Rock Hard Read online

  ROCK HARD

  Paige North

  Favor Ford Publishing

  Contents

  Copyright

  NOTE

  Want To Be In The Know?

  ROCK HARD by Paige North

  1. Jayce

  2. Elena

  3. Jayce

  4. Elena

  5. Jayce

  6. Elena

  7. Jayce

  8. Elena

  9. Jayce

  10. Elena

  11. Jayce

  12. Elena

  13. Jayce

  14. Elena

  15. Jayce

  16. Elena

  17. Jayce

  18. Elena

  19. Jayce

  20. Elena

  21. Jayce

  22. Elena

  23. Jayce

  Bonus Book: SMITH (The Beckett Boys, Book One) by Olivia Chase

  1. Aubrey

  2. Smith

  3. Aubrey

  4. Smith

  5. Aubrey

  6. Smith

  7. Aubrey

  8. Smith

  9. Aubrey

  10. Smith

  11. Aubrey

  12. Smith

  13. Aubrey

  Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing

  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.

  NOTE

  This edition of Rock Hard contains the following bonus content: SMITH by Olivia Chase

  Want To Be In The Know?

  If you want to know as soon as the next Paige North book is released, and get alerted to the hottest deals in romance—sign up now to the Favor Ford Romance newsletter!

  ROCK HARD by Paige North

  1

  Jayce

  Damn, I need to see that ass buck-naked.

  That’s my first thought when the door to the lobby opens, and in walks a sweet young thing in blue jeans and a yellow peasant top. Strawberry blond, short, and bathed in summer sunshine, she talks to Dottie at the front desk, her curved ass in those tight jeans making my dick hard. Best of all, Strawberry Shortcake looks like she don’t know how hot she is – she’s got that whole innocent eyes thing going on.

  I’m sitting in an empty office just off the main lobby, supposedly working—but instead I’m staring at this sexy young thing who looks like she’s brand new to this town.

  But I don’t have time to check out Strawberry right now, don’t have even one spare second to pull my usual routine where I chat up the girl and then before you know it… I’m fucking her, getting my cock sucked, giving her that orgasm to remember from Jayce Owens, country star extraordinaire.

  The girl is pointed towards Studio One and off she goes, clearly new and nervous. Must be one of the backup singers we hired for the session today.

  I watch her ass sway as she goes, shaking my head.

  No time for pussy, Jake. This is crunch time, motherfucker.

  I’ve got the headphones on and I hit play on the newest rough mix from the track I’ve been working on. As the music pours into my ears, I feel that sickening sensation that’s become all too familiar these last weeks.

  It’s wrong.

  All fucking wrong.

  I close my eyes, clench my jaw, feel the rage swelling up inside my chest and then before I know it, I’m grabbing my headphones and winging them across the room. They crash against the wall and shatter into fragments.

  Dorian looks over, eyes wide, but then sees it’s me and quickly goes back to whatever she was doing a moment ago.

  They’ve gotten used to my outbursts around here.

  As each day goes by, it gets worse. My producer, Rick, has been pushing me for that hit song, the one like Need Your Love that roared up the charts and made my first album a huge crossover success.

  Instead, it seems like I’m due for the dreaded sophomore slump album.

  The one where afterwards, everyone asks, “Hey, whatever happened to…”

  I abruptly leave the office and head down the hallway to Studio One. I open the door to the control room, where my producer, Rick Santos, and a couple of engineers are watching the backup singers prepare for their session.

  Rick turns and looks at me, his expression troubled. “What’s up, Jayce?”

  “I thought I’d sit in for a minute,” I say, nodding to the glass, behind which we can see the three singers lining up and getting their mics ready to perform.

  “Jayce…” Rick and that exasperated voice of his. “We don’t need you here for this. It’s just a few simple backing tracks. And we need you working on that—“

  “I know what I need to do,” I say, the edge in my voice clear. I glare at my producer and dare him to contradict me.

  Rick may be a top producer, but I’m still the one in charge of this damn album. And if it ends up bombing, it will be me who takes the fall for it—not him.

  Rick sighs and shrugs, turning to the board, while I fold my arms and look at the glass. The ghost of a smile starts at my lips.

  There she is, the girl from the lobby. Summer sunshine in a small package. Strawberry Shortcake.

  “What?” Rick mutters, glancing at my face.

  “Nothing,” I tell him.

  She can’t be more than five-two, cute, curvy little body, but it’s her face that gets me. Heart-shaped, dimpled chin, plump lips, wide eyes like she’s experiencing Nashville for the first time. Babe, I can be your Nashville.

  “Alright, let’s hear what the girls got,” Rick tells the sound engineers as they work the controls to begin a sample recording. Ambient noises melt away as I stare at her through the glass from the darkness of the control room. She can’t see me, which is perfect. All I want to do is watch her, the way her mouth moves while she’s singing, the way she closes her eyes when she wants to feel the lyrics of a particular line deep inside her.

  Deep inside her.

