resulting firestorm of emotion might be too much for them to handle. Or so they think…

Give in to the Night (Book #2 in the Angel Interceptor series) is a slow burn, 2nd chance Rockstar Romance novel. Recommended for mature readers only due to strong language, violence, drug references, and lots of open door steam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elizabeth Corva
• Release date: Aug 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201637750

Book preview

Chapter 1

Los Angeles, CA

April 2003

Jonathan brought a shaking hand to his forehead, wincing as his probing touch met the thick liquid trickling down his temple. He brought his red-smeared fingertips into focus and tried to take a shallow, gasping breath. A trickle of acrid smoke seeped into his lungs, making him cough. Ava? His voice was raspy and too faint to be heard over the sound of the car radio, which was still playing inside the crumpled dashboard. He cleared his throat and called out again. Ava! Are you all right?

No response. Inch by slow inch, he turned his head until he could see the blonde slumped forward in the BMW’s driver’s seat, the steering wheel jammed deeply into her slender, unmoving body. With a moan of horror, he tried to turn toward her but his legs seemed to be pinned down. Oh, Jaysus, he muttered. "This is...not good. Ava!"

She whimpered, her eyelids fluttering. The wedding ring on her left hand caught the sun as she blindly groped for him.

Stay calm, love, Jonathan cautioned, taking her hand. We’ve...been in an accident.

Unnff...Jonathan, she mumbled in a terrified, breathy voice.

Cut! At the director’s shout, they both let out dejected groans.

The blonde opened her eyes and grimaced. "Shit, I used the wrong name again. Sorry, Jonathan. Um, I mean Sean. Sean!"

The musician-turned-actor gave her a patient smile. It’s only the first day of filming. No worries, Savannah. Or should I say, Ava.

The director went to the driver’s side window of the bashed-in car, which had been crashed into a tree by remote control. Not too bad for a first take. Savannah, try to sound more confused than scared, okay? You’re supposed to be dazed from the accident. And Jon, don’t smear the blood too much. Just dab at it with your fingertips.

Sean, Sean, Sean, Savannah muttered to herself before going boneless and letting her head loll to the side again.

You got it, no worries, Jonathan told her as he closed his silver-gray eyes in anticipation of the next take.

Randy turned away and raised his bullhorn to his mouth. Okay, we’re going again!

***

Around ten o’clock the same evening, Jonathan was standing beside the wide picture window at the rear of the enormous Coldwater Canyon house he shared with his girlfriend Rafaela Beleza. Night had fallen full force, so he had to summon a mind’s eye view of the tall Coast Live Oaks and Laurel trees studding the steep hillside behind the 5,000-square foot mansion.

As he took a careful sip of just-brewed tea, the cordless phone shrilled next to his elbow, shattering his revierie. Then he spotted the 828 area code on the display and his annoyance vanished. About bleedin’ time you rang, Silver. These days, he only answered the phone for a select group of people—and his old guitarist was at the top of the short list. He lifted the handset without a second thought. Hiya, mate. How’ve you been?

We-lll, I just realized something, Silver drawled in his medium-pitched, Virginia-accented voice. He was his usual upbeat self even though it was 1 a.m. in North Carolina.

Realized what, that some club DJs make more in a year than we made in ten?

Thanks, I’m depressed now, Silver deadpanned. But seriously, what I realized is...well, ever since I fell down the rabbit hole into Daddy Land, I’ve been a shitty friend. So whenever your schedule is open, I wanna fly out to L.A. for some R&R.

As in Rock and Roll, or Rest and Relaxation?

Heck, why not both?

Brilliant. I’ll be done shooting the TV series at the end of May. I’ve no concrete plans for most of June. You’re welcome to bring Shelton along, Jonathan offered half-heartedly. He didn’t hate kids; just found them exhausting to be around. Especially toddler-aged ones like Silver’s son.

Nah, I’m going to drop him off with his Nanny and Pop-Pop up in Charlottesville. So it’ll just be us, bacheloring around Hollyweird like the old days.

Bachelor...ing. Congratulations, you’ve invented a new word.

It’s perfectly cromulent.

"Err, you do realize cromulent isn’t a real word either, right? Just ‘cos it was used on the Simpsons..."

