Rocking Hard, Volume 2

  Table of Contents

  Rocking Hard: Volume 02

  Book Details

  Fallen Angel

  Track 01

  Track 02

  Track 03

  Track 04

  Track 05

  My Truest Love

  Capsicum Head

  Song of the Soul

  Track 01

  Track 02

  Track 03

  Track 04

  Track 05

  Track 06

  Track 07

  Acceptance

  About the Authors

  Kayla Bain-Vrba

  Mell Eight

  L.J. LaBarthe

  Cassandra Pierce

  Alessandra Ebulu

  Rocking Hard: Volume 02

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Fallen Angel | Kayla Bain-Vrba

  When Jackson lands a job to join his favorite band on tour for a few weeks, he think he's finally gotten his chance. An unexpected attraction to the band's frontman, however, adds complications to the tour that neither of them wants. Trying to work through it only seems to heap more problems upon their head, and Jackson starts to wonder if he's finally gotten his big break, or if he's just going to be left broken.

  My Truest Love | Mell Eight

  By day, Cole is the lead singer of popular band The Four Kings, traveling the galaxies to sing to their adoring fans. Though a glamorous life on the surface, it's far from easy and even more dangerous than some would guess, because his real job title isn't lead vocals—it's spy.

  Capsicum Head | L.J. LaBarthe

  Determined to get their band's name out there, Jon, his lover Pete, and their bandmates decide that taking gigs in other towns and cities is the way to do it. Their first attempt, however, is a complete and total disaster, leaving them all leery of a second attempt. If nothing else, it will be an adventure.

  Song of the Soul | Cassandra Pierce

  Centuries ago, Hawk performed for a King so impressed he turned Hawk into an immortal monster. In the fall out, Hawk lost his lover forever. In present day Hawk is still a performer, though the music and the audience have greatly changed. When he sees his old lover in the crowd, Hawk dares to hope—but hope turns to despair when the man claims no knowledge of him, and new information from his past comes to light, threatening to truly keep the lovers apart forever.

  Acceptance | Alessandra Ebulu

  One year ago Phil lost his brother, and since then he has faltered in his position as lead vocals and guitarist for his band. When he finally collapses on stage, he is made to take time off. One night in a bar he meets Lars, a student and songwriter of amazing talent—and on the receiving end of a heartbreak and ultimatum that need the changes and hope that Phil wants to provide.

  Book Details

  Rocking Hard

  Volume 2

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Fallen Angel Edited by Michael Jay

  My Truest Love Edited by Amanda Jean

  Capsicum Head Edited by Amanda Jean

  Song of the Soul Edited by Michael Jay

  Acceptance Edited by Michael Jay

  Cover designed by Aisha Akeju

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  First Edition February 2014

  Fallen Angel Copyright © 2014 by Kayla Bain-Vrba

  My Truest Love Copyright © 2014 by Mell Eight

  Capsicum Head Copyright © 2014 by L.J. LaBarthe

  Song of the Soul Copyright © 2014 by Cassandra Pierce

  Acceptance Copyright © 2014 by Alessandra Ebulu

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 9781620043110

  FALLEN ANGEL

  Kayla Bain-Vrba

  TRACK ONE

  "Feeling like the king of this whole honkytonk fair, prettiest little tank top dancing circles everywhere …"

  Jackson Anthony rolled his eyes, shoved black painted nails through his loose hair, and dumped his dish tray at the kitchens. One more country song was all it would take to push him over the edge, he was sure. Kathy's Kitchen wasn't exactly known for being "hip" or even "moving with the times". Employing Jackson's glam self had been their most risqué move since hiring a black dishwasher in the '80s.

  As it was, Jackson's poison of choice was glam rock, but no one would ever hear any of that played at Kathy's. Jackson listened to just about everything; he would even be able to tolerate bubblegum pop playing at the café. But the country—the "honky-tonk" country—would, quite possibly, be the death of him.

