Page 1 of Filthy Rock Stars

CHAPTERONE

NICO

I’m standingat the back of the Book Shack when I spot him.

Him. The evil one. The best friend turned boyfriend turned liar.

My gut twists into a knot, and my breath disappears. I’ve avoided seeing Smith for two years, and I’m totally unprepared for the emotional maelstrom that topples me.

He moves through the shelves, disappearing into the dusty store without noticing me. Typical. I consider bolting or creeping out like a sad sack. I have nothing to gain by confronting him or faking nice. Either would be absolute hell.

But I’ve got a stack of pulpy, weird, old sci-fi novels in my arms, and I just spent the entire afternoon blissfully rooting them out in this poorly organized used bookstore, and damn it, I’m not going to let Smith take this away from me.

With a deep breath, I hitch my jacket up and walk to the counter. I keep my eyes trained on the employee and try to act reasonably normal, but my heart is pounding like I’m walking a tightrope, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, every nerve in my body aware that the devil is close.

Everything he said after I caught him on the hookup apps comes flooding back. I’m too uptight, too stuck in my ways. I’m boring, and my hobbies are boring, and just being with me made him feel like he was drowning, so it was my fault that he downloaded Grindr and found someone fun.

The woman behind the counter offers me a paper bag, heavy with my books. “Have a nice day,” she says gingerly, and I realize my face is contorted.

But no sight of Smith. No sign of his slumped shoulders and his long legs. As I head to the door, I watch for movement out of the corner of my eye, and I practically sprint the last few steps.

Outside, I gulp cold air. I fast-walk to the corner, desperate to keep my composure and not make a scene, especially when he might emerge from the shop at any moment.

I’m not ready. I thought I was. I’ve done everything to move on, but I saw him, and now tears are leaking from my eyes, and shit!

“Excuse me.”

I turn and freeze when I see the guy standing beside me in a black leather jacket. He’s got scruffy dark stubble, a few lip rings and studs, and a sharp eyebrow that’s cocked as he appraises me with a steady, inscrutable look.

He’s stunning. Literally stunning.

His lips are dark pink, puffy, and glossy like he just licked them, and his eyes are deep wells that stand out against his pale skin. He seems about my age, probably in his late twenties, but he looks more weathered than I am. Maybe it’s his messy, choppy haircut or the flash of faded tattoo I see at his wrist. We’re the same height, too, but under his worn jacket, I can tell he’s muscly, stronger than me.

“If you’re going to stare, it’s good manners to at least say something.”

“Uh, sorry,” I manage. I rub the heels of my palms against my eyes, trying to hide that I’m crying. “I’m fine. Just having a moment. Didn’t mean to stare.”

He grunts something that’s not a word.

“I’m sorry?” I say.

The stranger’s mouth twitches up in one corner toward a smile. “That’s my motorcycle,” he says, pointing directly behind me.

I turn. I don’t know anything about motorcycles, but this one is clearly special. In this gray Seattle weather, the blue-and-black machine still shines.

“Sorry.” I step aside, even more embarrassed. “Right. Sorry.”

The man rocks back on his heels. I notice that his hair really is messed up, like someone attacked it with kitchen scissors and a buzzer. Except the stranger is so damn gorgeous and chill, he pulls off choppy hair like it’s a style.

“Areyou all right?” he asks, his deep voice rolling out slow and even.

I glance at the bookstore. “I’m fine. I just ran into my ex.” I wave my hand in the air to dismiss that. “It doesn’t matter. I should go before he pops out.”

This is not my best moment. I’m puffy-eyed and stressed and awkwardly babbling about Smith to a hot stranger. The sooner I’m home and lost in a pulpy old book, the better.

“Have a nice motorcycle ride,” I say. Immediately, I regret saying it and wish to die, so I turn to huff off.

“Wait,” he interrupts. “Do you want a lift?”

---