"Uh, yeah. Of course. So anyway, how’s the acting thing going?"

So far? Slow start. The actress playing my wife makes rookie mistakes left and right. Starlets don’t come in with much training these days. As he spoke, Jonathan paced the soundproofed room. After moving in two years ago, he ensconced himself in Rafaela’s home studio on the mansion’s lower level.

But in the past few months, he’d spent more and more time out on the front deck with its million-dollar view of the LA skyline. The distant cluster of skyscrapers seemed to call out to him: ‘This is where the action is, mate. You should be here.’

When his director friend Randy suggested he audition for the 2nd season of the hit TV drama Wildfire Records, Jonathan didn’t think twice. He snagged a minor six-episode role as—ironically—an English-Irish musician in his early thirties who had moved to America and married his manager. In other words, he was playing himself—except for the married part. Not a huge challenge for his newfound acting skills, but a great way to test the waters. He was still adjusting to the early morning start at the filming site in the San Fernando Valley, but otherwise, glad to be out of hermit mode.

Hey, are things okay with the ol’ lady? You don’t talk about her much these days, Silver pointed out.

Jonathan finished his tea in one huge gulp. She hasn’t been around much lately. We’re hanging in there, I suppose. You’re dissembling, Fox. Cracks had begun to appear in their relationship soon after Christmas. And they were growing deeper and wider by the week.

But he didn’t want to talk about it, not while he was still struggling to understand why he and Raf were going wrong. Put him off the scent. Got an exclusive for you, he announced. I’m starting a new music venture.

"Hayull yeah. Another movie soundtrack?"

Nope. An album with Bodhi Miller, Jonathan replied. We’ll start laying down rough tracks next month at his farm in Chapel Hill.

Bodhi Miller...wait, the guitarist in Tornado Wranglers? Aren’t they Southern Rock? Hell, I’ll go one farther and classify them as Alt-Country with a shitty attitude.

Jonathan laughed at the dead-on description. Agreed. But there’s a method to my madness. I’ve started to write lyrics again; the sort which need four-on-the-floor bass and scorching slide guitar. So I reached out to Bodhi about a side project. If the recording goes well, we’ll tour together in the fall.

"I’m...so...j- jealous right now, Silver said in a mock-weepy voice before adding a pretend sniffle. You done broke my heart clean in two, ya Limey bastard."

"Half Limey, Jonathan corrected with a chuckle before readopting a serious tone. I’m tired of composing for films and adverts. Been missing the whole band experience, trading song ideas and so on."

About time you came out of your cave and picked up a guitar again. Do you still remember how to play, or do I need to give you a few lessons while I’m visiting?

I’ll give you a few lessons in pain if you keep talking shite about my abilities, Jonathan jibed. After years spent in the studio and on the road, they’d learned how to turn shit-talking into a high art form. And yeah, I miss the banter as well.

I hear ya on the nostalgia thing. All kinds of shit sets me off, like hearin’ a song I haven’t listened to in years or runnin’ into people I thought were long gone. Which reminds me—did you get the DVD I sent you last week?

Ach. Been too distracted with filming and songwriting to look at the mail. My PA should have brought it in. Let me check. As he spoke, Jonathan made his way to the mansion’s three-story foyer and rummaged through the large rosewood box sitting on the marble-topped table near the door. He found advertisements for security systems and car detailing, a platinum AmEx bill, a couple of card-sized envelopes for Rafaela from Brazil (belated birthday greetings; she had turned 27 last week), and a 5x7" padded envelope from a Chris Blackwell in Sugar Grove, NC, addressed to Kit Stelfox, Esquire.

He smiled at the sight of his nickname coupled with his real surname. Good old Silver. The guitarist sent him stuff at least twice a month, keeping their 15-year-old friendship alive despite 3,000 miles of separation. Sometimes he even returned the gesture although he didn’t have the same knack for finding random crazy shite.

Right, then, let’s see what you’ve sent for my entertainment this time, Jonathan mused aloud as he ripped the mailer open to find a DVD with no case or markings. "Let me guess—Heavy Metal Parking Lot, the Director’s Cut?"

Not this time. It’s something I dug out of our archives. A blast from the past.

