Rock bottom, p.1
Rock Bottom, page 1
ROCK BOTTOM
ROCK HARDER BOOK ONE
KAT MIZERA
Copyright © 2023 by Kat Mizera
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.
Editing: Tera Cuskaden, Kay Springsteen
Cover Design: Dar Albert
Cover Photographer: Wander Aguilar
Cover Model: Alex Champtaloup
Created with Vellum
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Rock God (Rock Harder Book Two)
Also by Kat Mizera
About the Author
1
Zeke
“Minneapolis—give it up for Onyx Knight!”
The crowd roared, and I threw my guitar strap over my shoulder as I walked out on stage. Tommy was already at his drum set, thumping away on the bass drum to get the adrenaline going.
It was another sold-out crowd tonight, despite the winter storm that was headed this way, and I raised my hands over my head to get the audience clapping in time to Tommy’s beat.
“Where the fuck is Carter?” Kellan, my rhythm guitarist, growled in my ear.
I glanced at him questioningly before swinging my gaze toward the wings.
No sign of our wayward bass player, and I gritted my teeth in annoyance. He’d given the term “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” new meaning the last few years, but this kind of shit was getting old. I caught my singer’s eye since he was still in the wings, motioning toward where Carter should have been standing by now. Kingston always came out last, so he tended to dawdle, letting the crowd get worked up in anticipation, but he instantly understood that Carter was missing.
He whirled, disappearing from view, and I struck a chord on my guitar.
“How’s everybody doin’ tonight?” I asked, talking into my stand mic. “Are you ready to party with us?”
The crowd yelled and cheered, and I spotted a woman in the second row lifting her shirt for me. I winked, tossing a pick in her direction before glancing over at the side of the stage again. Just as I was about to panic, I caught sight of Carter. He was zipping up his pants, two blonds still hanging onto him for dear life as he dragged them toward the stage. Kingston said something to him that made him laugh, and he gently handed the two girls off to one of our roadies.
He was such a fucking Romeo, blowing them kisses as he grabbed his bass.
Then he bounded onto the stage like nothing had happened.
“What’s up, you Minnesota motherfuckers?” he yelled into his mic.
I caught a glimpse of Kingston rolling his eyes before Tommy counted us off.
“1-2-3-4!”
We launched into the opening licks of one of our bigger hits, “Shotgun Wedding,” just as Kingston came running out, the tails of his faux tuxedo coat trailing behind him.
“It’s cold outside, ladies,” he crooned. “But it’s going to get fucking hot in here—who’s ready for the Knight?” He danced across the stage as a hot pink bra landed at his feet. Without missing a beat, Kingston scooped it up, wrapped it around his neck and started to sing.
I grinned, moving toward the edge of the stage.
Fucking Carter had almost given me a heart attack.
It was a good thing I loved the unreliable little fuck like a brother.
We’d been friends a long time, going back to high school. We’d had another band back then, and then we’d met Kingston Knight. He was tall, blond, and charismatic, and we hadn’t cared if he could sing or not. Then he opened his mouth, magic happened, and Onyx Knight was born. By the time we added Kellan and Tommy, record companies were already sniffing around, and our first album went gold. Five multi-platinum albums later, we were superstars, touring the world and selling out venues five nights a week.
We were rich, successful, and had it all.
At least it felt that way most of the time.
Nights when Carter got so fucked up we had to use a recorded track because he couldn’t be trusted to play was a different story.
Luckily, that wasn’t tonight.
Despite how late he’d been, he was on point, flirting with girls in the front row, dancing around the stage, and putting on the show people were here to see.
I was still planning to kick his ass later.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I asked him once our third encore was over and we were in our dressing room.
He shrugged, his eyes twinkling as he took a pull from a bottle of Sam Adams. “What can I say? Two beautiful ladies felt the need to suck me off. Could I say no?”
“You could have told them to wait until after,” Kingston muttered, shaking his head.
“Come on, all’s well that ends well. I got there, didn’t I?” He finished his beer and reached for another.
Jesus. We all drank, but Carter practically mainlined the stuff.
“Boys.” Our tour manager, Ross Laken, came into the room. “There’s a journalist here to interview you. Some college kid named Presley something or other.”
“Presley?” Tommy asked, laughing. “Like Elvis?”
Ross shrugged. “Dunno. I just know she’s here. Aurora didn’t set it up, so I don’t think she’s with anyone big. Anyone feel like talking to her?”
We all looked at each other.
“Nah.” I stood up and yawned. “I’m headed to that resort for the next two days. I’ll see you guys in Chicago.”
