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  Refrain & Reprise

  (a Falling Stars novella)

  Sadie Grubor

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright 2017 Sadie Grubor

  Cover Art by VST

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any existing means without written permission from the publisher. Contact Author at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author's imagination and used fictitiously. The locations, businesses are also fiction, and those that do exist are utilized in a purely fictitious manner. The music mentioned is owned by the original artist and employed in a purely fictitious method. No infringement or malice/ill will is intended by the author or publisher.

  ISBN-13: 978-1548740061

  ISBN-10: 1548740063

  Dedication:

  To Young Love,

  For making us say & do stupid, childish things.

  For breaking our hearts.

  For teaching us lessons, one love at a time.

  For all our mistakes.

  And for each second chance we can get.

  To Young Love.

  Special Thanks & Acknowledgements:

  I want to acknowledge Mr. G for his support and encouragement. I love you!

  Special Thanks go to:

  Carrie Waltenbaugh for putting up with my crazy ass and still wanting to help me do this shit.

  The BETA Babes for being there at the weird hours I post things.

  The G Spot. You all know how to distract a person. 

  Monica Black, You know you rock my world.

  Blurb

  Known for his outlandish and often law breaking onstage performances, the fans of Vehicle of Destruction have expectations from America's number one bad boy of rock. Zarek Sisko hates to disappoint, but something’s not the same. Something changed him. Her.

  The world of opera is surprisingly cutthroat, and Gemma Harper, the latest diva in demand, knows this all too well. She's a natural, commanding an operatic performance with minimal training, but her pink hair, facial piercings, and tattoos negate her talent in most professional's eyes. Gemma's fought her entire life to get what she wants, and now that she's here, there's no backing down. She's no quitter…well, almost. She quit on him.

  Once upon a time, two people from different worlds collided, and it was everything they never expected. Until it wasn't and one walked away.

  Pretending you don't know someone is exhausting. Acting like someone means absolutely nothing to you isn't easy. Especially when fate keeps throwing them back in your life.

  One Rocker.

  One Diva.

  One weekend in Vegas to get it right.

  Prologue

  Gemma Harper

  One year ago…

  "They're having all the presenters wait together in hopes of things running effortlessly," Mallory says, her voice full of apology.

  "It's fine," I huff.

  It's not Mallory's fault. In fact, she's gone above and beyond her personal assistant duties tonight.

  At the closed door, I focus on the temporary sign attached.

  Presenters: Gemma Harper & Zarek Sisko

  My nerves feel raw. I smooth down my shimmering floor-length silver dress and adjust the strapless top unnecessarily. There's so much tape beneath, I'll be lucky to have any skin left when it gets peeled off later.

  "I'm so—" she starts to apologize, but I stop her with my hand.

  "Nothing to be sorry for, Mal. Let's do this," I say with more courage than I feel.

  Zarek's reputation is well known—his penchant for beautiful arm candy, public sex, and the blunt and harsh words he throws around without a care. Most of all, though, he’s best known for the sneaky way he handles shit. His previous record label, he pulled one over on them good—fucking them before they knew what hit them so he could strike a better deal with Nobil Records. And then there’s his east coast and west coast girlfriends not finding out about each other until it's too fucking late…

  No, his reputation has nothing to do with my apprehension. Instead, it has everything to do with one unexpected week in New York. He'd almost succeeded in trying to turn me into the victim of his scandals, but he chose the wrong girl. Better men had sought to pull one over on me, but if there's one thing I learned growing up with my mother, it's to trust no one. So, I fled without a word and never looked back. It took a lot to ignore his calls and repeated attempts to reach me, but I persevered—and I would again.

  Swallowing my anxiety, I open the door and gasp.

  Zarek's hips move at a furious pace, the sound of each thrust slapping against an award show model's bare ass. His hand curls over her shoulder, keeping her from falling over the back of the chair she's bent over. Moans fall from her parted lips, and fingers dig into the brown leather arms.

  "Christ," I growl, turning away from the live backstage porno. "Don't you have any self-respect?"

  "Don't worry, baby, I've got some for you too," he grunts.

  I snap my head back to him just as he pulls his dick free, and scowl.

  The young model watches our exchange with wide eyes and flushed cheeks. I'm not sure if it's embarrassment or exertion coloring her face, and I don't give a fuck.

  He strokes his latex covered hard-on in my direction.

  "If I recall, you know how to swallow like a good girl," he says with a sneer.

  Mallory gasps beside me, sending my anger over the edge.

  Giving a forced grin, I sashay over to him.

  His stroke falters.

  "You want a taste of this fine piece of ass?" He slaps the girl's butt, causing her to jerk and yelp.

  My hands ball into fists and my jaw tenses as I stop in front of him.

  "Or just want another hit of—"

  Before I can think or talk myself down from the fury, I cock back my arm and launch it at his face, my fist meeting his left eye.

  The model screams, shoves away from the couch, and stumbles away.

  "Fuck!" I shout, cradling my hand.

  "Jesus Christ!" he exclaims, releasing his cock and cupping his face.

  "Are you okay?" Mallory rushes to my side, putting an arm around me.