Ah. I’ll check it out. But first, beer. Keeping Silver on the line, Jonathan headed to the kitchen for a cold bottle of India ale and then made his way to the media room, which lay at the end of a hallway lined with gold and platinum albums. Most belonged to Strange Angels, but Rafaela had three of her own adorning the walls now.

After powering on the 55 flat panel TV, Blaupunkt sound system and DVD player with the universal remote, Jonathan took the gleaming disc from the envelope. Raf’s due back from a video shoot in Costa Rica in an hour or so. I should have enough time to watch this uninterrupted."

Better if she’s not around, Silver told him.

For fuck’s sake, did you send me porn? I don’t recall filming any of our after-show encounters for future posterity.

Nooo. But there’s a person in one of them who you need to look out for...ahh, just watch and you’ll see what I mean.

He slid the DVD into the player. Are we talking about a lass-type of someone, perchance?

Yup.

"An attractive lass?"

There was an awkward pause. Um. You be the judge.

Right, I’d better check her out, then.

"And who is her, exactly?" a sharp female voice rang out from behind him.

Oh, shite. Rafaela was already home. Gotta go, mate, he told Silver.

Ooh, you are sooo buste-

The guitarist’s tinny, mocking voice was cut off as Jonathan hung up and tossed the phone aside. He turned to greet his girlfriend, stifling a vague sense of guilt as though she had just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Or worse, inside his jeans. Hiya, Raf. You’re home early.

An angry sneer marred her darkly beautiful features. Yeah, sorry to interrupt your fun. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, the hem of her Burberry trench coat flapping in her wake like a ship’s sail.

Jonathan clenched his jaw and went in pursuit. It seemed their reunion was going to be somewhat less than joyous. Again.

Chapter 2

Jonathan caught up with Rafaela at the foot of the curving staircase. May I? he inquired, reaching for her Louis Vuitton carry-on satchel. She shook her sleek, dark ponytail and started to climb.

He shrugged before following at a safe distance. Sorry I wasn’t waiting faithfully at the door in anticipation of your imminent return, my darling, he quipped, his vision glued to her well-toned, swaying backside.

No, you had more important priorities, she snapped, not looking back. After storming into the master bedroom, she halted at the sight of the German shepherd stretched out on her expensive Waterford duvet with his nose between his paws. "You know better than to shed all over my good sheets. Get off," she snapped, reaching out to push him when he didn’t comply.

"Wuffa, ned," Jonathan commanded, using the Swedish word for ‘down’ as he pointed at the floor. Ears pinned back, the jet-black dog obeyed.

Rafaela slung her bag on the carpet and turned her blazing gold-green eyes on her live-in boyfriend. You’ve had him for what, seven years? You’d think he’d understand English by now. And to stay off the damn bed!

Remember, the bed’s mine and he’s used to napping here. He’s improved but sometimes he falls into old habits.

He moved closer, intending to drop a belated welcome-home kiss on her cheek. As before, she turned away. "I had to stand under a freezing waterfall for hours today and then take a long-ass, equally freezing flight. I need a bath. And then sleep. In a clean bed."

Hint taken. I’ll change the linens now.

Her expression softened a fraction. Thanks. No big rush. Just don’t let me fall asleep in there.

After she closed the bathroom door, Jonathan heaved a patient sigh, pulled a set of gray-and-lavender king-sized sheets from the linen closet, and set to work.

For a match built on a publicity stunt, he was amazed they’d lasted this long. In the spring of 2000, not long after Strange Angels split, their business manager James Porter roped Jonathan into co-writing Rafaela’s second album. The older Englishman had an ulterior motive: make them a couple so their names would be splashed across the tabloid headlines and their albums would stay at the top of the charts.

At first, Jonathan was all business with her, suspecting she was in on the plot. But as the weeks passed, the beautiful Brazilian-American hit him with the sort of world-class seduction magic no mortal could resist. Especially a mortal who hadn’t been laid in months. The day they finished writing, he succumbed to his lust and took her against the nearest wall.

They were living together within two months, even though he had sworn he was over L.A. when he’d moved to Arizona in 1999. Not the craziest thing he he’d done in the name of love—eloping to Vegas with his first wife after knowing her for six weeks was far worse—but bloody close.

