Hard Rock Deceit: A Rock Star Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Hard Rock Deceit

  A Rock Star Romance

  Athena Wright

  Copyright © 2017 Athena Wright

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Other Books By Athena Wright

  Feral Silence: A Rock Star Romance Series

  Hard Rock Gaze - Jayce and Ailey's story

  Hard Rock Voice - Kell and Emily's story

  Hard Rock Touch - Ren and Ivy's story

  Hard Rock Heart - Morris and Natalie's story

  Darkest Days: A Rock Star Romance Series

  Hard Rock Tease - Noah and Jen's story

  Hard Rock Fling - Ian and Hope's story

  Hard Rock Sin - Cameron and Lily's story

  Hard Rock Deceit - August and Cassie’s story

  Hard Rock Heat - Damon and Faith's story

  Coming Soon

  Cherry Lips: A Rock Star Romance Series

  Gael and Jessie's story

  Cerise’s story

  Liam's story

  Nathan's story

  Julian's story

  Seth's story

  Stay informed of new releases, discounts and giveaways. Visit athenawright.com and subscribe to my newsletter

  He's a brilliant artist. A rock star god.

  He challenges me. Excites me.

  He makes me quiver. Makes me swoon.

  He makes me feel things I've never dreamed of.

  But we're both dedicated to our art. We'll do whatever it takes to succeed.

  When I find out just how far he'll go, it threatens to tear our world apart.

  Hard Rock Deceit is a New Adult Rock Star Romance. It is the fourth novel in the Darkest Days series, but can be read as a standalone with a HEA.

  Author's notes:

  This book is complete and utter fangirl wish fulfillment. It is not realistic in the slightest. But who reads rock star romances for realism, anyway? ;)

  Chapter One

  The room was near silent, soft whispers and hushed murmurs falling from each onlooker's lips. Compliments and accolades? Or critiques and snide comments? I could have wandered closer to hear the quiet conversations as the art gallery patrons perused my work. Staying back, I concealed myself behind a pillar, wringing my clammy hands.

  I hoped to make it through without drawing attention to myself. My advisor and mentor told me to schmooze and mingle and network, using buzzwords that made me grimace. According to him, people only came to art gallery showings for unknown students on opening night to meet the artist themselves. So they could say, I met her when and impress their friends. So they could ask about the artist's inspirations and feelings and the meaning behind the work.

  I only had to make it another thirty minutes. The art showing would end, the gallery would close, and I could make my escape.

  My advisor turned his head and caught my eye. I cringed, butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach. He motioned me to come forward. I shook my head no, trying to resist the urge to run away. He lifted his eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience, before returning to his conversation.

  I'd have to find a better hiding spot. I'd escaped for now, but Professor Ashford wouldn't give up.

  I avoided him as he did the rounds, shaking hands, pressing kisses to cheeks and chatting with friends old and new. Ashford was well connected in the art community. I was lucky to have him as an advisor and mentor.

  If only he weren't so insistent on putting my face out there. He wanted me to pontificate about my work, to hold an audience, to let each patron inside my head, spilling all my inner thoughts and feelings about my art.

  No. I much, much, preferred being behind the camera, not in front of it.

  The place emptied, the stragglers heading to the door.

  "Hiding again?"

  Ashford shook his head ruefully as he meandered to the far side of the gallery where I'd taken up residence.

  "Not hiding," I replied. "Just not bringing attention to myself."

  "That's the point of these showings."

  "I thought the art was the point."

  "The artist and their art cannot be separated," he said. "Someday, you're going to need to talk about your work in public. People want to hear from the artist."

  "Is it over now?" I asked. "Can we go?"

  Ashford jerked his chin to the side, gesturing. "There's one person still here."

  I followed Ashford's gaze.

  A man with ice blue eyes and longish platinum hair stood off to the side. His hair was as light as mine was dark. He had an almost aristocratic air about him as he contemplated the black and white photograph on the wall. This man was beautiful.

  "He seems familiar," I murmured.

  "Perhaps you saw him at another gallery showing," Ashford said lightly. "He may be interested in buying. Do me a favor and speak to at least one person tonight, Cassie?"

  Sweat dampened the back of my neck.

  Speak with him? Speak with a person whose face was so perfectly sculpted it belonged on a runway? What would I even say?

  "Ask him if he likes it," Ashford said, as if sensing my inner turmoil. He nudged me with his elbow. "Don't you want to network?"

  I wanted to be back in my darkroom. I wanted to be behind a camera. The last thing I wanted was to talk to a stranger about my art.

  But this man, so beautiful it made my heart ache, was staring at my photograph, intense and fixated.

  I wanted to photograph him. I wanted to capture this moment.

