Rise (Rock God 1)

I lift my fist to the sky and close my eyes.

I am home.

I am the Rock God.

GIA

Present – Twenty-five years old

Paris, France

“Are you going to fall asleep at the table, or can I order us something to eat?” Sebastian kicks my crossed leg, causing my eyes to snap open and my leg to drop with a thud.

“Stop it,” I hiss, straightening up. “I’m jet-lagged already.” I breathe in and look around, mostly for a waitress. I need coffee. Wealth and entitlement bounce from one table to the next as I roll my neck and try to focus.

“Get your shit together. The day just started.” He smirks and leans back in the comfortable chair as his eyes scan my face.

I cock my head and stare right back, but let’s be honest—he has an unfair advantage. The jerk slept the entire plane ride from Los Angeles to Paris. I think he woke up once for some water and a warm cloth for his eyes, then went back to sleep. While I stayed awake, torturing myself for eleven hours, worrying that at any second this might be my last. I have a flying phobia. It started years ago. Maybe I’ve always had it. I can’t pinpoint when it started to be out of control. I guess it kind of crept up on me slowly, one flight after another until Bam.

I’ve tried everything: yoga, counseling, hypnotherapy. You name it; I’ve tried it. But no matter how Zen I am, as soon as I board the plane and smell that recycled air, all meditation is gone.

It’s irrational, but the plane could go down. The thought of having to go through those last seconds…

Sebastian, on the other hand, orders a screwdriver, pops some Valium, and is out in minutes. Meanwhile, I sit in silence, fighting myself not to jump up and scream for the pilot to make an emergency landing.

Which is why I’m exhausted. I need coffee, or a ten-minute nap, not Sebastian’s stare.

“Damn it.” I don’t look away but grab my purse from the floor. Obviously, my appearance is lacking.

“I don’t know why you never listen to me. I begged you to take a Valium or Ativan.” His voice keeps bugging me.

“Because I hate relying on them. I’m stronger than that,” I snip right back at him. He continues giving me the stare. I take a deep breath because I want so badly for it to be true. Unfortunately, this time he might be right. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally, and we do have a full day ahead. I give him a giant eye roll as I pull out my makeup bag.

“And I hate that stare,” I say dramatically, opening my compact to assess myself. He throws back his head and laughs as I blink at my reflection in the small mirror.

I’ve got the smoky-eye thing going on, but I’m rolling with it. It’s fashion week, after all, and with the eleven hours of panic I’ve been through, I’m shocked I look this good. My lips are still stained red from the matte lipstick, and my hair has held up well.

I bring the mirror away from me so I can see more of myself. What the heck? I look pretty damn good. Sebastian has no reason to give me his infamous stare.

“You’re strong, Gia. But even Wonder Woman needs a little help sometimes.” His beautiful brown eyes are serious.

I run my hand through my hair. “Fine. You’ve made your point.” I glance over at the cute, dark-haired waitress who’s approaching and mumble, “I’ll take ten Valium on the way home and swallow them down with a bottle of vodka. Happy?”

“I’m dead serious, Gia. This is getting absur—”

“Bonjour, est-ce que tu veux que bois quelque chose?” The French waitress thankfully saves me from the lecture my best friend is about to give. I hate when Sebastian gets on his soapbox or worse, displays his “brotherly” concern.

I have a brother and trust me, he’s enough.

“Bonjour, beaute.” He instantly shifts so that he can give her his full attention, flashing her his beautiful smile and causing the poor girl to blush.

Perfect. I’m never going to get coffee now. Women go crazy for Sebastian when he decides to show interest. The man oozes self-confidence. That, and he’s fucking hot.

“You want your usual?” He speaks without breaking his stare with the waitress.

“Yes, please.” I feel like kicking him with my new heels. He’s being ridiculous.

Sebastian orders in flawless French. He’s from Montreal, so he speaks the language.

I snap my compact shut, tossing it back into my bag and forcing them both to look at me.

“Coffee, s’il-vous-plait.” My accent is horrendous, which is why I always let Sebastian order, but I have zero patience this morning. If he wants to flirt, he can do it after I get a cup of coffee. I recross my legs and sit up straighter.