  "Hi, my name's Jackson and I'll be your server today." He attempted to smile through the monotony, but one look from the elderly couple at his table informed him it was futile. It was true, he was wearing very tight jeans and his jaw length hair was straightened to within an inch of its life, but he wasn't wearing makeup—not even eyeliner. It was an attempt to get more tips without selling out: aka, a fail.

  "Can I start you off with something to drink?"

  Not only could he start them off with a sweet tea and a decaf coffee, but they already knew what they wanted to order. He suspected they had been ordering the same thing since the '60s—or maybe even the '40s.

  He was just pouring the sour-faced man's coffee when his back pocket began vibrating. Excusing himself, he turned away and pulled out his phone.

  "Going on break!" he called to the kitchens and stepped into the back alley before answering. "Hey, Tyler. What's up?"

  "Jackson, man, we gotta talk."

  After a long silence, Jackson prompted, "Yeah?"

  "You're out, man."

  "What?" The foot Jackson was leaning against the wall slid down, and he stumbled forward.

  "You're out of the band. We're gonna find a new bass player."

  "A new—I am your new bass player!"

  "Not anymore. Bass players are a dime a dozen. We're gonna find someone who fits better with the band."

  "You mean someone who'll—that's why you're kicking me out, isn't it? 'Cause of Saturday?"

  "I don't—no—what—"

  "You disgusting prick! You're kicking me out 'cause I wouldn't suck your dick before Saturday's gig!"

  "Fuck you, man."

  "That's what you were hoping to do, you fucker! You wanted me in 'cause you saw some pretty boy in makeup and thought I'd bend over for you and your band any time you wanted to get your dicks wet and your girlfriends wouldn't put out!"

  "Like I'd ever come anywhere near some guy's ass when I've got—"

  "When you've got what?"

  "You—I—We're kicking you out 'cause you're a shitty bass player!"

  "Like fuck I am! You're kicking me out 'cause I wouldn't suck your dick!"

  "So what if I am? That's all you're good for, and you wouldn't even do that, so—"

  "Fuck you! You cock-sucking mother-fucking ass—"

  The line went dead.

  Hands shaking with fury, Jackson fumbled for his cigarettes and lighter. He took a long drag, held it until his lungs burned, and then held it a little longer before letting go. He slumped to the bottom of the wall, took another drag off his cigarette, and kicked out at a piece of trash.

  He should have seen this coming. He should have known that Tyler saw him as a piece of ass, a plaything for the band's amusement, not as a real member or even as a bass player.

  Why did this keep happening to him? Why couldn'
t he find a band he belonged with? Why didn't anything last?

  He heard the alley door slam open but didn't bother looking over, even when Becky shouted that his break was over and she wasn't covering for him. With a huff, he ground his cigarette into the pavement, got up and brushed the dirt off his ass, and went back to work.

  The afternoon passed slowly due to Jackson's mood. He was surly to the customers, bitchy to the cooks, and essentially wrapped himself in a black storm cloud.

  While he was cleaning off a corner table, being decidedly more aggressive than was necessary or prudent as he took out his rage on the stack of dirty dishes, a glass cracked beneath his fingers. "Fuck!"

  The customers all turned to stare at the vulgarity coming from the angry punk boy and Becky came rushing over.

  "What the hell, Jackson?" she hissed, shoving at his shoulder to get his attention. "You can't be like this here, not where everyone can see. Just go home, okay? Cool off and come back tomorrow."

  Glaring at her ear, he muttered, "I can't."

  "Excuse me?"

  He met her gaze with his own. "I can't. I need the money for rent."

  Her eyes flicked down to the jeans she had advised him not to wear if he wanted good tips. She sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Just cool it, okay?" She held his eyes, waiting until he agreed before heading back to the kitchens.

  Jackson felt his pocket vibrate again and just barely managed to restrain himself from throwing his towel before pulling his phone out.

