A Rock Star Love Story Book 1: Her Blue Sky
Author
Isabel S. Knight
Reads
413K
Chapters
40
Growing up as the daughter of a rock legend and a supermodel means she learns early that fame sparkles onstage but stings everywhere else. While the world hunts spotlights, she hides behind her lyrics, dreaming of producing her own music someday. Now she’s ghostwriting and assisting for Lucid Mantra—the band everyone’s obsessed with—and trying very hard not to fall for Sky, the guitarist who once lit up her childhood and now sets every late-night studio session humming. But when music turns magnetic, how long can she pretend it’s just the job?
Purgatory With Better Lighting
SKY
“Goodnight, Los Angeles! We’re Lucid Mantra, and you’re all fucking awesome!” Maddox, our main vocalist, roared into the mic, his voice vibrating through the speakers like a battle cry.
The crowd went feral, screaming our name like we’d just cured cancer instead of shredding guitars for ninety minutes. I slipped offstage before the lights even dimmed, shoving my guitar into the waiting hands of a roadie.
The noise of the audience still thundered behind me, their chants rising for an encore we usually gave, but not tonight. Tonight, my bones felt like they’d been glued together wrong, and my head pounded like someone had swapped out my skull for a bass drum.
I couldn’t tell if I was just imagining it or if it was really happening. The others would soak it in a little longer, maybe toss a sweaty shirt into the crowd and fuel the hysteria.
Me? I headed straight for the dressing room, walking past crew members who offered quick nods of congratulations.
It wasn’t that the show had sucked. Far from it.
It had been killer—one of those nights where the music ripped straight through my veins like adrenaline. But that was the problem: it was always like this.
Show thirty-five, show three hundred, show one thousand. Each one was a mirror of the last.
People thought being a rock star meant eternal ecstasy. The parties, the booze, the fame, the money, the women.
On paper, it looked like heaven, but when you lived inside that loop long enough, heaven started to feel like purgatory with better lighting. Everything blurred into the same rhythm of madness until even madness itself got boring.
The truth? The only time I ever felt fully alive was when I was playing. When my fingers bent over strings, coaxing out sounds no one had ever heard before.
When Maddox howled into the mic, and Jaxon’s drums synced with Maverick’s bass like our hearts were one engine. That was my high, my drug, and my reason.
The rest? The flashing lights, the screaming fans, and the “perks”? They had long since dulled.
I sounded like a whiny bastard, and I knew it. Hell, I was only twenty-five, not some washed-up rocker clutching at nostalgia.
And it wasn’t like I had some dark, tragic backstory to justify the burnout. My life had been stupidly normal: decent parents, though my father was an absentee for most of my life, suburban house, family dog named Pepper.
I met the guys in high school, jamming in my garage until neighbors threatened to call the cops. We played at birthday parties, dove into busking for fun, and on a random afternoon, Colin spotted us on a sidewalk and changed everything.
No deep trauma. No rags-to-riches sob story.
Just four idiots who wanted to play music and who accidentally got famous doing it. I flopped onto the dressing room couch, lit a cigarette, and stared at the ceiling until smoke painted it in thin gray lines.
That was when the door burst open. “You good?” Colin asked, his brow furrowed.
He leaned against the frame, the perpetual tension in his shoulders making him look older than thirty-three. “Yeah. Just a massive headache,” I lied easily.
Colin didn’t buy bullshit, but he didn’t push either. He had always been the father figure of this circus, despite only being eight years older than me.
The guy had discovered us, fought tooth and nail for us, and lived every milestone with us. He wasn’t just our manager; he was family.
And family didn’t need to hear me complain about feeling hollow when he’d been losing sleep making sure our schedules didn’t kill us. “All right,” he said, though his eyes lingered like he wanted to pry.
“Party’s across the hall when you’re ready.” And then he was gone.
I must have sat there for half an eternity, ash burning down to my knuckles, before my phone buzzed in the group chat.
Maddox
Where the fuck are you, Sky?
Maddox
Get your cute butt in here.
Jaxon
Yeah, man, hurry up. Maverick’s flirting skills are killing the vibe.
Jaxon
He’s chasing the women away, and I’m not having blue balls for breakfast again!
Maverick
At least I talk to women instead of just drumming at them.
Jaxon
My drums get more action than you, bro.
Maverick
Fuck off, Jaxon!
I snorted, shaking my head. Idiots. Talented, brilliant idiots who also happened to be my brothers.
Sky
Be there in a minute.
Jaxon
You better, or I’m sending someone in there to come on you.
Jaxon
I mean for you.
Jaxon
Typo. Sorry.
Despite myself, I chuckled. Knowing Jaxon, he was only half joking.
The guy had the subtlety of a bulldozer and the libido of a rabbit farm. I stubbed out my cigarette, preparing to drag myself across the hall, when the door clicked open again.
This time it wasn’t Colin. It was a tall, busty blonde who looked like she’d been poured into her sequined dress with a funnel.
Big brown eyes, too much makeup, lips glossed to the point of reflecting light. “Hey,” she said breathily, twirling her hair like it had personally offended her.
“Jaxon told me to come here. I’m Amanda.” Of course she was.
She was beautiful, sure, but in that polished, generic kind of way that screamed Hollywood casting call: Groupie #7. Normally, the sight of a woman like her straddling the line between eager and predatory would have had my body reacting before my brain caught up.
Tonight? Nothing. My dick was officially on strike.
“Is that so?” I drawled, tilting my head as I gave her the once-over. Her smile widened.
She stepped in, shut the door behind her, and in two seconds flat had me shoved backward onto the couch. She swung one toned leg over me and settled on my lap, pressing against me with the kind of confidence that came from too many men never saying no.
Her fingers brushed my chest, traced my abs, and traveled lower. “I can make you feel things you’ve never felt before, Sky,” she whispered, eyes smoldering.
Yeah. Heard that one before.
Along with “I’ve always dreamed of being backstage” and “My boyfriend won’t mind if it’s you.” Everyone seemed desperate to make me feel something these days, and honestly? That pressure pissed me off more than it turned me on.
“Oh yeah?” I said flatly. “If you’ve got a condom, then maybe knock yourself out. Otherwise, we can call it a night.”
Her face flickered, just for a second, before she pasted the sultry mask back on. I knew I was being an ass, but I didn’t care.
I wasn’t in the mood to play nice just because someone wanted bragging rights.
She leaned closer, her lips hovering inches from mine, her perfume suffocatingly sweet. I braced myself, already calculating the politest way to push her off without causing a scandal, when…
The door slammed open so hard it rattled the walls. Both our heads whipped toward it.
Amanda froze on my lap, her lips parted in irritation.
I zeroed in on the person who walked in on us and planned to thank them later for interrupting. But the person standing in the doorway wasn’t another groupie.
It wasn’t Jaxon laughing at his own joke, and it wasn’t even Colin checking in.
Her eyes locked onto mine with a sharpness that sliced through the haze of smoke and perfume. My stomach dropped, heat prickling the back of my neck.
She was the daughter of Griffin Hayes: rock legend, lead singer and guitarist of Death Phenomena, and the man who owned our label.
Of all the goddamn nights, of all the goddamn dressing rooms in LA, she had to walk into this one.
I hadn’t seen her at one of our shows in two years, and now she picked tonight, when I had a headache, a cigarette hangover, and a wannabe groupie perched on my lap.
Just my fucking luck.