He shook his head while tucking in the top sheet. Live without regret; a sentiment he believed in enough to have tattooed in two-inch-high letters across his upper chest in Irish Gaelic: Mair gan aiféala.

In his opinion, there were two ways to achieve this. One was to do only the things he wouldn’t regret in the first place.  The other was not to give a fuck about anything he did, ever. He preferred the first option. It may not have been as fun as the second one, but it kept him out of trouble. Usually.

But with Rafaela, neither applied. Their relationship was flat-lining; had been for a couple of months. He was caught in limbo: unable to ignore the situation but too heads-down in projects to take action.

They’d have to stay in cruise control a little longer. Unlike his fictional TV relationship, he prayed theirs wouldn’t end in a nasty wreck.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

By the time the subject of his thoughts was done bathing, the bed was neatly made with the duvet invitingly pulled back on her side. She stepped out of the bathroom as Jonathan was brushing his hair in front of the giant mirror above the vanity sinks.  It’s too bad the set stylists didn’t update your look before you started filming, a bathrobe-clad Rafaela said as she passed behind him.

His hand stilled as he glared at her reflection in the mirror. What d’you mean?

What I mean, Rafaela said tartly, "is your appearance is out-damn-dated. It’s time to ditch the long hair."

Sod the trends, I like my look.

Everyone else from your day has woken up and smelled the new millennium. If you want anyone to take you seriously, you need to do the same, Rafaela declared as she dropped the robe and got into bed too quickly for him to get more than a glimpse of her exquisite body.

You make my day sound like it was a hundred years ago, for fuck’s sake! "I think musicians should look like musicians, not bloody mechanics, he shot back as he pulled his thick locks into a low ponytail. You don’t have to have long hair to be a Rock star, but it helps."

Her muffled voice sounded amused: C’mon, are you really still a Rock star?

Once, now, and always. I remember how you couldn’t keep your hands out of my hair when we first got together.

Then, yeah. But people change. She rolled onto her side to face the opposite wall.

Jonathan let the brush clatter on the marble countertop. I’m going down to the studio.

Try not to make too much noise, I have to be up by six, she informed him in a voice already thick from sleepiness.

"And I have to be on the set at six, so don’t expect a proper send-off from me, your Highness," he snarled as he pulled the shirt over his head. It was all he could do keep from slamming the door behind him as he left with Wuffa at his heels.

Down in the kitchen, he brewed a pot of tea before settling in at the piano with a handful of blank music sheets. The tense scene upstairs had sparked some new lyric ideas; best to get them on paper before the muse moved on. Burdened with the superstition of the creative, he dared not tempt fate.

Within ten minutes, one song was in the bag and another was in the works. As the words for the chorus took shape in his mind, a host of questions decided to come along for the ride. Was Rafaela seeing someone else? Or had she just gotten tired of him?

Or fuck forbid, both? His stomach twisted harder than a wet dishrag being wrung out by a bodybuilder. They needed to talk.

Ironically, the rush of anxiety had overwhelmed his ability to write. Forget tea; time to switch to something stronger. He went to the wet bar in the den and poured a shot of whiskey, downed it neat, and then added another measure along with some ice.

As he passed the Media room, he noticed the TV was still powered on. In the drama surrounding Rafaela’s arrival, he’d forgotten about Silver’s DVD. Hmm, let’s see who this mystery girl is.

He fell back on the sectional sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and hit Play. The first fifteen minutes consisted of live footage from the ‘No Mean City’ tour in 1999. Jonathan watched Strange Angels play for a minute. God, I miss those guys. Before sentimentality could take over, he punched Fast Forward while taking a sip of Irish fire water.

When the scene changed, he put his glass down and hit Play again, leaning forward to watch the shaky camcorder footage shot in his old rental house in Phoenix. The timestamp at the bottom of the screen read Mar-13-00. Silver appeared to be wielding the camera; his voice came over the speakers as he walked down the hallway toward the guest rooms. Let’s see if she’s in her office, he said before entering the last room on the right. A dark-haired girl who appeared to be in her late teens was sitting at a desk, her fingers flying over a computer keyboard. Jonathan’s heart hitched.