  Instead of Tyler's number, he saw a blog update. @Fallen Angel: New bass player auditions. 9am tomorrow. Philadelphia. Info on the website. Good luck, Halos!

  Jackson read through it twice, took a deep breath, and called to Becky. "I'm gonna head home after all!"

  On the way, he stopped at the car dealership, sold his car, and took the bus to his apartment.

  As he dropped to his knees beside his bed to stretch for his savings can—the can that was going to buy him tickets to a future Fallen Angel show—part of him felt detached, like he couldn't believe what he was doing. The rest of him said he had nothing to lose. His band had dropped him; he had exhausted Joliet's music scene. He had spent the last six years since graduation completely dedicating himself to music, being passed form band to band, and fighting for his right to play at any bar that would take him. And where had it gotten him? Absolutely nowhere. It was time to be impulsive.

  He heard keys in the door as he alternated between shoving clothes in a bag and reading the update on the Fallen Angel website.

  "Jackson?" He heard Kandace call his name as she and David approached his room. "Are you okay? You're home … early." They come up short in the doorway, staring at the scene unfolding.

  "What's going on?"

  Jackson threw his makeup bag into his duffel and zipped it up. "I'm going to Philadelphia. Flight leaves in two hours."

  "But … why?"

  Jackson took a breath and tried to bite back an excited smile. "Now that Zadkiel left the band, Fallen Angel needs a bass player to finish the last four weeks of the US tour before they meet up with a Euro glam rocker for the rest."

  For a moment, his roommates just stared at him.

  "Fallen Angel … they're big," David said finally. "World tours and sold out stadiums big."

  Jackson nodded, his grin breaking free. "I know."

  Kandace chipped in. "They're, like, your idols."

  The smile grew even bigger. "I know." He pushed his hair back. "This could be it for me."

  "And if it's not?" David asked.

  Jackson shrugged. "Then I come back and keep doing what I've been doing. I need to do this."

  David nodded. "Good. I think so, too."

  Kandace threw her arms around Jackson, kissing his cheek for luck, and then stood back so David could take his turn.

  "You need someone to drive you to the airport?"

  "Oh, that reminds me …" Jackson dug in his back pocket and handed David a wad of cash. "I sold my car. This should cover my rent."

  "You sold your car?" Kandace squeaked.

  Jackson shrugged. "It was a piece of shit anyway."

  David rolled his eyes and forced the money back into Jackson's hand. "Keep it. Kandace and I can cover this month."

  "But …"

  "Becoming a rockstar ain't cheap." David brushed him off with a smile. "C'mon. Don't you have a plane to catch?"

  *~*~*

  Jackson spent the two-hour flight—and the night in the cheapest motel he could find—running through chord progressions in his head and listening to the Second Circle Of Hell Tour set list on repeat until the bass line was permanently ingrained in his brain. It didn't hurt that he had already repeatedly played virtually every song Fallen Angel had ever recorded.

  The auditions, Jackson quickly found, involved a lot of waiting. A lot. From the time he showed up at the venue, he was surrounded by hundreds of guitar toting musicians. Boys and girls of all ages, styles, and creeds swarmed together, united by their love of music and Fallen Angel.

  Jackson had never felt more at home.

  A girl with liberty spikes, thigh high boots, and not much else came to sit near him, hauling along a high school boy with white hair and mismatched eyes.

  "Hi," she greeted with a smile. "I'm Dani. This is Kyle."

  "Jackson." He shook hands with them both, careful of the spikes around Dani's wrist.

  "Where you from, Jackson?" She settled back on her hands, knees up and spread apart.

  "Joliet, Illinois," he answered, pushing his hair back. "Outside of Springfield."

  "You got a band back home?"

  "Not anymore." Kyle nodded knowingly. "How about you guys?"

  Kyle shrugged. "I'm from NY. I do some session work, mostly for pop acts and Britney/Katy/Nicki imitators."

