Undone: A Reckless Rockstars Romance

By Steph Weston

From USA TODAY Best Selling Author, Steph Weston, comes a brand new stand-alone Novella series.

Undone : A Rockstar Enemies to Lover Romance / Book 1

 

Emilia

Blake Michaels. The boy I fell for and thought would be my forever. That was until he abandoned me when I needed him the most.

Like we were nothing.

Like I was nothing.

Now he's standing in front of me, but I'm the one holding the power. Tasked with writing an article on his band, this is my big career break.

I can't wait to show the world who the real Blake Michaels is.

 

Blake

 

Emilia Brookes. The mention of her name brings back feelings I will never admit.

Five years ago, she decided I wasn't enough and hooked up with my brother.

Now she's here, looking as incredible as ever and I'm supposed to just smile and make small talk?

Not likely.
I'm going to make this week a living hell for her and make her regret ever messing with me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Empire Press
• Release date: Jul 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9780648812852

Book preview

1

BLAKE

A low moan, followed by the sound of sheets rustling, reminds me that I’m not alone. The scent of day-old perfume and rum breath burns my nose before I even open my eyes. When I do, the first thing I notice is the red hair. 

All wrong. 

My old friend disappointment rears its ugly head as I come back to reality and remember it was just a dream. A dream that will never come true for so many fucked up reasons. Reasons that both make my blood boil and make me hate myself simultaneously. 

The bleached-to-the-max white sheets rustle again, and flashes of last night come back to me in a drunken haze. 

Beach party. 

Bonfire. 

Tequila shots. 

Bikinis. 

Tits. Lots of tits. 

Speaking of, the warmth of a sizable set presses against my back. 

My dick fills with blood instantly. There’s a reason she’s a redhead. There’s a reason they all are. Gingers do it for the dick, and that’s about it. No reminders of the past that got away. No complications. No strings. No matter how much they try. 

A hard knock on the door interrupts us from going at it again. Which is probably a good thing. It’s not as mind-numbing and memory-erasing when you’re sober. 

Come in! I call out, which causes the naked chick next to me to suddenly become self-conscious and scatter to the bathroom. I try hard to remember her name but fail miserably. Chelsea? Chrissie maybe? Not that it fucking matters. 

Your room service, sir. The hotel attendant wheels in a cart filled with an assortment of breakfast options that I preordered as my wake-up call the day before. From scrambled eggs and bacon to waffles to a giant pancake stack, topped with an elegant chocolate A to distinguish the hotel name. 

Nothing less for a five-star hotel. Or a rock star. 

I hate myself as I even think it. I keep being told to own it, that being a rock star is what everyone dreams of. And, yes, I’m literally living my dream, but it still doesn’t feel right.

I thank the guy and slip him a Benjamin from the folded stack I always keep on me. I don’t use my cards unless I have to. Those transactions can be traced, and I don’t like people being able to track my shit. Even if I am watched just about every second of the day. 

Red exits the bathroom with a towel around her, looking a little nervous and shy. She certainly wasn’t shy last night with my cum on her face. I study her a little more closely. She’s pretty. Gorgeous, some might say, with a light smattering of freckles across her nose and big brown eyes. But it’s still all wrong. 

Help yourself. I wave to the spread while grabbing some coffee and venturing out onto the balcony. 

Warm tropical sun hits my skin, and a clear blue ocean fills the space in front of me. I’ve grown used to this view. But three weeks in paradise has to be enough. The vacay is over, and tonight, it’s back to the real world. 

The tabloids might love to label me as a reckless and wild rock star, and sure, I do love a good fuck and drink as much as the next guy, but when I’m on tour, it’s strictly work. I’ve worked too hard to fuck this up for myself or the other guys. They’d have my balls if I did anything to jeopardize our shot at legendary music status. As I would to them. 

One too-eager magazine even released an article last week with the heading Blake Michaels: The Ultimate Cliché Rock Star.

It was a true slander piece, detailing my apparent exploits and uncontrollable ways. PR for the tour had a field day with that one. The writer was on the money about one thing though. I am a cliché in every way, and for some reason, people fall all over me for it. 

Arrogant, tortured, and angry. The basic ingredients for the standard rock star recipe. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, baby.

Except the drugs. I have never and will never touch the stuff. I’ve seen firsthand what a drug addiction can do to someone. Albeit it was prescription, but all the same, I’d die before I did that shit. 

My phone rings with the familiar, exclusive ringtone I set for my manager. The doom-dum-dum-dum. Fits him to a T. Now, there’s an arrogant son of a bitch if I ever met one. He came recommended by the label when we first signed, and as naïve eighteen-year-olds, we didn’t know any better. Now, lucky for him, he’s been around too long and seen too much for us to fire him. 

Yes, Father, I answer with a sigh. 

He fucking hates it, which means I’m never going to stop saying it. Thank God though he’s never actually had kids. The poor souls, they’d probably end up like … well, like me. That’s where most of my loathing for him comes from—in the fact that he reminds me so much of my own self-important, power-hungry prick of a father.

Where are you? he demands. We stopped with the pleasantries a long time ago. It’s all business now, and honestly, I prefer it. You’re supposed to be in LA today!

Yes, I know, I reply, not even bothering to hide the annoyance at being micromanaged. Another reason why I didn’t tell anyone where I was. Not even Rayner or Zac, my bandmates and two best friends. 

They are more like brothers than my real brother is, but every now and then, I even need a break from them. They remind me too much of the past and how the best thing I ever had got so royally fucked up.

Um, I guess I’d better go … Red appears at the balcony door, clothed, hovering and waiting for me to beg her not to go. 

Tell the concierge to order you a cab on my account, I say before turning back to the ocean and the lovely phone call with dickager. I’m an ass, I know, but it would be ruder to string her along. 

I hope you got an NDA signed. He asks through the phone. 

I roll my eyes. Of course I did. 

I might do some really, really stupid shit sometimes, but I’m not an idiot. 

That’s debatable, he quips, impressed with himself. 

What I wouldn’t give to just fire him.

"Don’t forget you are booked in at a hotel for press this week before you go to Vegas, and then you fly out next Monday for the tour. There’s a journalist who will be following you around this week for a feature in The Lifestyle Edit." 

I groan loudly. I know I sound like a spoiled five-year-old, but my fucks given are getting less and less these days. 

I loathe these feature articles. Everyone thinks they are going to get the next big scoop or uncover a hidden secret or dark past. We might have secrets—all of us do—but those vaults are tightly sealed shut and submerged under several thousand pounds of baggage.

2

EMILIA

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. I chant to myself.

I am so not ready for this. 

I take one last look down at my outfit, while smoothing down my black straight-legged trousers and fixing the sleeves on my cream blouse. Not as good as I would like, but it’s good enough. Simple, but acceptable. 

Had I been given more notice, I would have most certainly gone out and bought myself a