Encore: A Standalone Rockstar Novel Read online

  Encore

  A Standalone Rockstar Novel

  Selena Laurence

  Contents

  About Encore

  1. Ross

  2. Carly

  3. Ross

  4. Carly

  5. Ross

  6. Carly

  7. Ross

  8. Carly

  9. Ross

  10. Carly

  11. Ross

  12. Carly

  13. Ross

  14. Carly

  15. Ross

  16. Carly

  17. Ross

  18. Carly

  19. Ross

  20. Carly

  21. Ross

  22. Carly

  23. Ross

  24. Carly

  25. Ross

  26. Carly

  27. Ross

  28. Carly

  29. Ross

  30. Carly

  31. Ross

  32. Carly

  33. Ross

  34. Carly

  35. Ross

  36. Carly

  Epilogue

  Kat

  Winston

  Also by Selena Laurence

  About the Author

  About Encore

  Ross Macalester is forty-three, rich, famous, and plain worn out. Life has been nothing but sex, drugs, and rock and roll for twenty years, and he's not sure he can stomach one more minute of the party. When an invitation to his twenty-fifth high school reunion shows up, Ross decides he has nothing to lose--after all, he already lost his daughter's love and a fair amount of self-respect. So he catches a flight back to his hometown, but when he walks in the door of the high school gym, his gaze lands on someone he never expected to see again.

  Carly Ellis is busy, getting by, and most days pretty happy. Life hasn't always been easy, but she has her teenage son, a good job in real estate, and an ex who doesn't cause too much trouble. Granted, she'd rather skip her high school reunion, but when your best friend is on the organizing committee, there's no getting out of it. Then she walks through the door of the high school gym and her gaze lands on someone she never expected to see again.

  Once upon a time, Carly was Ross's high school prom date. One very sweet night that both of them knew didn't mean a thing. Now they have a chance to do it again. Same conditions. Same game. But after a night in Carly's arms, Ross isn't sure he wants it to end. Could she be the answer to everything he's been missing? A key to the future he secretly wants? With life offering him a second act, will Ross be able to pull off his most important encore ever?

  Encore is an uplifting rockstar, second-chance, single parent, high school reunion romance with a hero who needs a little reboot, a heroine who's strong enough to give it to him, two sassy teens, a perfect HEA, and an iguana named Chuck--just because.

  1

  Ross

  "Hey there."

  I look up from the jeans I'm unbuttoning.

  "Uh, hey, how'd you get back here?" I ask, pausing in undressing and glancing around for my phone.

  Her slick, puffy lips curve up deviously as her long blonde hair swings across her shoulders. She bats her obviously fake lashes coyly. "I did a little favor for the guy in security." She stalks toward me and I try to nonchalantly palm my phone from the dressing room counter. "But it's nothing like the favors I can do for you, Ross."

  Then, I swear by all that's holy, she runs her tongue across her teeth. Like a damn parody of a sexy chick. And all I can think is that this is what my life has been reduced to. A nonstop series of clichés and superficial encounters with people I have nothing in common with and don't even want to know.

  "While I appreciate the thought," I begin, phone by my hip as I swipe it open with my thumb, "I'm old enough to be your father, and I make it a policy not to take favors from anyone under thirty."

  Her smile falters for a moment, but then she rolls her eyes. "Oh my God, I'm legal. You can relax. Want to see my ID?"

  I shake my head, lifting the phone to waist level.

  "Nope. Thanks, though."

  She steps closer, and I tense, my bare chest flexing in anticipation of her touch, which I very much don't want.

  "But you're Ross Macalester. You're, like, the king of rockstars. You're single. I'm hot. What's the damn problem?"

  Her gaze narrows, as if she can peel back a layer of my skin with her laser eyes. It's creepy, honestly, and I wonder how I ever managed to think this lifestyle was enjoyable. I haven't touched a woman in months, and while sex would be great, the idea of having it with yet another stranger just turns me completely off.

  "No problem," I say in a conciliatory tone. "Just not interested. Trust me, you can do better. Have you met the guys from the opening band? They're a lot closer to your age, and I bet tons more fun than me."

  Her smile disappears and her lips shift to a tight line. "But they're not you."

  I just shrug lightly and lift my phone. "Why don't I have my driver give you a ride home, huh?"

  She huffs in disgust. "Oh my God, you are so lame. Everyone told me you wouldn't be like other old guys. I mean, you're still totally hot. I figured silver foxes could still get it up, but Jesus. I guess not."

  I lift my phone and swipe the screen to call my driver, but before I can finish dialing, a security guard comes skidding to a halt in the doorway.

  "Oh shit. Mr. Macalester, I'm so sorry." He reaches for the girl's arm. "You'll have to come with me, ma'am."

  I just raise an eyebrow at the dude. Someone somewhere fucked up, and he knows it's going to rain shit on all their heads as soon as he drags her out of here.

  "Where's Tony?" the girl whines. "He gave me permission to be back here."

