As we get dressed, we stand together, hand in hand, looking out at the city. It’s our new playground, the foundation for the future of our business. Someday, our children will stand in this spot and know that they own everything we’ve worked for. But for now, it’s just me and Vincent against the world.
And I don’t mind that one bit.
Rocking Her World (SS#11)
Rocking Her World
AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE
_______________________
SHORT STORIES, 11
FLORA FERRARI
Copyright © 2021 by Flora Ferrari
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.
Rocking Her World
Harper
Working as a cleaner backstage is no glamorous job, even if it is in one of the biggest venues in the city. But when the infamous, heart stopping rockstar, Clay Cooper, bumps right into me, he makes me feel like I’m the only girl in the world.
Clay
She’s half my age and all I know is that she’s a cleaner, but she’s so damn beautiful that the rest doesn’t matter. I know I’m not imagining the connection between us. I need to make her mine.
*insta-everything standalone with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
Chapter One
Harper
When you’re young, your parents tell you to shoot for the stars, but I don’t think they ever imagined that I’d be shooting for cleaning up after the stars. My job backstage at Madison Square Garden basically involves me cleaning up all the mess that the musicians make before and after they go on stage. I didn’t ever see myself here either, but a job is a job, and I guess at least I’ve got to meet some famous faces, even if they forget me as soon as they meet me.
I sigh as I arrive at the scene of the crime from last night, the biggest dressing room in the stadium. I was supposed to take care of the mess here last night, but all four members of the band who played here wanted to throw their afterparty in the stadium. So here I am at seven am, ready to clean up after them. There are plastic cups with dregs of beer scattered all over the floor, and the tell-tale signs of drug use have been left on every surface in the room. The fridge has been left wide open, the light inside flickering on and off. It’s been completely ransacked of the complimentary snacks and drinks offered to each of the stars who perform here. If there’s anything I’ve learned about rock stars and famous musicians since I got my job here, it’s that they’re all selfish and inconsiderate idiots.
I get sucked in, grabbing a trash bag and shoveling endless garbage into the plastic liner. There are plenty of other things I’d rather be doing, of course. I could be at home, writing new songs or putting my feet up in front of the TV. But since I decided that college wasn’t for me and I don’t really have any qualifications, this was the best job I could find. I’m hoping someday that my songwriting will kick off and I’ll be able to quit this life, but until then, I guess I’ll be cleaning up after all the people I’ve come to despise.
I need to do this as quickly as I can. I know the next musician is due to show up at some point this morning, and I’m sure they won’t be impressed to find their dressing room looking like a bomb site. I sigh, wiping my brow and trying not to panic about how much there is to do. I need to find someone to help restock the fridge, scrub the floors clean, and clear all of the mess those assholes left behind.
I can’t do this on my own, I realize, but I’m the only person here. I feel overwhelmed with hurt and annoyance as if the musicians specifically did this to hurt me. I’m taking it personally, I know, but they don’t even think about people like me and how hard we work. We’re too far below their feet, just the scum of the Earth. Now, I’m blinking back tears. I can’t do this anymore. There’s no respect here at all. I have to quit. I have to go.
I stand up and storm toward the door to the dressing room, tears clouding my vision so badly that I don’t notice that I’m not alone. As I barrel through the door, I hit something rock hard and fall back, only to be caught by a strong pair of arms.