  Her voice is throaty and resonant, an alto, and sexy as hell. Her curves beckon me to touch them, and her eyes—I think they’re light—are innocent. I have to get closer for a better sense. Watching her lips open and close like she’s wrapping them around my cock, I’m fucking hard as a rock. I want her—now.

  One of the other singers comes in a beat too fast, so I take the opportunity to cut in. “Pause the recording. Let me go talk to them,” I tell Rick, rounding the sound engineers to reach the side door.

  “You don’t have to do that, Jayce, she knows she fucked up. We’re just gonna move on…Jayce, come back here!”

  But I’m already out the door, through the soundproof booth, into the live room. The girls all turn their heads to see who’s coming in, and of course, all of them are surprised when they see it’s me. The two brunettes straighten themselves and fiddle with their hair the way girls always do whenever I’m around. Shortcake doesn’t—she freezes and averts her eyes.

  Pretty green eyes. With gold flecks in them. I’ll be damned.

  “You girls are doing great,” I tell them, tipping my cowboy hat. “In fact, you two can go over those last eight counts real quick while I talk to new girl here.” I smile at her and pull her away from the mic so the boys don’t hear what I’m up to. Her skin is soft and lightly tanned, like she laid by the pool this morning.

  “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong, Mr. Owens?” Shortcake fiddles with the pendant resting right between her breasts, some kind of quartz crystal wrapped in wire. Up close, I see she’s younger than me by a few years, maybe early twenties. I don’t see a ring on her finger, and I’m willing to bet she has some douchebag for a boyfriend, but I do
n’t care.

  Right now, she’s all mine.

  “Yes. This crystal right here…” I reach out and pick up the stone between my fingertips, lightly brushing the skin above her cleavage. I examine it very, very closely. “It’s beautiful, but…it’s interfering with the recording.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes, you’re going to have to remove it.” I close in. Her skin has a sweet, unique scent that reminds me of a sunflower field near my old house in the hills. “In fact, this is a very serious offense, Miss…”

  She smiles. I hear her breath catch in the back of her throat a moment, and her fingertips hold onto the crystal like a lifeline. She giggles nervously, happy this is all in jest but still freaked about me singling her out. “Elena. Elena Wallace.” She juts out her hand all professional-like.

  “Shortcake. Strawberry Shortcake,” I say, sliding my hand into hers. Soft handshake, feminine. Driving me fucking nuts.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s your nickname. Since I first saw you a little while ago. In the lobby. Your hair, you know, reddish blonde. Your baby face. And because you’re short.” She blushed, exactly the reaction I was hoping for.

  “I’m not short. Maybe you’re excessively tall,” she says.

  Oh. Shortcake has backtalk game. I like it.

  “Everybody thinks my height is perfect.”

  “Is that so?” She laughs. I can tell she wants to keep up the banter but she lets it go, most likely since we’re surrounded by people waiting for us to finish. She’s good at keeping things professional, though. “Are we going to continue with the recording?” she asks.

  “In a second. Listen,” I say, propping myself against the wall, preventing her from going back to the music stand. “See the distance I put between me and the live mic? This is off-record. I want you to come out with me tonight. I’m fixin’ to go to Vanguard—you’ve heard of it, right?”

  “Of course I have. But why are you asking me…” She’s flustered and glancing around to see if someone is maybe playing a practical joke on her.

  “Well, you haven’t been properly interviewed. Not by me, anyway. I can’t have you working on my album if I haven’t interviewed you.” Big smile.

  So goddamned sexy the way she bites her bottom lip. “Mr. Owens, I can’t. I…I’m here to work.”

  “It’s Jayce, and I didn’t mean now. I meant later.”

  “I know what you meant.” There she goes…touching her hair now, a definite effect of my proximity, a good sign. The other girls finish their eights and pretend to go over the next set of lyrics while they probably eavesdrop. “Still, you’re…my boss,” she says all hushed. “And I’m not here to go clubbing.”

  She’s got to be fucking kidding. It’s obvious she’s into me, so why is she fighting it? Why isn’t she falling all over the chance, like other women? For four years now, they come to me, harass me for a date, not turn me down. I have to say, her standoffishness is refreshing. It’s also driving me fucking crazy. “What are you here for, then?”

  “I’m here to blow your mind.” She glances at me from underneath pretty brows.

  The words wend their way through my body, past my brain, into my stiff cock.

  “With my voice, of course,” she adds quickly. The million-dollar smile emerges, then just as quickly disappears, as she refocuses on her sheet music.

  “Fine. But you will give me your number later. You may have the voice of an angel, Shortcake, but you still have another test to pass.”

  “What test is that?” Damn, those big jade eyes. I wish that every single one of these people would get the fuck out, so I can taste exactly how sweet strawberries can be on a summer afternoon.

  “The aural test,” I tell her and wait for it. There—my litmus test for gauging sexual experience. I bet she’s a baby cougar in kitten clothing—a Level V, at least.