"There she is—the hardest working personal assistant in the biz. Tell me, whadda ya really think of your boss? the unseen guitarist asked her, his voice teasing. You can tell me. I can keep secrets, ya know."

Her cupid-bowed lips parted in a snarl as she swatted a hand at him. Shoo, Silver. I’m transcribing an interview!

He turned the camera lens on his grinning mug. Sorry, Kit. I tried to get the truth for you. Guess we’ll never know. End scene.

Jonathan rewound the video and paused on the girl’s fierce, lovely face. She could have been his once upon a time. If he hadn’t fucked up royally, that is, drop-kicking her hopeless crush straight down to Hell.

Jasmine, he said, drawing out each syllable like an incantation capable of instantly summoning her from, well, wherever the hell she was hiding.

Wuffa roused from his half-dreaming stupor. Remember Jasmine? Huh? Jonathan prompted. The dog thumped his heavy tail on the carpet a couple of times before stretching full-length on the floor again. So, yes? Or no? Ach, who can say?

Just then, his cell phone rang. Tempted as he was to ignore it, Jonathan peered at the glowing display. Silver, gah! If he weren’t a stone-cold skeptic, he would have sworn the Irish-Cherokee Virginian had psychic powers.

Hey, Kit. Seen the DVD yet?

Just now. I never knew you got Jasmine on video.

Yeah. About a month before she vanished into thin air. Broke my damn heart. Wherever she is, I wish her happiness.

Same, mate. I told you, she quit her PA job to transfer to a different university. Or so her stepfather Nate had claimed the last time the two men ever spoke.

She bailed long before the end of the semester, though. Rafaela ran the poor critter off, didn’t she?

Ahh, for fuck’s sake! They never even met.

There was a long, telling pause. I still think it wasn’t a coincidence, her leaving right when you and Raf fell in love, his old friend finally said.

Jonathan knocked his whiskey back so fast, half the ice spilled into his mouth. Mr. Blackwell, you are one observant bastard.

Who knows? Maybe one day she’ll get back in touch, Silver added, ever the optimist.

Maybe. Doubtful, actually. Jasmine would be in her early 20s now, her teenage drama days well behind her. I bet she still despises me nonetheless. The thought painted his already gloomy mood a shade blacker. Look, I should get back to writing.

Okay. Laaater, Kit.

After ending the call, Jonathan slumped back and stared at the far wall until the cordless phone made a ‘low battery’ beeping sound, startling him back to reality. He placed the handset in the base and turned toward the TV, still paused on the teenager’s frozen sneer.

Jasmine Ashcroft. Strange Angels superfan, former employee, smitten teenager. Jonathan had first been drawn to her exotic amber-eyed prettiness, but her warm, kittenish personality was what kept her in his sphere for months. She was both naïve and worldly; something he’d found frustrating and yet intriguing at the same time.

In her last-ditch effort to make the jump from just-a-friend to girlfriend, she had handed him the launch codes to nuke her sweet, innocent heart. And like the bastard he was, he’d slammed his fist down on the big red button and exploded it into a towering fireball.

No, Raf didn’t drive Jasmine away. I did.

‘I need a woman who can take what I throw at her and return it tenfold,’ he’d told the 18-year-old the day she’d confessed her true feelings for him. He was speaking of Rafaela, who more than fit the description.

She still did. Except now she was lobbing nothing back but attitude. Super shitty attitude.

If he’d given Jasmine the green light instead, where would they be now? Probably not trapped inside this mile-thick emotional glacier, stabbing at one another with icicle knives while the temperature continued its inexorable decline to the uninhabitable zone.

A huge, obsidian wave of emotion rose, crested, and broke inside of him. The feeling was unfamiliar but he recognized it in an instant: regret.

So much for his personal motto.

Chapter 3

Los Angeles

Late May 2003

Alone in the home studio, Jonathan was fine-tuning a new demo track when his cell phone screen came to life. Mildly peeved at the interruption, he pulled off his headphones and squinted at the number on the display. Where is the 919 area code...oh, yeah, North Carolina. He answered with a curt Hiya, Bodhi.

"Hey, man. Sorry