The first few chapters of How to Date a Rock Star, the latest addition to the highly-acclaimed How to Date series by Karigan Hale, are available for free. Read on to see if Xavier can get over his unrequited crush on Lizzie and find love in the mountains of Maryland.
CHAPTER 1
Perfect. A blinding storm was just what Xavier Drake needed to cement this day as the worst day ever. Cursing his choice to trade in his reliable yet clunky four-wheel-drive truck, he slowed his new sports car to a crawl as the rain pelted his windshield. Even on the highest setting, his whining windshield wipers were no match for the sheets of sideways rain obscuring any visibility. And he might as well turn the damn headlights off for as much good as they were doing.
If this winding, backwoods road had a shoulder—which it did not—he would have pulled over in a heartbeat to wait out the storm. Instead, he now understood the phrase "Jesus, take the wheel" as he white-knuckled it slowly around each unfamiliar curve.
"Take some time off," he said, mimicking his agent's annoying nasal voice. "It'll help the creative juices flow. Give you back your flavor." He cursed as a bolt of lightning lit up the sky and blinded him for a brief second. "Great advice, Eric. But I won't have any juicy flavors if I'm roadkill."
What the hell did that mean anyway—creative juices? He hated when people spoke abstractly. It wasn't constructive. Telling him to show his colors, add more spice, channel his muse—bullshit. As a former IT specialist, he wanted numbers and data and something constructive. Not flowery gibberish that helped exactly zero in getting him out of his current funk.
The deadline for his new album loomed two short weeks away. And all he had was one mediocre song and a handful of crap.
"You've got a lot of potential here," Eric told him earlier today after an especially painful recording session. "But there's something missing."
"Every change I've made you've rejected," Xavier reminded him. He cased his guitar and threw himself on the sofa in the control room. "I'm running out of ideas."
"Zay, you can't manhandle melody into shape. You've got to let it marinate and flow from your soul. Let the music"—Eric paused for dramatic effect—"shape you." He smiled as though he was giving actual clear advice. Xavier blinked at him.
"This isn't a cooking show. This is my career," he mumbled after Eric continued to look at him expectantly.
"Fine. You want real talk?" Eric asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"Yes. Finally. That's what I've been asking for," Xavier said.
"If you don't come up with something spectacular in the next two weeks, something to echo the success of your first record, the label is going to drop you faster than a whore drops to her knees. Is that real enough for you?"
Hence the Worst Day Ever. Putting him on a two-week deadline to somehow mine gold out of the pile of musical shit he had to work with definitely didn't help his creativity marinate. The pressure only amped up his anxiety and cock-blocked his ideas. He needed a goddamn miracle.
Since staring at the same four walls of his in-house studio or the same four walls of the recording studio wasn't creating that miracle, Xavier took Eric's advice and rented a cabin in the mountains of Western Maryland to get away for a while and clear his head. Isolation. Fresh mountain air. Nature. And best of all—no nagging agents or record labels.
Maryland weather—notorious for changing whenever a mouse farted—lived up to its reputation by ruining a brilliantly bright day with a torrential and somewhat unexpected thunderstorm just as dusk fell. And he was currently driving through the center of that storm.
He probably had a little black rain cloud hovering right over his car and following him all the way to his destination. So much for fresh air. If this storm didn't let up, he'd be stuck in the cabin staring at those same four walls and still not making progress on his songs.
He leaned forward in his seat, straining the seat belt, trying to see more than two feet in front of his face. Was it raining harder? The thunder was a constant rumble in his ears. Could he use that as a lyric?
God, the first album had been so easy it lulled him into a false sense of confidence. He'd had a ton of material to work with since he'd been shoving music in a dresser drawer since high school. He'd also had Lizzie Vandevere as inspiration. Nothing like unrequited love and a broken heart to inspire song. After pouring his feelings into the music, he realized he was more in love with the idea of her instead of the real her. Good thing, too, because she ended up marrying his brother, Zander.
In fact, Xavier had Lizzie to thank for his music career in the first place. Not only did she inspire some of his best songs, but she initially posted the first video of him singing on the internet. He'd read about people becoming YouTube stars, but he never, in a million years, thought it would happen to him. Until it happened to him.
His first album, titled Between Reality and Dreams, smashed the charts to everyone's surprised delight. Then came the whirlwind of talk shows and promotional shoots and award shows and article interviews and pop-up performances and celebrity appearances and planning his concert tour. All the while, the record label expected him to keep writing new songs. In every fucking interview the host asked, "What are you working on now?" or "Can we get a sneak peek into your next album?" or "When's the next album come out?"
He'd finally understood why Zander and Lizzie got so annoyed when, immediately after their wedding, everyone asked when they were going to have kids. Like, can a man have a moment to enjoy his current success before being pressured into more?