  "Why didn't anyone tell me punching someone hurts?" I cry out.

  "You fucking bitch." Zarek's insult brings my eyes back to him. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" Movement at his waist pulls my eyes down as he tucks his cock back into his dark denim pants.

  "Hey," Mallory protests when he shoves her away.

  I back up, but he advances on me. As he closes the distance, my eyes catch on a curly pubic hair next to his eye.

  Biting my bottom lip, I fight back laughter.

  "This isn't fucking funny," he roars.

  "You've got something…" I point with my uninjured hand.

  "It's called a fucking black eye," he seethes.

  "Not that," I laugh out, losing my battle.

  His mouth tightens, clearly not as amused as I am.

  "Pube…face." My laughter strangles the words.

  Turning away, he leans into a dressing mirror and plucks the dark hair from his temple.

  "I guess she's au naturel," I continue, still laughing.

  "Oh my God!" Her cry draws all our eyes.

  Pulling and tugging, she hurries to straighten her dress and hair.

  "It's okay, sweetheart. Nothing wrong with that," I offer.

  This time, I'm sure the red on her face is from embarrassment.

  "You're such a bitch," Zarek says, back in my face.

  "And you're an asshole," I argue, pushing up on my toes to get into his.

  "You—"r />
  "No," I cut him off. "What you said to me was uncalled for!"

  "Uncalled for?" he returns. "You just fucking left! Not a single word, and then I didn't even fucking exist to you."

  "Awww, did I hurt your feelings?" I tease, feeling like a complete cunt after saying it.

  Hurt flashes across his face.

  "I thought…" He closes his eyes, letting the words die off. When he reopens them, I don't see any hurt, only rage. "If I'd known you were just like the rest, looking for a hookup, I would've given you the full whore treatment. Just like your mother. Should I get my wallet?"

  Mallory gasps again at his words—words that swirl around in my head, make me sick to my stomach, and sting the backs of my eyes.

  Straightening my spine, I swallow the anger, and the urge to knee him in the balls.

  "Fuck you."

  "Been there, done that," Zarek says, arrogance and victory on his face. "Not sure who's been there since…" he lets his words fall off and slowly retreats, eyes staying on mine.

  I refuse to cry. I won't let him see the cut he made.

  He knew exactly what to use, and in true Zarek Sisko form, he shredded my flimsy armor.

  I give a humorless laugh. "I don't need anything from you, Z." I don't miss the way he flinches at the nickname. "I'm pretty sure I finished with you months ago," I taunt.

  I'm acting like a teenage brat, and although I know it’s fucking stupid, I can't help it.

  His face completely shuts down. No readable emotion.

  "Yeah, I got the message," he says, calm and collected.

  Turning from me, he walks into a restroom. I anticipate a slamming of the door. Instead, he shuts it easy.

  The small click shatters my heart and unleashes the tears I've been holding back.

  Mallory rushes to my side, guiding me to the dressing table farthest from the restroom.

  Zarek doesn't emerge until we’re called to present on stage.

  Chapter One

  Zarek

  It’s a haunting feeling, not being able to escape my past or the present.

  Glancing out the tinted window of the car, I meet her seductive smile and blue eyes. The memory of the taste of her mouth and the way her eyes brighten when she climaxes makes my chest hurt. The electronic billboard dissolves, and I exhale. Just as I start to feel free of the pull, her moving image appears again.

  Lying on her side, the cameraman panning her body in a shot demanding attention. Her polished black toenails, tattooed legs on display, ass encased in tiny black leather shorts, a matching corset wrapping her defined waist, round tits peaking over the leather, and colorful ink decorating her back, thighs, and arms. The motion board zooms in on her face. The porcelain quality of her skin is the only thing innocent about her. The heavy makeup highlighting her cornflower blue eyes and plump, violet-hued lips showcases her beauty. And to top it all off, her neon pink hair gathered in a loose bun atop her head. I flex my fingers, remembering the way the strands—then, a bright red—slid against my palm.

  The car lurches forward, and the sign falls out of view.

  "Fuck," I growl, rubbing my face.

  "I can get tickets to the show for you," Zora, my baby sister and personal assistant, offers.

  I don't miss the teasing tone and narrow my eyes at her.

  "Don't give me that look," she scolds, looking back to her cell phone. "I'm not the one about to become a window licker over a billboard."

  "I wasn't going to lick the window," I argue, slouching into the leather seat.

  "Mmhmm," Zora hums.

  I open my mouth to argue, but decide against it. Only she can draw me into these fucking childish fights. It's like getting older doesn't mean shit when we're together. We'll still fall into an “I'm not touching you” argument within minutes. There's only one other person who brings out this level of immaturity, and I can't fucking escape her.

  Closing my eyes, I rest for about ten minutes before the car comes to a stop.

  "We're here," Zora announces, scooting toward the door. "Let me make sure things are in place before you get out."

  Without waiting for a response, she exits before the driver even opens the door and shuts me inside.

  Through the tinted window, I watch her walk toward the entrance. It's then I notice the electronic poster on the side of the MGM Grand.

