Page 1 of The Rockstar

1

RYDER

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and they still found me? Fucking bloodhounds. These people need to make a career out of finding people who don’t want to be found.

I lean against the leather recliner and ignore the sound, cradling a chipped mug of coffee I didn’t even bother to warm. It’s cold, bitter. Just the way I like it. Just the way everything’s been lately.

The knock stops, and silence settles over the cabin. It’s been two days since I arrived. Two days of peace and quiet. No screaming fans. No fucking camera clicks. No demands for an encore or a new single or some social media apology about something I had no idea I did. No executives breathing down my neck.

Just trees, sky, and the goddamn ache in my fingers that won’t leave, even though I haven’t touched the guitar. Or maybe, that’s the reason they ache in the first place.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Goddammit. My jaw ticks, and my heart sinks. I thought this place was off-grid. At least, it’s what my bandmate and best buddy, Knox, told me. I even paid extra for isolation. Only he knew where I was, and I doubt he’d sell me out.

The soft knock becomes louder. Three sharp pounds and a small voice yelling, “I know someone’s in there. Please open up.”

For three whole seconds, I ignore her. Ignore the desperation, the plea, the urgency because I’ve seen and heard it all. All the lies, excuses, and whatever others come up with to pretend they “bumped” into me or saw me “accidentally”. It takes them approximately two beats before the real reason comes rushing out.

I didn’t know you were here. Could you sign my chest, and let’s take a selfie?

Oh my God. You’re Ryder Cross, right? I’m such a fan! Can I get your number?

I had no idea you were vacationing here. Can you follow me on Instagram?

I’m so tired of this shit, but the knocks don’t stop. If anything, they only become louder and more insistent. With no hope of getting back that earlier peace, I set the mug down on the table and stand slowly.

It’s probably some kid with a camera who can’t wait to post it on social media and let everyone know I’m here. Or maybe it’s a pap trying to do the same. Or one of those nutjobs who sends me white shirts with a note written in red lipstick about how they can’t wait to have my babies.

Fuck.

I try to peek in the window and can’t see shit. So I guess it’s one person, then. Can’t be too hard to deal with.

My fingers curl around the cold brass knob, and I yank it open, ready to give hell to whoever dared to come here and interrupted me.

I stop cold, words lodging in my throat, tendrils of warmth threading through my chest and my limbs. It’s not a social media famewhore. Not a pap. Just a young woman.

A fan? Hmm. For some odd reason, I know she’s not. Definitely not the kind who’ll beg me to impregnate her.

Desire slams into me from out of nowhere, hitting me like a freight train. She’s shorter than me, drenched, and her clothes are sticking to her body. Her dark brown pixie hair clings to her forehead, cheeks flushed from cold or maybe nerves or both.

Wide green eyes blink up at me, confused, hopeful, startled. A flush creeps down her throat to where her faded gray shirt sticks to her skin. Something stupid is printed across the chest:A book fell on my head. I can only blame my shelf.

Uhm, what?

She’s got black denim cutoffs and beat-up Converse on, which isn’t something anyone with sense will wear while trudging the woods. Well, unless she wasn’t prepared for a hike, no matter how short it was.

Her knees are scraped, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Yup, she doesn’t look like she’ll willingly walk all the way here for an autograph.

“Ryder Cross?”

On second thought, maybe she either wants an autograph or a sound bite. I wouldn’t put it past the paps to use someone as beautiful as her to get something from me, something to splash on their front pages. This wariness and skepticism are both rooted in experience, so nothing is ever far-fetched.

I still remember that one time, someone dressed as a cop fell before me, and when I picked her up, she snatched my silver necklace—the one I had custom-made. The next thing I knew, thousands of fans were bidding for it on eBay.

So no, I’m not paranoid. I’m hyper vigilant, which is a must in this industry.

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