  I approached the man on light feet, almost tiptoeing. My veins thrummed with nervous energy. I rubbed at the seam of my shirt.

  "Do you like it?" I asked tentatively as I came up beside him.

  He nodded once, not turning to look at me. Staring at the photograph on the wall, his eyes were unfocused, as if looking through it, not at it. He wore black skinny jeans and a white shirt. Put a stereotypical French beret on him and he would have looked like a caricature of the stereotypical artiste.

  I was at a loss, not knowing what else to say. I didn't want to tell him it was mine. It always felt odd asking a stranger what they felt about my art when I was right there in front of them. How could I trust I'd get an honest opinion? Even if they didn't like it, most people would lie to spare my feelings.

  And then the conversation usually turned towards questions about my inspirations, and my thought process, and the meaning behind my work.

  I never understood why everyone always cared so much about those things. The
art should speak for itself.

  The silence between me and the strange man turned awkward.

  "Why do you like it?" I asked.

  "It's rousing."

  Rousing? The black and white cityscape at night certainly wasn't dull, but rousing?

  "Why do you think that?" I had to know.

  "Do you want me to give a full art critique?" he asked. "I'd be more than happy to."

  I almost said yes. I wanted to know what this man thought of my art. Something held me back. I had a feeling if I said yes, this man would tell me far more than I cared to know. About my art.

  About myself.

  "Do you like it?" he asked.

  "Of course." I wouldn't have submitted it to my advisor if I didn't like it.

  "Why do you like it?" he parroted my words.

  Why did I like it? I didn't know how to articulate it in words. I didn't like that photo any more or any less than the other dozen pieces I'd submitted. My advisor chose which to display in the exhibit. Yes, there had been something about it that made me choose it from among hundreds of others, but… the words to explain why just wouldn't come.

  Turning my focus to the photograph on the wall, I tried to look at it with new eyes. The contrast between dark corners of shadowy alleys and fuzzy, bright streetlights; the soft streaks of nighttime fog interrupted by clean, jutting lines of skyscrapers. I struggled to put my thoughts into words, although why I even wanted to tell this man anything was beyond me.

  "I don't think it's rousing, really."

  "No?" His eyes were still slightly glazed as he looked at the photo.

  I hesitated before speaking.

  "There's a stirring feeling to the image, yes. The electricity of a bustling city at night. But it's not hurried or rushed. The buildings look like they're being embraced by the fog. The streetlights are chasing away the dark corners."

  "Maybe I'm wrong," he conceded. "Rousing might not be the best word."

  "What else would you call it?"

  He pinned me down with a stare. "Passionate."

  I stared back wordlessly. That was a concept no one ever applied to my art, or myself. I'd been told the opposite. My art was stark. Bleak. Often harsh and cutting.

  How did this man see something so different from everyone else?

  Blue eyes gazed into mine. All fuzziness was gone, replaced by something sharp and knowing. I couldn't look away.

  "The photo is full of passion. Full of desire." He gestured to the rest of my photos hanging on the gallery wall. "All these photos are like that."

  Those words made my head spin.

  Passion.

  Desire.

  Those were things I'd never experienced. I'd started to think I never would.

  Ice-colored eyes stared at me, a considering look.

  "It makes me wonder what the artist was feeling when they took them," he continued.

  What had I been feeling? Under this man's gaze, I couldn't recall.

  "Maybe they didn't feel anything," I said.

  Or maybe they just couldn't express what they felt out loud, a small voice inside me said.

  "All artists feel something when they create," he said. "That's why we do it."

  "We?" I asked. "Are you an artist?"

  "Of sorts." He turned back to the photo. "I think the passion was unintentional."

  Of course it was unintentional. It was all cityscapes and street photography, not boudoir scenes. No one could say my photos were passionate.

  But this man did.

  "I might buy this one," he said. "I'll speak to the gallery owner."

  The idea of my photos hanging on some stranger's wall always made me feel uncomfortable. Exposed. Even art showings were enough to cause unease. Still, if I wanted to make a living as a photographer, it was part of the job.

  But the thought of my photo hanging on this unnerving man's wall wasn't discomforting. Instead, it stirred up something within me. Something that made my heart hammer in my chest.

  The man left to speak to both the gallery owner and Ashford. My advisor eyed me. He'd been observing my conversation from afar. I hoped he hadn't heard what we'd spoken of.

  Soon, the blue-eyed stranger made his way back.

  "I'd like to make you an offer," he said. "Work for me."

  I blinked at him, taken aback.

  "As an event photographer," he continued. "It will be a short term contract. Only a few months."

  This was completely out of the blue. But… a job was a job.

  "What would I be doing?" I asked.

