Kristen Ashley - Rock Chick Revolution

This book is dedicated to Kerrie Gisborne, a reader who turned into a friend. My first fan outside my posse—I’m pleased as punch she’s now a member of that crew. And lucky for me, I’m a member of hers too. Miss you, Kerrie.

First, credit has to be given to Ebony Evans for the title of this book, Rock Chick Revolution. Ebony contacted me eons ago with the title suggestion and I loved it the minute I read it. I had other thoughts and other suggestions, but Ebony’s suggestion wouldn’t let me go. So thank you, darlin’, for a great title that fits this book perfectly.

Second, I want to thank my best bud Kelly Brown who was the inspiration for Ally. Fearless. Intelligent. Funny. Loyal. Strong. Kelita, when we were in that cave in Venezuela and you rushed ahead to spot that old lady in her clickity-clack heels (in a cave!), leaving me behind to watch where every foot fell (and fear the bats hanging from the ceiling), I was in awe. I hope you feel Ally does you justice because I think you kick ass and I know you can do anything (mostly because you’ve already done it).

And last, I have to share with my readers that this book was the most difficult book I’ve ever written. This is the first series where I let my Rock Chick Flag fly and decided to write what I wanted, to hell with “the rules.” I started this series because I was living in England and very homesick for Denver, pouring out these words as a love letter to that city, my country, and the people I left in them. I shared with my readers many characters who are loosely (and not-so-loosely) based on people I love, including Tex, Tod, Stevie, Ally, Annette, Nick, Reba, and Herb and Trish.

I also shared many good times (and bad) from my own life. For instance, Jet’s response to seeing her mother after her stroke was my response to seeing my Momma after hers. And Indy and Roxie’s dash through the Haunted House was near-on exact to a hilarious event that happened to my friend Cat and I.

So, in a way, these books are me, or many important parts of my life, both living and breathing and treasured memories.

Knowing in starting this book that I would be saying good-bye to the gang at Fortnum’s was bittersweet. Maybe this is why I cried so hard in many scenes that my tears projected onto my glasses. Or laughed so hard I choked. Or got up after writing a scene and danced around my office (no joke, and I’ve never done that before).

So I guess I loved writing this book, too.

And I truly hope you experience the same tears, laughter and jubilation.

But all good things must come to an end. And they must so we can open ourselves to other good things. However, my greatest fear with these novels was that this cast of characters would grow stale and tired. Seeing as I love them as if they were real, and these zany, wonderful, loving characters shouldn’t feel stale and tired, I never, ever wanted that to happen.

So with this book—and a warning, this book is a true revolution—I bid farewell.

Of a sort.

Because with this book, I’m opening myself to other good things.

And seeing as this gang is worth my time, we haven’t seen the end to them yet.

Just the start of new beginnings.

A massive thank you to my readers for loving these books as much as I do. For giving your hearts to my characters. For spending your time with me. And for championing a Rock Chick who breaks the rules.

And Chas, Rikki and now Gary, thank you for taking the ride with me.

Now, as ever and always, my Rock Chicks and Rock Gurus, strap in, put your hands straight up in the air, get ready for one helluva ride and never forget to Rock On!

I woke up naked, in a motel, with a man behind me.

We were spooning.

Ren always spooned me.

No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t always spoon me. Sometimes he tucked me into his side when he was on his back. Sometimes he tucked me to his front when he was on his side and I was on my back. Sometimes I spooned him. But when I did, he held my hand to his chest, even in his sleep, so I couldn’t escape.

He was a maximum contact sleeper.

I loved that.

Secretly.

The problem was, as far as I was concerned, he was just a fuck buddy.

Lorenzo “Ren” Zano didn’t feel the same way.

We’d been dancing this dance for over a year now. Ren trying to convince me we had something. Me disagreeing.

Nope. Again that wasn’t right. Ren wasn’t trying to convince me we had something. He was simply convinced, and for the last eight months had been acting like he was my boyfriend. If boyfriends were bossy, annoying and in your face all the time, telling you what you could and couldn’t do (in my case, it was mostly what I couldn’t).

The months before that, Ren had been trying to convince me we should explore what we had.

I guessed he just gave up trying to convince me and decided to be my boyfriend even if I didn’t agree.

The problem with me not agreeing was I tended to do a few things when Ren was around. One was argue with him like he was my boyfriend. Another was to have the occasional meal (or maybe not so occasional) with him and shoot the breeze, like he was my boyfriend. Another was sleep with him, and spend the night, like he was my boyfriend.

“I know you’re awake.”

I rolled my newly awakened eyes.

Ren always woke up before me in the mornings and always sensed when I was awake.

Except once.

Our first time together.

But what happened after I woke up that time nearly killed me, so I didn’t think about that.

Always when he sensed I was awake, he commenced with The Talk (necessitating capital letters because Ren considered these Talks gravely serious and took them that way; again, I disagreed).

Usually these Talks centered around what we argued about before I jumped him. Or before he jumped me and we went on to have hours of mind-boggling, soul-enriching, life-changing sex, then passed out and Ren instigated Maximum Contact Sleep.