  The guard glares at her. "Tony no longer works here. Now, if you'll come with me."

  She tosses me one last pleading look. I ignore her, and then she's huffing as the guard leads her away, closing the door behind him.

  I sigh and toss my phone on the makeup counter before turning to stare at myself in the mirror.

  My auburn hair is cut shorter on the sides and back, and I'm lucky that my hairline isn't receding—at least, not yet. Although, I read a statistic that said two-thirds of men have some hair loss by age fifty, so I have my fingers crossed I’m in the other third.

  But gray has begun to encroach on the sides and in my beard. I don't hate it, though it makes it obvious I'm not a spring chicken. But it's the lines around my eyes, and the circles beneath them, that tell the real story of my age. I look...tired, and defeated, and honestly, I feel that way much of the time, too. Nothing holds my interest these days, not the music, not performing, not the fans. Middle age has hit me hard, and I'm not sure how to shake off this ennui, nor what it means for the rest of my life.

  My phone chimes and I hold it up to read the text.

  Sara: Mom said I'm supposed to text you so here I am—texting you.

  I blink at it for a moment. The attitude practically radiates from the phone, and I sigh. My fourteen-year-old daughter is a beautiful kid—good grades, student council, star forward on her soccer team—and she hates me.

  It's no wonder. Her mom and I were only together about as long as it took to produce her. I'll admit I was just old fashioned enough to marry Christine when she got pregnant, but I was also young, full of myself and my career, and really made no effort to actually be a husband—or a father.

  I've done my due diligence, Sara goes to the best prep school in Malibu, she and Christine live in a gorgeous house on the beach that I purchased and have seen exactly one time, and anything Sara wants or needs, I buy with no questions asked.

  But I haven't spent a holiday with her in going on four years, and our
get togethers at her neighborhood coffee shop when I'm in between tour dates are filled with tension and her bad attitude. I'm an absentee father who has no idea how to connect to his kid, and it kills me a little inside every time I realize that my chances are nearly gone.

  Ross: Hey there. I'm glad you texted. How was school today?

  Sara: eye roll emoji. It's Saturday. We didn't have school.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. I lean my head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, disgust at the fact I don't even know what day of the week it is washing over me.

  Ross: Sorry, autocorrect. I meant how was school this week?

  Sara: Fine. I have to go, I'm meeting Jason at a house party.

  My blood pressure spikes in a hot second. Jason? House party?

  Ross: Who's Jason? And are there parents at this house party? Where is your mom? Tell her to call me.

  I wait, but there are no dots on the screen. No chimes from the phone. She's gone. I snarl in frustration. What the actual fuck?

  Ross: Hey. Sara just texted and said she's on her way to a house party with some boy. Since when is she allowed to date and go to house parties?

  The dots next to Christine's name sit there for so long I finally finish changing my clothes and grab my guitar case and duffle bag to head out. As I'm reaching for the doorknob, her response finally comes through.

  Christine: eye roll emoji. She just played you. Liz is here. They're having a sleepover and watching a Harry Styles documentary.

  I sigh, suddenly really damn tired.

  Ross: Ok. I think I just lost a year off my life.

  Christine: Lol. Don't worry. No boys yet. But it's coming. You might want to prepare yourself now.

  Fuck. I can't imagine there's any way to prepare for that.

  Ross: Working on it.

  Christine: When can you see her again?

  This is when it all disintegrates. Because I spend the majority of my time on the road. You know, being a rockstar. And while Christine resigned herself to it a long time ago, she still holds out hope that I'll be the kind of father Sara deserves. I don't know how to tell her I wish I was that guy, too. Still haven't figured out how to be him, though. And given that Sara's in high school now, it's not looking too promising.

  Ross: Just finished a show in Cincinnati. Headed to Grove City for a few days. How about if I come out after that? We're on break for a month. I could stay around. Maybe catch some soccer games?

  I open the door and step into the hall. I can hear the guys from the opening act down the hall in their dressing rooms, music blasting, the smell of weed saturating the air, girls' voices squealing and giggling. I pause for a moment, wondering if I ought to check and make sure whoever is with them is of age and sober enough to give consent.

  Then I pause some more and wonder when the hell I became a guy who pauses to consider such things. I split the difference by texting the venue security and telling them to do an ID check of the girls, and leave someone outside the door of the dressing room as long as the party is going on.

  Luckily, my own bandmates scattered an hour or more ago. With a month break, everyone's gone off to do their own thing. We'll reconvene in Miami when the break is over to start the southern leg of the tour.

  My phone buzzes twice, first the security staff saying they'll handle it, and then a response from Christine.

  Christine: Stay around LA for the month, you need to spend time with her...but it's not soccer season. That's in the spring.

  Fuck.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket and walk toward the back door where my security team is waiting to take me to the airport. I don't know when soccer season is. I don't know whether it's a school day or not. All I know is how to play rock and roll. It's all I've done for twenty-five years, and now it's all I have.