But like Eric said, he needed to ride the wave of his momentum. Get another album out while his fame burned hot. Unfortunately, what no one quite grasped was he'd had decades to perfect his first album. And very little pressure. Now, everyone expected him to replicate that genius in less than a year while being pulled in eight hundred other directions. And, more importantly, without a muse like Lizzie to create poetry in his heart.
The only constants in his life this past year were insomnia and Eric. And no one wanted to hear songs about his balding, fake-tanned, forty-something agent. This excursion into the mountains would at least jolt him out of his daily routine if nothing else.
Hell, maybe he could pretend a deer was a female rebuffing his advances. He was willing to try just about anything at this point.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky as the thunder cracked simultaneously. "Shit!" Xavier shouted, automatically slamming on the brakes and sending the car into a slide. The next bolt of lightning illuminated the road ahead. And a huge tree laying across the roadway. He tried to control his car as he hydroplaned back and forth across both lanes.
Well, dying in a car accident was one way he could get out of his deadline, Xavier thought.
Right before he crashed into the tree.
CHAPTER 2
“One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.” Molly Edwards counted the seconds between the streak of lightning and the inevitable crack of thunder. The bolts were getting closer. Which meant her power was probably—definitely—going to go out. Great. She loved living in the mountains, away from big cities and prying eyes, but sometimes she missed the comforts of civilization. Like cable television and food delivery and reliable electricity.
She and Tank, her ferocious, seven-pound Yorkipoo, were enjoying the storm. The cool air brought in by the sudden summer thunderstorm provided some much-needed relief from her non-air-conditioned cabin. She ignored the way the tall trees surrounding her yard swayed precariously in the wind. Storms calmed her, a fact most people found weird, but she didn’t apologize for it. Storms always brought something with them or revealed something in their wake. In a world where she strived to make everything predictable, a storm defied her wishes. Nature’s unpredictability was the only kind she could handle, and she welcomed it as a reprieve from her everyday structure.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Molly started counting seconds biding her time until the storm chased her inside. When the crash was followed by the low hum of a car horn in the distance and not lightning, she stopped. The horn didn’t.
She jumped to her feet, startling the little dog who started barking at the darkness. A droning horn in this storm could only mean one thing: someone had an accident. She couldn't fathom why someone chose to drive on her lonely road in the middle of this deluge. Must not be a local, she thought.
Well, she couldn't just strand them there. She grabbed her cell phone, rain slicker, and four-wheeler keys from inside the door and ran to the garage with Tank yipping at her heels.
"Stay here, boy," she said. Tank danced around her but stayed in the garage as she backed the four-wheeler out of it. She closed the garage door behind her so he wouldn't be tempted to follow her, then took off toward the whining horn.
The wind quickly whipped off her slicker hood, and she could feel the cool rain dripping down her neck and back. Another flash of lightning revealed part of her driveway washed out ahead. She gritted her teeth, braced herself, and gunned the engine a little harder. A huge splash and a little fishtailing later, she made it through—completely sodden but still upright and moving. The horn got progressively louder as she closed the distance.
When she approached the scene, her heart sank a little. As far as she could see in the pinpoint light from her four-wheeler's headlights, no one stood beside the vehicle. The vehicle—a sporty, red roller skate of a car—was smashed against a huge tree that had fallen across the roadway. Not good.
Molly scrambled off her four-wheeler slipping on the rain-soaked roadway. She pulled her hood back up, mostly to keep the torrential rain out of her eyes and moved closer to the tree. She had to climb over it to access the car. A stationary figure lay hunched over the steering wheel.
She wrenched open the driver side door, coughing from the scent of the deployed airbags, and flipped on her flashlight to assess the figure's condition. A male. A big male if the breadth of his shoulders was any indication. She didn't see a lot of blood, which was good, but he also wasn't moving, which was problematic. No way she could move him on her own.
His head faced the passenger side, so she went around to see if she could check his pulse and breathing. Please let him be breathing. Pushing a fast-food bag out of the way, she knelt on the seat to lean across. She gasped when she saw his face. Not only because of the blood streaking down it, but also because it was one of the most perfect faces she'd ever seen. Long, angular nose. Strong, defined jawline. Long, thick eyelashes. Full, kissable lips. She was stunned to stillness. Something about him looked familiar.
Probably because he looked like every guy in her dreams.
At least the half she could see. The rest of his face was still smooshed against the steering wheel.
She forced her eyes away from his chiseled features—of all the times for her dormant libido to suddenly wake up—to try to assess his injuries. She leaned in a little closer and reached out to trace his cheekbone. He moaned, and she jumped back, hitting her head on the ceiling and dropping the flashlight out of the car.
"Ow," she said, rubbing her head.
The man shifted slightly, and then leaned back in the seat. A huge gash marred his otherwise perfect forehead. Strands of his thick blonde hair were matted in the blood which had run down his face and soaked into his shirt. Molly took out her cell phone to call 911. When it didn't start ringing right away, she checked the screen. Zero bars. Shit. She kicked herself for not bringing the walkie-talkie.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the car, and Molly screamed. The man's eyes were open and focused on her.
