Broken bridges a slow bu.., p.1
Broken Bridges: A Slow Burn Rockstar Romance (The Flintlocks Series Book 2), page 1
Broken Bridges
The Flintlocks Rockstar Romance Series – Book 2
by
Tania Joyce
BROKEN BRIDGES by Tania Joyce
Published by Gatwick Enterprises 2023
Brisbane, Australia.
Copyright © Tania Joyce 2023
All content and lyrics original works by Tania Joyce
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced, manipulated or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organizations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical), or by any means (AI content creation or manipulation, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
BROKEN BRIDGES
The Flintlocks Rockstar Romance Series – Book 2
EPUB format: ISBN: 978-0-6455547-0-0
Paperback: ISBN: 978-0-6455547-3-1
ASIN: B0B8XWT552
Cover Photography by: Wander Aguiar Photography
Model: Chris Lynch
Edited by: Creating Ink
For more information on the author please visit: www.taniajoyce.com
Keywords and Subjects
New adult romance, young adult romance, contemporary romance, rockstar romance, rock star romance, forced proximity,
gay to bisexual romance (pansexual, sexual fluidity), LGBTQI+ romance, celebrity romance, Hollywood romance, movie star romance, rocker, band, musician, bassist, music romance.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
BEFORE YOU GO.
BOOKS BY TANIA JOYCE
NEWSLETTER
FOLLOW TANIA JOYCE
ABOUT TANIA JOYCE
Chapter 1
LEWIS
Four months. Six days. Ten hours. That was how much time had passed since I’d gotten down on one knee, proposed to the love of my life, and had been hit with a heartbreaking, soul-crushing . . . ‘no!’. After drowning my sorrows, I’d arrived home . . . and he was gone. That had been the last battering my heart could take.
In the past six months, I’d lost my band, my grandfather, and my lover. New York, the city I’d adored, had taken everything I’d cherished away from me. It had broken my spirit, crushed my soul, and left me shattered. I had sixty days to clear out of my place, Pop’s condo in Brooklyn. I had to sell it to pay off his mountain of debt. With no other family nearby and my friends pursuing new dreams, there was nothing left for me on the East Coast. I’d had enough failures, losses, and delusions to last a lifetime. I needed to escape. Get a new life. Start afresh . . . again.
But as I stepped off the plane in Los Angeles, six days before Christmas, I questioned my sanity. This was maybe even too far-fetched for me.
Auditioning for The Flintlocks, a rock band who were more popular and more successful than my former group, The Saylors, had ever been, was ludicrous. I doubted I had the level of talent they were looking for. But the chance to write songs, record another album, and hear the tracks on the airwaves again had been a dream of mine for more than ten years. I’d given twelve years of my life to The Saylors. We’d amounted to less than nothing. We’d been a one-hit wonder. Our albums had never taken off. Our continual fights and arguments, different creative ideas, diverse interests, and total dysfunction had destroyed us. Yet another family of mine had fallen apart.
At thirty years old, I’d learned too many valuable life lessons. I refused to be taken advantage of anymore, I wouldn’t let my ideas go unheard, I wouldn’t be complacent . . . and I’d never be blinded by love again.
I wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes, so something had to change.
Was a new band and city the answer? Who fucking knew? But I had nothing left to lose.
I grabbed my duffel bag off the luggage carousel and collected my bass guitar from the bulky items counter. Weaving through the busy crowd, I made my way outside and jumped in a taxi. As the driver headed toward Ashlem Studios in West Hollywood, my head spun, and doubts pummeled my mind. This is madness. But then my thoughts reset with new resolve. My ex, Emilio, was wrong. I was hungry for success but our views on what that was differed. He wanted fame and fortune—I wanted happiness, a family, and to live off my music. I’d always known who I was and what I wanted. Following my heart had often led me astray. But now that was dead. So nothing would hold me back. Not anymore.
I can do this. I need this.
As I stepped out of the taxi, winter sunshine and a faint cool breeze hit me. I tightened my grip on my guitar case and stared up at the small chrome Ashlem Studios sign above the entrance to the two-story brick building. I pulled off my beanie, ruffled my fingers through my chin-length, shaggy blond hair, and closed my eyes.
Pop, wish me luck.
Taking a deep breath, I strode through the heavy glass doors. I walked across the glossy tiled foyer, checked off my name at the reception desk, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Butterflies stirred low in my gut like a restless orchestra ready to play as I headed along the corridor lined with platinum album awards and photos of artists. One day, I’d grace the walls of a record company. One day.
The door to the audition room swung open. A petite chick who looked about twenty, dressed in black tights and a red tartan skirt, and carrying a bass guitar, walked out of the studio.
“Good luck.” She grunted and threw me a daunting smile as she passed me. “You’re gonna need it.”
