A Filthy Christmas (Filthy Line #6) - Jaxson Kidman Page 0,2
walked to the bedroom to pack my clothes and leave.
I told myself I would never ever fall in love with a rock star again.
1
SHANE
Another beautiful, sunny, bright California day, and I felt like someone had an icepick lodged into my skull. Right behind my eyes. Both eyes. Even with sunglasses on.
To be fair, I was the one standing outside, taking in the sun.
Smoking a cigarette.
Thinking about the studio session inside the building I leaned against.
It was for some of that wannabe pop rock bullshit that would hit the radio in a month. Then all the girls getting their licenses would blast the song out of Mom and Dad’s car while heading to the beach to flirt with some boys.
This shit was a far cry from the rock star life I dreamed of, but it did provide one hell of a living.
I could mostly fly under the radar.
The nights I got up on stage and played what I wanted, I never went home alone.
At the same time, I had every record company sending their goons out to my shows to drive me crazy about putting a band together around me. That wasn’t what I wanted in life. To be the front man of a rock band and have full control over the rest of the band. It would be a one man show with some session guys.
Kind of like what I was now.
Except nobody yelled at me. Nobody told me what to do.
If you didn’t like what I had to offer…
I took a drag off my cigarette and sighed a deep breath.
The door opened next to me with speed and force, smashing into my left shoulder.
“Yeah, well, fuck you too!” a voice yelled.
The door shut and a woman turned and looked at me.
I instantly told myself this was the woman I was going to marry.
She ended her call and stared at me.
“Did I hit you with the door?”
“Yes, you did,” I said.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Excuse me?”
“Who were you on the phone with?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
“Can I get you a light?”
“A light?”
I pointed to her right hand. She was holding a cigarette.
She looked at the cigarette. “Oh. This.” She laughed. “I don’t smoke.”
“Right.”
“I’m serious. I don’t smoke. I just say I do so I can get extra breaks.”
“Ah. You found the loophole.”
“Well, if you’re going to stand out here and get cancer, why can’t I watch?”
I laughed. “I love non-smokers. Like you don’t do anything harmful to your body?”
“How would you know?”
“Yelling on the phone like that… that causes stress. Stress isn’t good for the body. I bet stress is worse than the occasional cigarette.”
“And where did you get your medical degree?” she asked, curling her lip.
When the sun hit her brown hair, I saw streaks of red. Hidden red. Her face was almost catlike. Which probably sounded horrible, but it was… a pretty resting bitch face. Her eyebrows high. Her eyes like milk chocolate. Her cute little nose with a small diamond stud through her right nostril. Her lips were pouty without makeup.
She was wearing a stretched-out t-shirt that hung off her left shoulder, showing off her bra strap. Add to that some ripped jeans and old, beat up shoes, this woman was…
“Are you recording in there?” I asked.
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m recording in there.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “You look like you rolled out of a dumpster in an alley. Let me guess… you’re a wannabe rock star?”
“Just about,” I said. I took the last drag of my cigarette. I flicked it to the ground. “I better go inside and ice up my shoulder. If I can’t play guitar, I’m out of a job. If that happens, then I’m going to have to track you down and sue you.”
She scoffed. “Real nice to say. And your cigarette is on the ground burning.”
“Then step on it,” I said. I reached for the door and opened it slowly. “See what I’m doing here? Looking around before I throw open a door.”
“Asshole,” she said.
“No. The name is Shane. Yours?”
She shook her head.
“Ah, right,” I said. “I blew my chance because I smoke and look like I live in a dumpster. Not that you’re much better.”
She lunged at me and grabbed my arm. “What does that mean?”
“You’re screaming on the phone to someone,” I said. “And you look like you escaped some wannabe rock star’s bed. Knowing you really didn’t fuck the lead singer of a band but rather the guy who sets up the mic stand for the lead singer