“I’m going back to the hotel,” Kingston said, getting up.
“Yeah, not tonight.” Kellan waved a hand. “Didi’s waiting.”
“She cute?” Tommy asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
Ross made a face. “She’s okay. One of those fresh-faced girl-next-door types. No makeup, glasses, you know what I mean?”
“Pass.” Tommy grabbed his duffel bag. “I’m out.”
Carter burped, laughed, and looked around. “You guys are such fucking party poopers.”
“You party enough for all of us,” Kingston told him. “Next time you’re late, you’re getting fined.”
Carter rolled his eyes. “Yeah, man. Whatever.”
I grabbed my bag and walked toward the exit with Ross on my heels.
“Your rental is right outside by the tour bus,” he said, handing me a set of keys. “You can drive it to Chicago when you’re done with your mini-vacation, and one of the crew will return it for you.”
“Thanks.” I nodded.
“Your suitcase is in the back too.”
“Perfect. You’re the best.” I headed out, anxious to be on my way.
I was just about to turn down the hallway that would lead to the exit when I saw her. She was tall, with long dark hair and oversized glasses. She looked sad, her eyes widening as she recognized me.
No doubt this was the journalist.
She took a step toward me, but I quickly turned away, picking up speed to avoid contact. I caught a glimpse of her face—filled with disappointment—just before I turned, and a flicker of guilt shot through me.
Dammit.
I felt bad, but I didn’t have time for this tonight.
I wasn’t in a great mood and exhausted to boot. The last thing I needed was some inexperienced wanna-be journalist asking me how old I was when I’d first started playing guitar. Some days I had the patience for it; this wasn’t one of them.
I’d booked two nights at a resort just outside of Minneapolis and was looking forward to having forty-eight hours of downtime. A massage, good food, maybe even a pretty lady to keep me company. Mostly I wanted peace and quiet, though. Not that I didn’t love my job. I loved rock and roll, and being the lead guitarist for one of the biggest bands in the world was amazing. The music, shows, fans, interviews, travel, almost all of it. Almost.
This tour had been brutal.
Carter, Kellen, and Tommy had outvoted Kingston and me on using the jet. They thought it would feel more authentic if we got back to our roots and traveled by bus. So I slept on a fucking bunk on a bus a lot of nights, which was a hassle for a big guy like me. Even a bus as expensive as ours had limits, and a man who was six-five and two hundred and fifty pounds was one of those limits.
I’d insisted we sleep at a hotel at least twice a week, but it wasn’t enough for my body. It took a lot to stay in touring shape, and sleep was part of that. Of course, fucking Carter never sle pt. His drug use had ramped up in the last year, and while it hadn’t yet impacted his playing, I could see the changes in him. His skin was pale and drawn, he’d lost a lot of weight, and he was always late. Whether it was booze, women, or the drugs, unless someone escorted him, he wasn’t on time for anything.
Luckily, it wasn’t my job to babysit him.
I got into the waiting SUV, typed the address into the GPS, and put it in gear. I pulled out of the lot and headed for the interstate.
A feeling of peace washed over me the moment the arena was out of sight.
My phone rang and I glanced down, shaking my head.
Mom.
She knew this was the time of night I was getting off stage and she always wanted to hear how it went. We didn’t talk every night, and it had been a few days, so I hit the button to accept the call.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Hi, honey. How was it?”
“Sold out. Loud. You know how it is.”
“What was your final encore?”
I chuckled. “Guess.”
“Tempo in Reno?”
“Nope.”
“Judgement Call?”
“That was second to last.”
“Break Your Promise.” She sounded disappointed.
“It’s only our biggest hit,” I said, laughing.
“Yeah, but I’m bored with that one.”
“Luckily, you aren’t our target audience.”
“Whatever.”
“So what’s up? How’s Grandma?” My father’s mother lived with my parents now that she was in her seventies. I’d had a cute little casita built for her on my parents’ property and it seemed to be working out for everyone.
“Always in my business,” Mom muttered. “But fine.”
“Hello, pot. Have you met the kettle?”
“You hush!” She laughed.
“Just sayin’.”
“You always take her side,” she complained.
“Only when you’re wrong.”
“So where are you headed?”
“Me, personally? A resort for two nights. The band is heading for Chicago.”
“Oh, you’re taking a little mental health break?”
“Yeah. Plus, I need to sleep on a real bed. My back is killing me. This leg of the tour is over in May. So there’s about six weeks left. Then I’m putting my foot down for Europe.”