Today, I could tell by his tone, was not going to be different.

“I need coffee,” I told him.

“I’ll get you coffee after we talk.”

See?

There it was.

The Talk.

And bossy.

I sighed and stated, “Zano, I don’t wanna talk.”

He put a hand in my belly, slid away and pressed me to my back so he could loom over me. Then he proceeded to press deep into me with most of his body, but some of it up on an elbow on the bed, and loom over me.

Exhibit A. Ren assumed dominant positions regularly and often in order to best be bossy, annoying and in my face; like, say, pressing me to my back in a bed and looming over me after I said I didn’t want to talk.

I caught his eyes.

God, he had gorgeous eyes.

To block out those eyes, I closed mine.

Still, I saw him, all of him, in my mind’s eye.

His eyes, his face, his hair and other parts of his anatomy (that would be all of it) usually were my undoing, and thus I would end up jumping him even in the midst of a fight. Or, alternately, I wouldn’t struggle too much if he jumped me.

He was Italian, straight up, no other blood in him. He might be American—fourth generation American to be precise—but other than not speaking a different language, I was pretty certain his entire family thought they still lived in Sicily, even though most of them lived in Englewood, Colorado. With the exception of Ren and his cousin Dominic Vincetti. They both lived fifteen minutes to the north in Denver.

Ren was tall, very tall. Taller than me, and I was tall for a woman.

And he had a fabulous body. Lean hips that he knew how to use (big time). Broad shoulders, the power of which he also put to good use (in a variety of delicious ways). Sleek, defined muscles all over that I knew he put a lot of work into in a way he got off on (and I did too, but for a different reason).

But his way wasn’t so he would look exceptionally hot (which he did). It was having time to be in his head and shut everything else out, be centered, get focused, be healthy. It was, like a lot of things about Ren, righteous.

And last, he had unbelievable abs and hip muscles, which I thought should be photographed and put in a museum. They were so perfect everybody should get the chance to see.

He also had thick dark hair that felt good just normally, but it felt awesome when your fingers were buried in it when his tongue was buried in your mouth (or elsewhere on your body).

All that was fabulous, but there were three things that really did it for me with Ren.

His eyes were this beautiful espresso color, so rich and deep, if you weren’t careful, you could lose yourself in them in a way you never wanted to be found.

And he was confident. Not arrogant. It wasn’t about swagger. Confident. He just knew what his body and mind could do, he knew what he liked, what he wanted and he was comfortable with all that. It oozed off him in the way cool oozed off people who were cool. And Ren was just that: cool. He was like a rock star without the guitar and in a suit. It was phenomenal.

And last, he dressed really well. For work, fabulous suits that were tailored for him. Outside of work, he could do jeans and even tees, and he wore them well, but usually he put on a shirt or a sweater (if it was cold) with his jeans and he wore those way better.

But with Ren it wasn’t about the clothes. It was about the man.

And Ren Zano was all man.

Unfortunately, I liked men who were all man.

I also had a weakness for men in suits.

I just didn’t like bossy, annoying and in my face.

And, of course, someone who would eventually break my heart, even though I figured he genuinely didn’t know he was going to eventually do it.

But I knew he would.

His voice came at me, smooth and deep, but also soft and sweet.

“Ally, baby, last night proved we have to have this out, once and for all,”

Shit.

He was using his sweet voice. That always did a number on me. I knew this because, when he switched to it during a fight, this would be around the time I’d jump him.

I opened my eyes. “There’s nothing to have out.”

His eyebrows shot up (he had great eyebrows too, by the way).

“Have you lost your mind?”

Ren asked this a lot.

“No,” I replied.

And this was always my answer.

His hand, still in my belly, pressed lightly as his face dipped closer. “Babe, straight up, last night you fucked up. You’ve fucked up before, but last night, you totally fucked up. It’ll take me, Uncle Vito, your brothers, both of them, Marcus and pretty much every-fuckin’-body to cover your ass for the shit you pulled last night.”

Thus commenced the me-getting-pissed portion of The Talk, which usually led to the me-yelling portion of The Talk, and that moved into the Ren-yelling portion of The Talk, which tended to culminate in the me-stomping-out-portion of our talk (or, alternately, us having a hot, great, fast quickie, then I’d get dressed and stomp out).

“I saved Faye’s life last night,” I reminded him curtly.

“You got on some serious as shit radar last night,” he returned.

“I got them what they wanted.” I kept sharing recent memories.

“You got on radar,” he semi-repeated. “You do not want a single one of those men to know you exist. You really don’t want them to know you got access and skills. You dabble in this shit, Ally. It isn’t your life. It’s a pastime. You do not have a solid network. You do not have back up. You do not have experience. So far, all you’ve got is a shitload of luck and persistence. The first eventually is gonna run out. The second is gonna make it run out and get you into trouble.”

I didn’t hear a lot of what he said since I was stuck on a word he used close to the beginning.