Beauty and the Hard Rocker: Rock Star Romance, #2

By Sophia Ursula Brady

Five years ago I was nobody, and he took advantage. Now he needs me. Revenge is sweet, but all I can think about is that one wild night.

 

Vanessa

After I picked myself up from the most humiliating night of my life, I vowed to become the top publicist in the music business. No one would ever pull one over on me again. Now I have a chance to get even. The rock star who crushed my illusions needs my help to crawl out from the hole he's dug himself, or lose everything he's worked for.

 

Oh, I'll do my job. But he'll pay for crushing every illusion I ever had about love.

 

Blade

Until she walked into my manager's office, I had forgotten about that night. But in spite of everything that had happened since, I hadn't forgotten her. I was an insensitive jerk back then and not much better now. But if I can get her to forgive me, she's the best one to help me get my career back on track.

 

And then maybe I'll have a chance to get her to give me a second chance at something more.

 

 

Beauty and the Hard Rocker is a complete second-chance romance novella in the Rock Star Series that can be read as a stand-alone. Grab your copy and an ice-cold beverage and discover if Vanessa and Blade have a second shot at love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lights Out Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223250531

Sophia Ursula Brady

Sophia Ursula Brady is the pen name for a writer of contemporary romance and women’s fiction.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Vanessa

I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and repeated my daily mantras:

I will not fall for a musician.

I will not fall for a skinny-assed white dude.

I will definitely not fall in love during a one-night stand.

I’d already done every one of those things. No sense in repeating my mistakes. Not at the ripe old age of twenty-eight.

Not if I wanted to make my mama proud and have a splashy big wedding at the Cathedral Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Newark, New Jersey.

Job one was having a big enough bank account to feel secure. Then I’d think about finding a nice black man to raise babies with me. A man I’d done a thorough background check on and had dated for two years to find out if he were baby-making material.

Not like the sperm donor who’d been my father. He’d skedaddled as soon as he’d heard about his impending fatherhood.

I’d already put myself through community college with a major in business marketing, then went on to intern at a PR firm. The partners told me I had a future with them, but so far all they’d given me were jobs editing press releases.

I needed a big break. And Mama told me to always look like I was deserving of having the best the universe could offer.

That instruction had come right after the one about the importance of clean underwear in case of an accident.

But I was Mama’s daughter, so I slid on blue eye shadow, painted my mouth, and made sure there were no spots or creases on my yellow blouse or purple skirt, a flashy number I’d picked up at a thrift store on Tenth Avenue.

A pounding started on the bathroom door.

"Vanessa! Get out of the fucking bathroom! ¡Tengo que orinar! I have to pee!"

As I opened the door, Taylor, one of my five roommates, pushed me out of the way and slammed the door.

My big break better get here soon.

As if on cue, my phone rang.

Vanessa Marie, I answered in my most professional voice as I moved away from bathroom sounds. How can I help you?

Oh, good. I got you, a male voice said. Your agency told me were the perfect person for the job.

What job? This could be my big break, but my spidey sense was working overtime telling me this job was going to be bad news.

Let me introduce myself. I’m John Martin. I manage several rock bands.

Musicians.

I know who you are, I told him. How can I help you?

I was still working on being professional as I angled toward the front hall closet which was the only place in the entire apartment where I could be guaranteed privacy other than the already occupied bathroom.

At least no one would have to pee in here.

I have a client who needs damage control, John said. He needs to improve his image or the record label will drop him. Already a couple of concert venues have dropped him, saying he can’t be relied on. Problem is, he’s self-destructing, I’m not sure why.

Who is this man? I asked.

Blade Reed.

Skinny-assed white dude.

I’m not a miracle worker, I said. All I can do is shine him up on paper, get him to do some good things in public. I’m not a substitute for rehab. Why don’t you—

I’ll sober him up. I’ll put the fear of God into him, I swear it. All you’ll need to do is polish his image to a bright shine. Think you can do that?

Of course I can do that, I said, totally insulted by his implication. How could I tell him I didn’t want to ever see Blade Reed again, much less polish him?

But if I turned this down, when would the partners give me another chance?

Before I had a chance to reply, the man spoke. Good. I’ll get Blade into a standing position again, and give you a call.

But, I’m—

That’s settled then. Talk to you later.

He hung up.

Great. If I wanted to get my big break I was going to have to work with the man who’d not only ditched me after a one-night-stand, but had made sure to stomp my heart to smithereens.

I’M STARVING, TAYLOR said as she stared at the contents of the refrigerator. The band practiced so late last night. They didn’t stop for nothing.

Are you going to stick with them? Newt, one of my other roommates asked as she sat on the counter chewing on an apple.

It was a good question. Taylor changed bands as often as I changed clothes.

There’s never anything to eat here, Taylor complained, ignoring the question.

That’s because you eat it all, I said.

I do not!

Newt reached into the cabinet behind her, pulled out a plastic container of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti, and slid it toward Taylor. I hear you can microwave these if you’re stove-challenged.

I’m not stove-challenged, Taylor said as she grabbed the container like a man at sea reaches for an almost empty canteen of fresh water.

Newt rolled her eyes and slid off the counter, landing the apple core in the trash with a perfect throw. Shouldn’t you be on your way to work? she asked me.

Y-e-s.

What’s the matter?

My big break has arrived. But it’s complicated. I’m not sure what to do about it.

Taylor stopped moving.

How? Newt asked.

The partners suggested to a manager that I’d be the perfect person to repair the reputation of a rock star who needs redemption. I gave Newt a look. She was the only one who knew about my humiliating one-night stand.

Not skinny-assed white dude? she asked.

Yep.

Who’s skinny-assed white dude? Taylor asked as she recommenced opening the can.

A creep, Newt said.

So what? Taylor said. A big break is a big break. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a big break around here. Anyone heard from Jada?

Jada had once been one of my roommates before she’d fallen hard for the punk rocker who’d bought her a brownstone in Manhattan and taken her as one of his sound techs on his tour through Europe.

Yeah, I said. She sent a postcard from Rome. Says she’s eating like crazy the food is so good. But she’s ready to be home.

That’s because she’s pregnant, Newt said practically. Time for her to start nesting.

She should be back next week, I said.

Now it’s your turn, Taylor told me. Not to get pregnant ... not unless you want to ... and it doesn’t sound like skinny-assed white dude is good baby-making material. But seriously. You can put up with a lot for a big break. She stuck the container in the microwave and expertly pushed a few buttons. "I mean if Santana asked me