That didn’t help my nerves. “Um . . . thanks.”
“Lewis?” Hayden, my former bandmate, and closest friend, stood in the doorway. He hadn’t changed—he had the same short brown hair and cut physique as always. He greeted me with open arms. “Holy shit, man. It’s been too long.”
“It certainly has.” A year seemed like a lifetime. I dropped my bag on the ground and gave him a big, tight hug, slapping him on the back. My God, it was good to see him. I missed him like crazy. Nothing like traveling to the other side of the country for an audition and the rare opportunity to see my best buddy who lived across the river from me in Manhattan. “How’ve you been? How was tour?”
“Fantastic.” He stepped back and ruffled my hair. “Look at you with long hair.”
“Fuck off.” Chuckling, I slapped his hand away. “I just haven’t gotten my ass to a barber in months. It’s grown out.”
“Dude, don’t cut it. It’s awesome.”
“O-kay.” I gave him a sideways glance to make sure he wasn’t joking. “Thanks. I think.”
“I mean it. It suits you.” He play-punched my arm, then took a long, slow, deep breath. His eyes lit up as he flicked his finger at nothing in particular in the hallway. “So, what do you think of this place?”
My chest swelled. “I can’t believe you guys work with Ashlem and you own a recording studio back home.”
Since he’d left The Saylors five years ago to join Everhide, the world’s largest rock band, he’d found his rightful home as their drummer. He’d been close friends with Kyle, Gemma, and Hunter for years, and belonged with them more than anyone else. Now they owned their own label—EH4 Records—and would produce the album for The Flintlocks. Ashlem, one of the largest independent artist entertainment management groups on the planet, would handle distribution, promotion, and the tour.
“It’s still surreal.” Hayden rubbed the back of his head. “Every day, I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”
“I would too. I’m so happy for you.” I really was. He deserved every success. I missed him and hated that we didn’t see each other often anymore. He had a new life, a wife, and a kid. But no matter where in the world we were, we’d always be friends.
Hayden thumbed toward the studio behind him. “You ready for this?”
My pulse jumped. Nausea swirled in my gut. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of my neck. Why was I so nervous? I’d played for years at bars, music venue
“Not good.” Hayden grimaced and scratched the side of his cheek. “Flint and the guys just haven’t been impressed by anyone. They auditioned twelve people yesterday and have seen nine bassists today. You’re the last one.”
“Shit. Are their expectations unrealistic?” They had a right to be high. Finding someone to replace Phil, Flint’s brother, who’d been killed in a car accident, would be tough. I could only do my best.
“I don’t think so.” Hayden shrugged. “They’re just looking for an edge in someone. When they hear it, see it, feel it, they’ll know. When it’s right, it’s right.”
“Here’s hoping. I’ve flown my ass to LA, so I’m gonna give it my best shot.”
“Damn right you will.”
I glanced over his shoulder but couldn’t see anyone inside the studio. “Do they know we know each other?”
“Yes. They recognized our old band on your application.” He shot up his palms. “But I promise, I’ve said nothing to influence their decision. You have the talent and skill, so knock ’em dead with some of that magic you used to churn out when we jammed.”
“Magic, huh?” It would be nice to experience that again.
“You got this.” Hayden placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me an encouraging nudge. “Go break a leg. We’ll head out for a beer afterwards.”
“I look forward to it.” It would be nice spending two days here in LA with him at Kyle and Gemma’s house before he headed to London for gigs. We needed a good catch up.
Hayden opened the door wider for me. I picked up my gear and stepped inside.
This was just another audition.
Just a couple of songs.
No.
Grit set in my gut.
My life was a mess. I needed a fresh start.
I needed a new band and music to breathe.
I wanted this.
This had to happen.
It’s showtime!
Chapter 2
LEWIS
I sucked in a deep breath and walked into the studio’s huge rehearsal space. I spun around slowly, taking in the drums, guitars, keyboards, mics, amps, and speakers. Holy crap! This place was incredible, all light and bright and clean. Beat the hell out of the dingy basement I used to practice in.
“Good luck.” Hayden slapped me on the back then joined the guys at the far end of the room. Flint, Cole, and Slip, a.k.a. Sebastian—the members of The Flintlocks, Blake— their manager, and Kyle—Everhide’s bassist, stood huddled around a desk, talking.
“Give us one sec,” Flint called out. “Can you patch in there by the drums, please?”
“Sure.” I took a long second to eye him up and down. Dressed in tight black jeans and a white T-shirt, and with jet-black hair and icy blue eyes, Flint was hot as fuck. But he had a girlfriend, Sutton. I’d done my research . . . on all of them.
“You need anything?” Kyle hollered.