“Will you come home at all before you head over there?”
“I think there’s two weeks between when this leg ends and when we pick up over there. I have some shit to take care of at home anyway.”
“Is Nobody’s Fool going with you?” My mother was apparently a big fan of our opening act.
“Not to Europe, no. But we may tour with them again in the fall. You can see your buddy, Tyler.” Tyler Thompson was their bass player, and he and my mother had become pals. They even followed each other on social media, which cracked me up.
“Well, it’ll be good to have you around, even if it’s just for a week or two.”
“I miss you too, Ma.”
“Call me more often, would you?”
“Promise.”
“Love you, Zeke.”
“Love you too.” I disconnected and stared out at the road in front of me.
A storm was coming and it was starting to snow, so I needed to get there already. If I was lucky, the kitchen would still be open.
2
Presley
I shifted my beat-up, ten-year-old Honda into gear and headed for work.
The last twenty-four hours had been frustrating, difficult, and unfair.
Life, I’d begun to realize, was increasingly unfair.
Whether it was my Aunt Meg’s multiple sclerosis diagnosis, the leak in the basement of our house, the hours at my job getting cut, or not getting the Onyx Knight interview, I seemed to be on a downward spiral of bad luck. On top of that, I was running late to work because of the weather, and my boss had already warned me I’d been late too many times this winter.
And frankly, I’d run out of excuses.
He didn’t care that the tires on my Honda weren’t in any condition for snow. Or that Aunt Meg had fallen three times in the last month. Or that I was going to fail my senior project because I hadn’t been able to procure the interview I needed to write my final article. Nope. All Mr. Hopkins cared about was me showing up on time and making sure the patrons of his exclusive resort were happy.
I already worked the crappiest shifts because of school. Monday and Tuesday nights, which were typically dead. The occasional Friday day shift, also dead. Once in a blue moon, if someone called out, I got to work a weekend and make real money. Beyond that, I was the new girl, and probably the least attractive compared to the others, so I took what I could get. To be fair, even a Monday night at the resort was better than eight hours at McDonald’s, but I could have been making so much more with a few decent shifts.
I pulled into the parking lot a minute before my shift started and ran as fast as I could into the building. I practically skidded into the ladies’ locker room, where I secured my things, sliding my feet into the low-heeled pumps we had to wear and stuffing my winter coat into my locker as quickly as possible. I clocked in at seven-oh-one and walked into the bar. Normally, I was a waitress, but on nights like tonight, where the tables were empty and only a handful of patrons lingered, I got to tend bar.
Mr. Hopkins wagged a finger at me as I waved. “I’m watching you, Lee!” For some reason, everyone here had shortened Presley to Lee, and now it had stuck.
I waved at him with a smile. “I know, Mr. H!”
“By the way.” He came up behind me. “There’s a storm coming. I don’t know that you’ll be able to drive home in it once your shift is over.”
I grimaced. I’d known that was a possibility, but I couldn’t miss work. Aside from already being on thin ice, Aunt Meg and I needed the money. “I’ll be okay,” I told him.
“We’re supposed to get a couple of feet. If that happens, you can sleep in the lounge.”
“Thank you.” I nodded, surprised. There was a rule that forbade us from sleeping in the employee lounge, but I figured the blizzard headed our way was an exception. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be anyone to take care of the guests that were here, regardless of the weather.
Humming to myself, I started wiping down the bar. The day shift hadn’t done a great job at it, which was typical. Everyone hated working days, and tended to escape the moment they could get away. I didn’t mind, though. It kept me busy and that kept Mr. Hopkins off my back. He wasn’t bad for a boss, but he seemed to watch me like a hawk.
I was lost in what I was doing, cutting up lime and lemon wedges, when someone cleared their throat. My head snapped up in surprise and I blinked at the guy leaning on the bar.
“Can I get a Guinness on tap, please?” he asked.
I stared for another moment, mesmerized.
He was huge.
Handsome.
Familiar?
Why did he look familiar?
I couldn’t put my finger on it, so I quickly nodded and poured him the beer. I put it in front of him on a coaster, with a bowl of pretzels. “Do you want to put it on your room account or start a tab?” I asked.
“Room 1505.”
I smiled, nodded, and put the information into the computer.
Why did he look familiar?
I turned back, trying not to stare.
“Would you like a menu?” I asked him.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
I handed him one and started humming again, singing under my breath as I went back to cutting lemon wedges.
“Wicked ex,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I looked up in confusion.
“The song you were humming. It was ‘Wicked X,’ right?”
