Reckoning:Rock Chick 06

By: Kristen Ashley



This book is dedicated to Rick Chew and Jim Gonzalez I love you. I miss you.

I wish you were stil right next door.



A shout out to my Sir Wil , Wil iam Womack, my uncle, my friend and the premier Rock Guru. Stel a’s set lists would be nowhere near as cool if Wil didn’t feed the burn in my soul for kickass music. Love you, Wil .

Author’s Note

I would guess my readers understand, considering you’re reading a series entitled Rock Chick, that music means a great deal to me. Frequently in my writing I wil use music to explain feelings, define characters or add emotion to the narrative. And if I had a wish, I would wish to be able to make music one way or another but, alas, I do not play an instrument (though have tried to learn) and my singing leaves something to be desired.

So it was a thril for Stel a Gunn to inhabit my headspace and, through Stel a, to be able to play a guitar, sing super sexy, entrance a crowd, give a one woman private concert to a hot guy and write set lists.

Stel a chose her music with great care. Therefore, if you haven’t before or have only done it in passing, I encourage you to experience ful y the music Stel a chose to explain her emotions by looking up the lyrics and listening to the songs mentioned in this book. Indeed, if you can, listening to the songs while reading the scenes may enhance the experience (it does for me). Most specifical y Pearl Jam’s

“Black”, Bil y Joel’s “And So It Goes”, Journey’s “Open Arms” and Blink-182’s “Al the Smal Things” . They’re al fantastic songs but the lyrics expose Stel a’s soul.

Unfortunately, without permission from the artists, I cannot include the lyrics in the narrative and being a self-published author without a great deal of resources, I’m not in a place where I could request that permission (alas).

Further, if you wish to know how Stel a sounded singing in my head, find the Cowboy Junkies’ version of “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” and Sarah McLachlan’s version of

“Blackbird” from the I Am Sam soundtrack.

Or don’t and experience her just how she is in your head.

Enjoy listening and reading.

And always remember to rock on!


Chapter One

No One Got in the Way of Me and My Band


The phone rang.

My eyes opened and I looked at the clock.

Three thirty-seven.

In the morning.

I reached for the phone and said, “Hel o?” I sounded awake and alert. This was because it wasn’t unusual for me to be up at an ungodly hour in the morning.

Not only did I have loads of practice taking frantic phone cal s in the hours before dawn but also I was lead singer and guitarist of a rock band. Most of the time, I was just stumbling through the door after a gig at an ungodly hour in the morning.

“Stel a?” It was Buzz, my bass player. He sounded messed up. On the phone at an ungodly hour in the morning he always sounded messed up.

“Hey Buzz, what’s up?” I asked.

His answer could be anything. He needed me to bail him out of jail. He needed me to give him a ride home because he was somewhere, drunk out of his skul and thankful y responsible enough to cal someone, unthankful y, that someone was always me. He was stuck on a bil board on 8th promoting Earth, Wind and Fire’s upcoming concert with no way to get down (don’t ask).

But I was guessing it had to do with Lindsey.

“It’s Linnie,” Buzz said.

I was right.

“Buzz, I don’t –”

“She’s in bed, she ain’t movin’. Something’s weird. It just ain’t right. I’m scared to even touch her. Stel a Bel a, fuck…” he whispered. “I think she overdosed.”

I shot upright in my huge, super king-sized bed and my Saint Bernard, Juno, who was lying ful out (thus explaining my need for a huge, super king-sized bed), sat up too and gave a woof.

“Have you cal ed 911?” I asked Buzz.

“No, I cal ed you.”

Yep, that’s about right. Of course he’d cal me. I was Stel a Michel e Gunn, lead singer and lead guitarist of the Blue Moon Gypsies. I posted bond (mostly for Pong, my drummer, but for al of them on occasion). I soothed drunken angry men (again predominately Pong but they al were good at getting drunk and angry). I counseled relationships on the brink of col apse (this was not my strong suit for your information, the parties concerned always broke up). I listened when the world just did not understand (and the world didn’t understand much according to Leo, who played rhythm guitar and regularly got stoned and reflective). I extricated not-so-horny-anymore saxophonists named Hugo from mini-orgies with gonzo groupies gone bad.

And apparently I was an emergency paramedic.

“Cal 911,” I ordered

“But –”

“Now! ” I snapped.

I hung up and swung out of bed. Juno woofed again and lumbered out of bed behind me.

My first thought was Mace.

In these situations, and there were a lot of them, although not always involving overdosed junkies who used to be sweet girls that were now addicted to smack, my first thought was always Kai “Mace” Mason, the tal est, hottest, coolest, most amazing guy I’d ever met. Mace with the jade green eyes. Mace with the thick, dark hair. Mace with the fantastic bod. Mace with the strong, masculine, long-fingered hands that could run so light across your skin you could almost hear them whisper.