Karina Bliss: What the Librarian Did

Copyright © 2010 by Karina Bliss.

Thanks to Cheryl Castings, who suggested the name Matthew Bennett in a “Name a character” contest I ran through my Web site.

Dear Reader,

My interest in writing an ex-rock-star hero came about through watching a couple of TV documentaries, including “Heavy-the History of Metal.” I expected grunts and expletives; what I heard were articulate, clever and often well-educated men looking back over extraordinary achievements in music.

Alice Cooper, Johnny Rotten…great guys.

A lot of them had been through the mill with drugs, alcohol and relationships, but those who’d come out the other side were bad boys made good. Still with that self-deprecating humor and world-weary twinkle that make rogues so irresistible to romance readers.

Another profession that often gets stereotyped is the librarian. What fun, I thought, to put these two together. Drop by my Web site, www.karinabliss.com, and tell me if you thought so, too.

Happy reading.

Karina Bliss

Seventeen and a half years earlier

Suburban New Zealand

EVERYONE SAID ONLY a weirdo would turn down a date with Mary O’Connell’s older brother, home from university for the holidays. And Rachel was sick of being a weirdo.

Tentatively, she followed Steve’s lead in the kiss and wiggled her tongue. He responded with a flattering groan. Sweet sixteen and finally been kissed. She shivered, more from the loveliness of the thought than his gentle stroking of her bare arm. Then he touched her breast and she shied away. “Don’t do that.”

“I can’t help it.” Breathing heavily, Steve stared into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Am I?” She stripped the wistful note out of her voice. “Don’t be crazy.” She was passable, that was all. When she wasn’t in her school uniform she wore clothes that were Mom’s idea of what a young lady should wear. Rachel pulled at the button-up collar of her pink blouse. She hated pink. And plaid skirts. When she left home she’d always wear bright colors.

“You are beautiful.” Steve’s voice vibrated with intensity. “And smart. And funny.” He loomed closer again and her nervousness must have showed because he stopped with such an understanding smile that Rachel felt like a silly little girl.

Sure, they were a bit isolated, sitting here in his Toyota Celica, but across Hamilton Lake, suburban lights twinkled like stars.

And obviously they couldn’t have a conventional date in case someone reported back to her parents. She shivered again, knowing how her father would react if he found out. But some risks were worth taking and Rachel yearned to live.

They’d drunk beer, which she’d only pretended to sip, watching Steve anxiously. But he’d stopped after one can. And he’d asked her about all sorts of subjects and listened-really listened-to the answers. As if her opinions mattered. Not even Chloe, her best and only friend, did that. Normally it was Rachel’s job to listen.

His sincerity reminded her of Holden Caulfield, the hero in her favorite book, Catcher in the Rye, except that Steve was good-looking. Not that looks mattered; Rachel would hate to be shallow. And Steve said it was his favorite book, too. It must be a sign. Before she lost her courage, she leaned forward and initiated another kiss.

This time when he touched her breast Rachel let it linger a few seconds before she removed his hand. “I should really be getting back,” she said. “I’ve got an exam tomorrow.” She took her education very seriously. It was her way out.

Steve didn’t get annoyed; he simply nodded and started the engine, and Rachel’s last doubt dissipated. When he dropped her off at the end of the street he lifted her hand and kissed it, a French gesture that thrilled her all the way to the bone.

“Say we can do this again,” he begged, and she nodded because her heart was too full to speak. I’m in love.

Same time

Long Beach, Los Angeles, U.S.A.

“GOT YOUR FAKE ID?”

Devin shouldered his bass guitar, checked his jeans pocket and nodded, but his attention wasn’t really on Zander. With a sixteen-year-old’s fascination, he was watching a stripper across the bar.

His brother’s volatile temper had left him a bass player short an hour before a gig, and Devin was the last-minute replacement. Now he was discovering heaven had many layers. The stripper winked at him and he blushed and dropped his head.

Then caught Zander exchanging grins with the drummer, and scowled.

His brother nudged him. “And don’t tell Mom I brought you here.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Yeah.”

It was seedy, the kind of place where people carried knives. Dimly lit, pungent with marijuana and sticky underfoot. But Devin didn’t care. As they set up their secondhand equipment on the tiny platform that constituted the stage, his heart pounded harder and harder until he thought he’d pass out.

This was his chance to become a permanent member of Rage instead of the awestruck kid brother sitting in the corner of the garage. When the band let him. On the rare occasions, Devin would go up to his room afterward and create riffs on his bass or Zander’s discarded electric guitar, which Devin played upside down because he was left-handed.

Zander had heard one, liked it and used it in one of his songs. After that, Devin had got more garage time. He knew every chord by heart-which was why he was here. So they didn’t lose out on three hundred dollars. Devin wondered whether he could ask for a cut.

“Don’t screw this up,” muttered Zander as he made his way to the microphone. Devin decided not to push his luck.

Instead he wiped his damp palms on his Guns ’N’ Roses T-shirt and waited for his brother’s hand signal, too scared to look around in case he caught someone’s eye and got knifed, or worse, kicked out for being a kid. He couldn’t lose this big chance.

Chris, the lead guitarist, gave his shoulder a friendly punch. “Breathe,” he encouraged. Devin gulped as Zander grabbed the microphone and faced the band. His eyes and grin were wild and a charge crackled through the air and surged through Devin. He grinned back.

His brother raised one arm, revealing a flash of white abdomen between T-shirt and low-slung jeans. He must be the only person in L.A. without a tan, Devin thought irrelevantly, then Zander mouthed the count-three, two, one-and swept his arm down.

With Chris, Devin struck the first note of “Satan’s Little Helper,” and forgot his nerves, his hopes, forgot everything except coaxing emotion from his guitar. Lost himself in the music.

Much later, drenched with sweat, dazed from adrenaline overload, he sat at one of the scratched wooden tables in the bar. In the round of drinks, he mistakenly got a beer and drank it because he was so thirsty.

Zander noticed his empty glass. “Only one,” he warned, but he was too busy lapping up female attention to stop Devin accepting another.

After two beers he sat with a silly grin on his face, not feeling shy, not feeling anxious, not feeling anything but cocky. “Am I in, bro?” he called. Zander shrugged.

“Until we find someone better.”

And Devin thought, No one will be better than me. I’ll make sure of it.