Rock Reclaimed (Rock Revenge Trilogy 2)

Sleep was definitely not in my zip code these days.

However, if I had to be up at an absurdly early hour, at least I could enjoy the sunrise against the backdrop of my favorite place—the boardwalk in the distance. From out here it was crisp and iconic. A never-changing silhouette. I dug my toes into the packed sand as the tide crept back into the ocean. The lace barely tickled my ankles at this time of day. It was also too early for the tourists to inundate the beaches.

It was just me and the runners.

I dug out my camera from my waterproof hobo bag. I’d taken a picture of the sunrise every day since I’d moved to Venice Beach six months ago. Half a year. Half a lifetime.

With my favorite camera, dammit.

A camera that was not currently in my possession.

Now the whole series was ruined. Sure, my other dozen Polaroid cameras would do the job well enough. But it was Matilda who had the most character.

Matilda left ghost trails through the middle of a shot whenever she wanted to. Odd flares. Random stripes or bubbles formed during processing.

Matilda had so much life. I’d hung my entire series on her idiosyncrasies.

It wasn’t enough anyway and you know it.

I jammed a cartridge into Lucy, my second-in-command Polaroid camera. That jackass British singer had stolen my camera, ruining everything.

I needed this series of photos or I was totally fucked. Part of my residency at J Town required that I had an art show every year of my stay. I was six months in—officially. I even had the email from my advocate to prove it.

Did I have a show put together? Was I ready to show her my work?

Nope.

With each picture I took, I had a little more hope that something would come of them. Now?

Fuck.

The blame button had singer boy attached to it. It was better than my face. And seriously, I didn’t even know why people were going wild for this Kagan kid. Sure, he was talented, but walk up and down The Strip for an hour and you’d see a hundred guys with just as much talent.

Lies.

I ejected the first shot out of the chamber to get the fresh cartridge going in my camera. Okay, so maybe not a hundred like him. Maybe not even ten. He was sex rolled in glitter with a husky-voiced overlay to make the package even more interesting.

And maybe I’d found myself looking at articles in the trades to see what people had said about the show. Unfortunately, there were quite a few pictures of me in the tiny local newspapers, as well as the musical blogs and vlogs. Our little…skirmish on the stage had gotten some play on snaps and YouTube.

Sexy.

Was it staged?

Who was the girl with Ian Kagan?

No one knew my name. I didn’t have real press credentials, just an all-access pass thanks to Li. That was my only saving grace through it all. Anonymity was my friend when it came to this kind of crap. And while I’d been in a bunch of the comments, they had been more about him. That effervescent churning of a viral video had grown overnight and the hits kept building. The Blue Rhino’s YouTube page was getting some serious play between the unknown opening act and the Zeps.

Some of it was because of his singing, but what they’d glommed on to was our interaction.

He was sexy—even I couldn’t deny that.

My chill faded. In fact, my whole face felt hot. It had to be the sun coming up.

A pretty face I could deal with. California was filled to the brim with beautiful people of all kinds. My first week in the city, I’d fallen hard for a beautiful boy with cheekbones like beveled glass. The minute he’d rolled off me, he’d been on to the next girl.

For men like Robbie, it was about the chase. This Ian guy was too charming to be anything but the same. I’d learned the hard way to be a little more discerning with my affections.

Beautiful didn’t mean jack to me.