  “Excuse me?” Her eyes widen to the size of platinum records. She blushes hard, really hard, and looks away. Hmm. Level I—a beginner. Suddenly, I want to take her into my arms and teach her everything there is to know. “Mr. Owens, I need to do the job I came to do.”

  “Wait. No. You thought I meant…” I laugh, shaking my head. “No, darlin’. The a-u-r-a-l test is auditory, determines your ability to discern music and tonal qualities. That other test comes later.” I smile and tap the wall, walking off and leaving her off-kilter. “Excellent work, everyone. Let’s really harmonize in the last stanza, got it?”

  I’m out.

  Back in the control room, Rick sits on the leather couch, shaking his head. “Did you just interrupt a recording session to hit on the backup singer?” he asks, as I breeze past him. “Did you really just do that? Jesus Christ, Owens.”

  “You wanted me to stay late tonight, right?”

  “You ought to.”

  “And you and Pierce hired the girl, am I right?”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “Get me her phone number.” I resume my position by Rick and the engineers. Tomorrow would be better for Vanguard anyway, after Elena Wallace has had a moment to absorb it all. “And I’ll stay as late as you want.”

  2

  Elena

  I’m so out of breath when I get out of there, I crank my car’s A/C full blast.

  What the hell just happened?

  When my friend in the industry, Liza, told me last month there was an opening for backup for a Jayce Owens record, I figured I’d come in, record a few tracks, get paid, and be on my merry way. These megastar artists almost never stay in the recording studio to micromanage the production. Never in a million years did I think I would actually meet Jayce Owens!

  Holy crap!

  Not only was he hands-on with the mix, but he supervised the whole time. Then, coming in to talk to me—specifically me? I felt like I couldn’t breathe, with the way he stared at me from underneath the brim of his cowboy hat. Those sexy brown eyes, oh my God. When the session finished, I had to duck out of sight and come out for fresh air.

  Why did he single me out? I’ve seen the women he’s taken to the CMAs before, and they’re tall and lanky and fancy, like gourmet biscotti. Me, I’m a vanilla Pop-Tart. Strawberry, according to Jayce. I am nothing to write home about, so I can only assume that he had to have been drunk. Either that, or he likes intimidating the new girls.

  Well, ten points for him.

  His presence overpowered, commanded, and given different circumstances, I might’ve said yes to a date. But I can’t. I work for him now (even if I’m freelance, he’s still my client), plus I refuse to be one of those girls who sleep their way to stardom. I did not spend four years getting a B.A. in Music Performance Study Option from the University of New Hampshire, learning guitar, piano, and vocals, moving to Nashville to try and make it against my family’s will, all so some cocky country star can woo me with his charisma.

  I am an independent woman.

  I am making my way to the top legitimately, thank you very much.

  Holy hell, I need to calm down.

  So…how was it? It’s a text from Zoe, my roommate. I met her at Hammerhill’s where we wait tables together, hoping for a chance to sing on their stage. Like me, she’s always looking for vocal gigs, and she’s also small and blond and unassuming. Shit. It’s so hard to stand out in this industry. Maybe I should go full redhead?

  I met him.

  Met who? Wait, you

  don’t mean…

  Yes. I met Jayce Owens.

  OMFG

  I know. And you won’t believe

  this but he asked me on a date.

  WUT

  I’m serious.

  You can’t Elena. Not

  saying that because I want to

  have his babies. Saying

  it because you can’t. We want

  to do this on our own merit.

  Remember?

  I know, trust me. That’s why

  I said no to him.

  You did what????
/>
  WTF, why??

  Tell you more later.

  Forget what I said. You need

  to go out with him. IT’S FUCKING

  JAYCE OWENS, ELENA.

  Talk to you later, Zo.

  Imagine your babies!

  Nope. Not going to imagine our gorgeous babies together, because it’s not going to happen. I came here with a promise to myself, and I am keeping that promise. I start my old Honda Fit and pull out of the Bluebird Recording Studios parking lot.

  I’m halfway to our apartment on Old Hickory when another text comes in. At the next red light, I glance down at my phone. It’s from an unknown number in the Nashville area:

  You left awfully fast.

  My heart skips a beat. No way. My conscience tells me to ignore the message, don’t get sucked in, or I’ll regret it. How many young women have gone down this same rabbit hole and lost all respect for themselves? I won’t succumb.

  But maybe it’s Pierce Tennant, Jayce’s manager and the man who hired me. I did leave kind of quickly. I pull into the nearest parking lot to formulate a professional reply.

  Who is this???

  So much for professional.

  Come out with me tomorrow

  night and find out.

  My heart pounds against my ribcage. It’s him. I can “hear” it in his text voice, if that makes any sense. Jayce Owens, country music’s hottest superstar, three-time Grammy winner, including Best New Artist three years ago and Album of the Year, is texting me—Elena Wallace, small town nobody from Hanover, New Hampshire. How did he get my number? Never mind, he has connections, and clearly, the man gets whatever he wants.