  My pain in the ass of a sister stops and turns. The smile on her face is my only warning before she does a Vanna White showcase performance, motioning toward the large advertisement for Gemma Harper's show.

  Of course she's fucking performing here. That also means she's staying in one of the suites.

  I can almost hear my sister's laugh as she drops her arms, grabs her stomach, and continues into the hotel lobby. I'm surprised she didn't give a good air humping.

  That's what I get for saying shit in front of her.

  Zora had to help clean up my New York apartment after I destroyed it, and then there was the incident at the award show. She was also the one who got earfuls of my bitching regarding Gemma and Jackson Shaw during that stupid goddamn talent show. So many times, I wanted to tackle that oversized bastard. If his personal life and relationship with a burlesque performer hadn't gone public in a very exposing way, I might have ended up in jail. I could've also ended up in the hospital. His band is tight as fuck and their drummer, Elliott Brockman, is a big ass dude.

  "Grow a vagina, own up to your feelings, and fucking tell her," Zora preached over and over. Since I'm apparently a little bitch where Gemma is concerned, I didn't listen to my sister.

  Now, every woman is a second fucking class citizen in my presence. Fuck, I've tried. I really have. Groupies, a supermodel, an actress—fuck me if any of it worked. I even went to see Liza Campbell's burlesque show, and while the sights were pleasing, not even the reigning queen of tease got the curve of Gemma's face, the slope of her neck, and the way she chews on her thumbnail when she's lost in thought out of my messed-up head.

  She fucking broke me, and I absolutely fucking hate her for it.

  The first time I saw her, in a recording booth at the Nobil Studio in New York, there was something about her. Sure, her barely over five-foot-self was—is—cute as fuck, but everything was different. Her laugh brought back memories of the fairytales my mom read to my sister and me. The pinup style suited her, even complimented how young she looked. What I didn't expect was the voice. Being used to rock singers, pop singers, and even rappers, an operatic singer shocked the shit out of me, and when she finally emerged from the booth, the air around her smelled and tasted sweeter.

  The moment our eyes met, it felt like I'd fallen face-first off the stage. Air rushed from my lungs, my chest tightened, every muscle tensed, and my dick ached. Then, she smiled. Fuck me if she didn't take my breath and then turn around and fucking resuscitate my pitiful ass.

  I never expected our time to be more than a weekend, but then a week had gone by, just the two of us in my New York apartment, locked away from the outside world—long nights spent with me between her thighs and her in my arms. In the dark, we had opened up to one another, shared secrets, dreams, and a cosmic connection. It was soul mate finding type shit—until it wasn't. The world wouldn't stay away, and in the light of day, we were blinded back to reality.

  I know what I did, said, was fucking stupid. Gemma told me she got it, and I thought that meant things were cool, but then she was gone. With a brief kiss to the side of my mouth and an, "I had a great time with you, Z," she was out the door and never looked back.

  Reality hurt, but being shunned shredded me—especially when done by the woman, the first woman I ever—

  The car door jerks open, pulling me from my memories.

  "Everything is good," Zora states, nodding toward Wayd. "Arrangements are made for her too, though they aren't thrilled about it."

  "Too bad." I rub behind the dark brown labradoodle's ear. "Wayd is my entourage. Aren't you, girl?" I coo, leaning down and kissing the top of he
r head.

  "Would you like a couple more minutes alone?" my sister deadpans.

  "Get out of my way," I order, waving her off.

  Sliding to the door, I grab Wayd's neon pink leash and climb from the car.

  The secret of my early arrival hasn't gotten out, relieving me of paparazzi and news crews.

  Wayd jumps out of the car and gives a full body shake.

  I used to get shit for having a labradoodle, but I'm a dog lover with allergies. Her hair is easier on those allergies, and I keep her well-groomed. The moment she pissed on my boots, I knew the little rebel was for me. The fact that I was always yelling, “What are you doing?” when I first brought her to my home in New York is why I christened her Wayd. It's probably a weird name for a female dog, but she is a weird ass dog.

  In fact, she trots as far as her leash will allow and raises her curly head to the poster of Gemma on the side of the hotel. Like the weird dog she is, she looks back at me and barks.

  "You too?" I ask, exasperated.

  "I knew I loved that bitch," Zora says, taking the leash from my hand and carrying it to an awaiting hotel staff member.

  Chapter Two

  Gemma

  "Tell me again why I'm doing this," I say, eyes closed while the hair stylist tugs on my newly dyed pink hair.

  My dreams are back on a stage in New York—a dream that's slipping through my fingers with every curveball I never knew could happen. Show writers having a falling out, delaying the rehearsals for months. Musician schedules conflicting with timelines. And a particular director dropping an “amateur and dead-end flop” for a chance to work with a Tony-winning actor.

  Placing a hand on my stomach, I inhale through my nose and exhale out of my mouth. If only that were his reason for leaving, the fucking asshole.

  Getting the lead role in the steampunk inspired rock opera was difficult enough with all the backstabbing and competition. And now not only am I getting a crash course in show delays and fighting down the fear of the producer dropping it all together, but it seems a lesson in life and consequences as well.