  "You ready to go, Mr. Macalester?" My head of security, David, asks.

  "Yeah. Flight leaves in two hours, so we should be right on time."

  He nods and escorts me to the black SUV parked in the empty lot behind the arena.

  As one of the local guys David hired drives, he turns from the passenger seat and talks to me.

  "You sure you're not going to want me to go with you on this trip?" he asks with a concerned wrinkle in his brow.

  I shake my head. While there's always a risk I'll get mobbed somewhere, I really want to spend a couple of days just being normal. I can't think of anywhere I'm more likely to be able to do that than with the people who knew me when I was nobody. I graduated from a high school with eight hundred kids. The people in my class had known me since kindergarten. If they can't see past the celebrity status, then no one can.

  But having David, with his sidearm and former Navy Seal buzz cut, sure as hell won't encourage them to remember regular old Ross Macalester, skinny soccer player and band student.

  "I'll be fine," I tell him. "One of my buddies from high school is picking me up at the airport, and once we're out of there, I'll be in my tiny hometown the whole weekend.

  He sighs. "Okay, if you say so. But as it happens, I'm going to be in Chicago, so you only need to call and I can be there in a couple hours."

  I smile in the darkened car. Of course he's figured out a way to be nearby. Dude needs a hobby. Watching my back shouldn't be the only thing he does with his days.

  "Thanks," I tell him. "But I won't need you."

  I watch the streets slide by. I won't need my bodyguards or my assistants or my publicist. This weekend, the only thing I need is some peace and quiet, and maybe a few people who can remind me of who the hell I used to be.

  2

  Carly

  "Quinn!” I shout in the general direction of the staircase that leads to the big loft bedroom currently occupied by my sixteen-year-old son.

  "Ehhh?" he grunts back. I'm sure he has a headset on as he plays some damn video game and can't even really hear me.

  "I have to go help Ali set up."

  "K!" he responds.

  "I won't be home until late. Text me if you leave the house."

  "Yep!"

  I sigh and roll my eyes as I grab the garment bag with my dress and heels in it before walking out the front door, across the porch, and down to the driveway to my six-year-old Lexus hybrid. Luxury cars aren't really my style, but I'm a real estate agent, and as my boss says, "You have to drive something that says success." Luckily for me, I can say that with a used car that has eighty thousand miles on it and gets thirty miles to the gallon.

  My phone rings as I'm pulling out of the driveway and I hit the button on the steering wheel to answer it.

  "Carly?" my best friend shouts through the speakers. I quickly punch the volume decrease button, trying to keep from losing my hearing. As Quinn is so fond of telling me, "Aunt Ali thinks the farther you are from the person you're calling, the louder you need to shout. Technology escapes her."

  "I'm on my way," I tell her, trying to remember not to shout in response.

  "Oh my God, you have to move faster. We still need to get all the candles lit and Jennifer Davis thinks I'm going to let her sing with the band because she sang the stupid school fight song at our senior homecoming dance."

  I smile as I take the turn onto Main Street—yes, that's actually what it's called—picturing the look of horror on Ali's face when Jenn suggested that.

  Ali has been planning our twenty-fifth high school reunion for over a year now. She owns a catering shop in town, so events are kind of her crack, and she took this one on with a vengeance.

  "Hey. Take a deep breath. Just because she wants to do it doesn't mean you have to let her. And if you don't want to tell her 'no’, I will."

  Negotiating real estate contracts for the last ten years has given me pretty good conflict management skills. Not much phases me.

  "Yes. Yes, that!" she shouts. "But oh my God, I forgot why I actually called you!"

  "I'm just down the block," I tell her. "Just hold that thought—if you can—and I'll be there in about one minute."
>
  She snorts in feigned indignation at my teasing and hangs up.

  Exactly one minute later, I walk into the high school gym, which has been transformed into something that has references to 1994 but is much classier. The ceiling has strands of white lights hanging down, and the basketball floor is filled with round eight-top tables covered in snowy white cloths and pretty navy blue and white floral arrangements—our school colors. In the center of the floral arrangements are pillar candles of differing heights. At the far end of the massive space is a stage with a giant screen behind it and empty floor space in front that's obviously for dancing.

  There are posters of *NSYNC and Green Day, as well as signs with famous quotes from Forrest Gump, The Lion King, and Pulp Fiction. On the big screen, the tech staff is beginning to test out the looping slide show of photos from our 1994 yearbook.

  "Wow," I say as I hug Ali, tugging gently on a couple of her shiny dark corkscrew curls. "Everything looks amazing."

  She nods but grabs my hand and pulls me toward a corner, away from her staff that's setting up the buffet tables.

  When she's got me shoved into the corner by the stage, she practically vibrates with excitement. "You will never believe who's coming tonight."

  I refrain from rolling my eyes. Ali is sort of my opposite—excitable, mercurial, creative. I'm more of the steady as she goes variety.

  "I definitely won't believe it if you never tell me who," I prompt with a grin.