  "I've been playing with my band, Public Disturbance, out in LA for the last six years." Dani's voice was casual, as if six years in LA was nothing.

  "Six years?" Jackson hadn't held on to a band for six months. "And they're cool with you doing this?"

  "Cool with it? They paid for my flight. Not only is this a dream for me, but the publicity will be great for us. We may leave our indie label and sign with a major."

  "Wow," Jackson breathed. "Just … wow."

  "Yeah." Dani gave an understanding smile. "Exactly."

  The first audition was the worst on Jackson's nerves. Kyle went in much earlier and was pretty nonchalant when he came back with his callback number. "It's nothing big. Just a group of you playing a couple bars for a couple of producers. Nothing to worry about."

  Despite Kyle's assurances, Jackson was shaking when his number was called.

  Kyle was right, in the end. They each took a turn playing a couple bars of whatever they wanted, and then the producers gave callback numbers to anyone good enough to get one.

  Jackson got one.

  Auditions continued for most of the day as the producers sifted through callbacks. Eventually, when the final number was cut down to two dozen, Jackson and Dani were still standing.

  *~*~*

  Michael sat behind a long table with the three producers who had been auditioning all day. They had cut hundreds of guitarists down to two dozen and now it was time for Michael to make the final decision about who would be joining him on tour for a few weeks. The rest of the band was there as well in case Michael needed their input, but he knew he wouldn't. It wasn't like they were hiring a real band member; it was just a temporary fill in. The auditions were mostly a publicity stunt. He just as easily could've called up any number of his friends who played and gotten them out on tour with him. But this was a great opportunity, a big break for someone who deserved it. Michael was happy to provide that.

  He looked the group over. Lots of black, leather, and glitter—that was his first impression. There were two or three kids with so much eyeliner and face paint that he wasn't sure if they were black, white, or purple underneath. A woman with liberty spikes looked like she could shank him
with a toothbrush. A couple girls were wearing skin-tight corsets and leather pants or miniskirts, their hair teased until it looked like they'd stuck their fingers in a light socket.

  One boy caught his eye. He was quiet and confident, with very straight brown hair and green eyes. His black jeans were skin tight, as was his black, long-sleeved shirt, but he wasn't showing off anything. He was just there.

  Michael couldn't explain it, but there was something about that boy—Number Nine—that caught his eye and held it.

  They took turns playing a minute or two of whatever they wanted. Generally, it was something flashy that featured a rare bass solo. They were good—they were all very good. Almost any of them could have fit perfectly with his band, possibly even better than the guitarist they were replacing.

  Then Number Nine stepped forward.

  "My name's Jackson Anthony. I'm twenty-four and from Joliet, Illinois. I've been playing guitar for twelve years." His voice was masculine and warm, firm and quiet. It was incredibly sexy.

  A couple bars in, Michael felt like his lungs had stopped working: he couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away, couldn't stop watching the way Jackson held his guitar, the way his fingers moved on the strings, the way his body moved to the music. There was something there that he couldn't explain, something that made his veins feel like they were on fire.

  He turned to Raphael, his head guitarist and musical director, sitting beside him. "That's it. He's our Gabriel."

  Raphael's eyes widened, but he didn't ask questions. He simply turned to the producer beside him and whispered something to him.

  "Thank you." Jackson's performance was over—Michael was sad to see him stop playing and couldn't explain why—and he stepped back into line. The next boy stepped forward, but before he could speak, a producer said, "Thank you all very much for coming. Number Nine, please stay. The rest of you can go."

  *~*~*

  Jackson couldn't breathe. They hadn't even listened to the rest of the auditions and they knew that he was the one? His stomach was alive, like a swarm of butterflies were joyriding in circles, and he stumbled up to the table.

  Michael grinned at him, a perfect smile that filled his bright blue eyes. "Welcome to Fallen Angel, Gabriel."