I shrugged off my denim jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Just being in the same room as Kyle raised my body temperature. It had always done that since I’d met him twelve years ago via Hayden. The guy had a charisma and manner that did it for me. Pity he was straight. “No. Thanks, Kyle. I’m good.” If my nerves could disappear, I’d be fucking great.
Whatever the men were talking about had them hurtling fiery whispers at each other. Were they frustrated over the auditions and unable to agree on a bassist? One or more of them liked the previous girl but the others didn’t? Were they just over the long day and tired?
Maybe all the above.
Their low voices didn’t ease the knots in my stomach. But playing would.
I grabbed my bass out of its case and plugged it in.
Taking a seat on a stool, I thumbed the strings, played a few chords and scales. No feedback or delay came through the amp. All good. I’m set.
But fuck.
Was I wasting my time?
What edge could I inject into a cookie-cutter audition? Playing two of The Flintlocks’ songs—a pop-rock upbeat number, “Move Me”, and the bass-heavy track “Drunk On You” was easy. Not even a challenge. How could I stand out from the other contenders?
I flicked my hair off my face and closed my eyes. My leg jiggled. Damn, I wanted this gig. Not just because it would be a phenomenal job and an incredible opportunity, but because I loved the band’s music. Their energy captivated me. I’d watched their live performances online. The connection they’d had with each other on stage had hit me hard. I hadn’t had that kind of bond with my band in years.
I craved it again.
Clearing my head, I filled my lungs to capacity, then let my breath out slowly. The deep thrum and reverberations from my bass coursed from my fingertips up my arms and settled in my chest. I morphed from playing the low and slow bassline of “Riders On The Storm” by The Doors, to the faster-paced “Mr. Brightside” by The Killers, to then tapping out “Hysteria” by Muse.
I chuckled. I didn’t know where that combination of songs had come from. But I’d loved it.
“Lewis? . . . Lewis? . . . LEWIS?” Flint called across the room, breaking me out of my zone.
I palmed my strings to kill the sound. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I was warming up.”
Flint’s eyes brightened as he quirked half a grin. Slip gaped. Cole raised a questioning eyebrow. Blake and Kyle bobbed their heads. Hayden’s face lit with a enormous smile.
“Dude.” Flint jutted his chin at me. “That was some move, ripping out Muse.”
He knew the song? Awesome. “It wasn’t a move. It’s a great track that kicks ass on the bass.”
Kyle widened his stance and folded his arms. “But it’s one of the hardest bass-heavy songs to play.”
I bet Kyle, with his wicked talent, could’ve played it in his sleep. “Maybe. But it rocks.”
“Absolutely true.” Flint led the group of men over to join me and we went through introductions. After I shook their hands, Flint headed to the electric guitars. He picked up the Fender and hooked the strap over his head. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Wait. What? “Don’t you want me to play the songs for the audition?” I flicked my cable out of the way and moved aside so Flint could stand beside me.
“Yes. With us.” A touch of cockiness sliced through Flint’s tone as he strummed the electric’s strings. The twang reverberated through the speaker, filling the room with a new buzz. “Clearly you know your way around a bass, so let’s see how you nail timing.”
“You wanna play with me?” Shit. Okay. I’d never done that for an audition before. And I’d been to plenty over the past few months. I’d tried out for some small start-up bands, a couple of no-name groups hitting the festival circuit, and several back-street Broadway shows. But nothing had come off. Nothing had gelled.
“Yep.” Flint nodded.
“Alrighty, then.” I rose to my feet and moved the stool aside.
Slip swiped another electric off its stand and stepped in next to Flint. Blake, Hayden, and Kyle returned to the desk and gave me the thumbs up. Having an audience turned up the dial on the butterflies in my gut.
Cole grabbed his drumsticks out of his bag and took a seat behind the drum kit. “Let’s start with ‘Move Me,’ and go straight into ‘Drunk On You.’ Ready?”
I shook the jitters from my fingers and set them over my strings. I stretched my head from side to side, then nodded. “Yep.” I can do this.
Cole tapped his drumsticks together. “One. And-a two. And-a three.”
The second Cole hit the drums, my heartrate doubled. The moment Flint and Slip struck their electrics, my breath quickened. Get it together, idiot. I joined in at the end of the intro and shivers ran up my spine. Oh, yeah . . . these guys could play.
And Flint could sing, all seductive with a touch of raspy badass rocker.
By the time we hit the verse, the music had taken over me and my nerves had subsided. The hum in the air was more electric than the voltage coursing through the power cables.
My adrenaline kicked in as we transitioned into the second song. I couldn’t contain my grin when they sped up the tempo then slowed it down. Was this a test to see if I was on-point with listening to the rhythm? Letting the drummer set the pace? This wasn’t my first time playing. I never missed a beat.