  "I can't divulge that until you sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement." He nodded to the exit. "Come with me and we can talk about it."

  I shot Ashford a panicked look. He smiled and waved me off. I had to assume my advisor wouldn't steer me wrong. Maybe he did know this stranger after all.

  Following him outside, I found a shiny black limo waiting at the front door. A chauffeur in a suit jumped out of the driver's seat. He opened the back door for me with a slight tilt of his upper body, almost a bow.

  I stumbled on my words as I thanked him, wondering if I should tip. Was that the kind of treatment I could expect if I took this job? Who exactly would I be working for?

  With a moment of hesitation, I slipped inside and glanced around to get my bearings. The limo had cream colored leather seats, facing both the front and the back, with tinted windows. A partition separated the driver from the interior.

  The stranger from the gallery slid in, taking a seat across from me.

  "Is this a Fifty Shades thing?" I blurted out. "Where the billionaire kidnaps the young ingénue and takes her to his secret BDSM dungeon?"

  He looked surprised for a moment before laughing and shaking his head, long blond strands falling over his cheeks.

  "No," he chuckled. "Nothing like that. This is a real job offer." He pulled out a folder from between the seats and opened it, revealing a stack of papers. "If you sign this, I'll tell you everything."

  "What is it?"

  "The NDA. Non-Disclosure Agreement."

  He handed me the papers and a pen. I took them from him carefully and flipped through the pages. The man waited patiently as I went over every line and paragraph. It seemed standard. I wasn't allowed to talk about my job or the people I worked with or else they would sue the pants off me.

  "You sure you're not a billionaire?" I asked one more time.

  "Not quite."

  Not quite. How close to being a billionaire was not quite?

  I didn't know what I was getting into, and this NDA didn't put me at ease.

  The man sitting across from me stared intently, as if willing his eyes to peer into my soul.

  "Why?" I asked. "Why me?"

  "I've been following you for a while."

  My heart thumped hard beneath my ribcage, the words turning vague nerves into fear. Did I have a stalker?

  "Your work," he clarified. "I've been following your work for a while. There's a certain aspect in your photos I don't often see."

  Passion. Desire. Was that what he meant?

  He sensed my hesitation. When he spoke again, a shivery sensation took hold of me, sending my fingers and toes tingling.

  "There's something in your art that calls to me," he said. "I don't know how or why, but you're able to express something in your work that not many people can. It's not always obvious, and it's not always overt. But it's there. I could use someone like you." He leaned forward in his seat. "And I think you could use someone like me."

  "Like you?" I asked. That was sort of arrogant, wasn't it? "Why would I need someone like you?"

  He quirked a small smile. "I have experience with this. Recognizing potential. Honing it. Polishing it. If we work together, I think we can take your art and transform it into something brilliant. If you're interested."

  His gaze swept me up and down, a probing stare. My heartbeat quickened. The feeling in my chest was so unfamiliar I almost mistook it for nerves. But I wasn't nervous.
>
  Nervous, I could understand. I could handle that. But my racing pulse, the way all air seemed to leave my lungs…

  I'd known this man was beautiful, yes, but it had been an objective statement. An observation.

  Now I was looking at him through new eyes, like I had with the photograph.

  He thought my work was passionate. He thought I had the potential for brilliance.

  How did he see something no one else did?

  My heart squeezed tight, a fluttery feeling welling in my stomach. He flicked his eyes back to the folder of papers. I placed a hand on my belly, telling it to calm down. This was just anxiety. I was anxious about this job offer. That was all.

  Fighting to gather my wits, I took deep breaths, calming myself. I pushed my ruffled hair back from my face, the ends just brushing my shoulders. I told myself this was the usual jitters I felt when discussing my art with potential buyers, or when receiving an art critique.

  But that was a lie.

  The trembling of my fingers, my racing pulse, the lightheadedness — none of it was simple nerves.

  This feeling was foreign. It was terrifying. It was thrilling. I felt vaguely sick from the emotional whiplash.

  Signing this thing meant I would work with him. I would work with the man who sent my heart pounding, who sent my stomach tumbling over on itself.

  I would work with the man who looked at my photographs and saw something no one else had before.

  I didn't like feeling so out of sorts, especially around a stranger. Especially around a stranger as intense as him. My world felt off balance.

  But something inside me said I wouldn't regret this.

  "Yes," I said. "I'm interested. I'd like your help."

  Before I could question my actions, I scrawled my signature on the bottom of the page and handed it over.

  "You'll be traveling across the country to work as an event photographer for a few months," he said without preamble.

  "What event?"

  He tapped his finger against the folder in a staccato rhythm. The look on his face was one of anticipation, eyes glinting. "Have you ever heard of Darkest Days?"