"Holy shit," she said, placing a hand over her racing heart. "Are you okay?"
He moaned, and his eyes shut again.
"Okay. Semiconscious. I can work with that," she said. "I hope." She unlatched his seat belt, and he groaned again.
Molly glanced at the distance between the parked four-wheeler and the driver's side door—and then at the massive tree separating them. She had to figure out a way to get the off-roader closer without also getting it stuck in the mud runoff on the side of the road.
With one last glance at the man in the car, she trekked back to where she'd parked. She sighed, assessing her options. None of which were promising. She didn't have a choice—she'd have to chance the mud. She drove carefully off the driveway into the woods until she sat perpendicular to the car.
Saying a small prayer and going for fast and powerful, Molly gunned the engine and shot up the embankment. Her back tires started spinning up mud as soon as the front tires found purchase on the asphalt. She leaned forward, trying to propel it up the hill through sheer force of will.
"Come on, asshole!" she yelled into the storm.
Just as she was about to give up and move to Plan B, the front tires dragged the vehicle onto the road. She whooped for joy, then maneuvered it as close to the driver's door as she could. She'd figure out how to get them both back down to the driveway later. One step at a time.
The man was in the same position as when she left. Even with the rain beating down around her, Molly hesitated. This was a strange man—a big, strange man—who would regain consciousness at some point. She was risking a lot by taking him into her home. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know what he was doing out here on this road at this time of night in a storm. Molly bit her bottom lip. She should just drive back to the house, call 911, and let them take care of it. She glanced at the fallen tree across the road and then at the dark expanse in the other direction. If the road washed out as it usually did during storms like this, no one would be able to reach them. Could her conscience live with the fact that she just left him here? Could she risk her regulated privacy by bringing him back to her home?
He moaned softly then but didn’t open his eyes. His skin was pale and ashen aside from the streaks of blood dripping down his face. Her conscience won out. She’d walkie-talkie the sheriff when they returned to her house, and she’d just have to pray the road stayed passable.
Carefully, so as not to startle him, she shook his arm.
"Hey," she said quietly. When he didn't move, she shook him harder. "Hey! Mister!"
He lolled his head and blinked his eyes a little.
"That's it. Come on, dude. Wake up," she cajoled. He blinked slowly.
"Wha-what…" he tried to speak. Then his eyes rolled back in his head again.
"Oh no you don't. Stay with me." Molly grabbed his chin and pulled his face around to hers. She had to shout over the horn. "I'm Molly. You've been in an accident. I'm going to get you to safety, but I need your help."
"Mol-Molly?" he croaked.
"Yes. Molly. Can you walk?" she asked. She glanced down to his legs, realizing that with the front-end damage to the car, his legs could very well be trapped in the twisted metal. The shadow of both feet had her sighing in relief.
He moaned again. She grabbed the thigh closest to her and lifted his foot out of the car. So far, so good. She reached in to do the same to the other leg. Not as hard as she thought. She stood up to see how she could get his upper body out, but he had already twisted in the seat with one arm leaning on the steering wheel. Yes!
"Okay," she shouted to him. "I'm going to give you my back. Lean on me, okay? We only have to make it the four-wheeler." She thought he nodded.
She backed up and basically sat on his lap. She felt his heavy hand on her shoulder and braced herself for the rest of his weight. He paused a little too long, so she slapped his knee and yelled, "Now! Let's go!"
He grunted and draped himself over her back. Even with his minimal help, Molly struggled not to collapse under his weight.
"You couldn't have been a petite teenager, huh?" she grunted as they awkwardly double stepped toward the four-wheeler.
Somehow, either because the cold, pelting rain jolted the guy awake or by some divine intervention, Molly wrangled them both onto the four-wheeler. She gave a look at the car with the door still hanging open and thought about trying to close it.
For about a half second. Screw it. Based on the front-end damage, the car was toast. A little rain wouldn't hurt it. It may even alert any other motorists stupid enough to travel in this weather of the trouble. In any case, saving the car a little rain damage did not outweigh the risk of this guy falling off the four-wheeler if she got off.
She turned the four-wheeler around and drove toward her neighbor's driveway instead of attempting to get their disproportionate weight down the muddy embankment. Even though this path would take longer, she didn't want to risk tipping.
She could feel the man's heat against her back as he leaned heavily against her. His grip around her waist slackened from time to time, so she pinched his arm to keep him awake. He tightened his grip. She'd apologize for the bruises later.
The rain pelted her as she struggled to control the vehicle, her semiconscious passenger, and her limited vision. She could once again hear the booming thunder as the sound of the horn faded the farther they drove away. If this weather kept up, the road was likely to be flooded from mountain runoff. It had happened before. She had to get back to the house fast enough to call for help before it did.
To be Continued in How to Date a Rock Star
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