Kristen Ashley - Rock Chick Revolution

This book is dedicated to Kerrie Gisborne, a reader who turned into a friend. My first fan outside my posse—I’m pleased as punch she’s now a member of that crew. And lucky for me, I’m a member of hers too. Miss you, Kerrie.

First, credit has to be given to Ebony Evans for the title of this book, Rock Chick Revolution. Ebony contacted me eons ago with the title suggestion and I loved it the minute I read it. I had other thoughts and other suggestions, but Ebony’s suggestion wouldn’t let me go. So thank you, darlin’, for a great title that fits this book perfectly.

Second, I want to thank my best bud Kelly Brown who was the inspiration for Ally. Fearless. Intelligent. Funny. Loyal. Strong. Kelita, when we were in that cave in Venezuela and you rushed ahead to spot that old lady in her clickity-clack heels (in a cave!), leaving me behind to watch where every foot fell (and fear the bats hanging from the ceiling), I was in awe. I hope you feel Ally does you justice because I think you kick ass and I know you can do anything (mostly because you’ve already done it) .

And last, I have to share with my readers that this book was the most difficult book I’ve ever written. This is the first series where I let my Rock Chick Flag fly and decided to write what I wanted, to hell with “the rules.” I started this series because I was living in England and very homesick for Denver, pouring out these words as a love letter to that city, my country, and the people I left in them. I shared with my readers many characters who are loosely (and not-so-loosely) based on people I love, including Tex, Tod, Stevie, Ally, Annette, Nick, Reba, and Herb and Trish.

I also shared many good times (and bad) from my own life. For instance, Jet’s response to seeing her mother after her stroke was my response to seeing my Momma after hers. And Indy and Roxie’s dash through the Haunted House was near-on exact to a hilarious event that happened to my friend Cat and I.

So, in a way, these books are me, or many important parts of my life, both living and breathing and treasured memories.

Knowing in starting this book that I would be saying good-bye to the gang at Fortnum’s was bittersweet. Maybe this is why I cried so hard in many scenes that my tears projected onto my glasses. Or laughed so hard I choked. Or got up after writing a scene and danced around my office (no joke, and I’ve never done that before).

So I guess I loved writing this book, too.

And I truly hope you experience the same tears, laughter and jubilation.

But all good things must come to an end. And they must so we can open ourselves to other good things. However, my greatest fear with these novels was that this cast of characters would grow stale and tired. Seeing as I love them as if they were real, and these zany, wonderful, loving characters shouldn’t feel stale and tired, I never, ever wanted that to happen.

So with this book—and a warning, this book is a true revolution —I bid farewell.

Of a sort.

Because with this book, I’m opening myself to other good things.

And seeing as this gang is worth my time, we haven’t seen the end to them yet.

Just the start of new beginnings.

A massive thank you to my readers for loving these books as much as I do. For giving your hearts to my characters. For spending your time with me. And for championing a Rock Chick who breaks the rules.

And Chas, Rikki and now Gary, thank you for taking the ride with me.

Now, as ever and always, my Rock Chicks and Rock Gurus, strap in, put your hands straight up in the air, get ready for one helluva ride and never forget to Rock On!

I woke up naked, in a motel, with a man behind me.

We were spooning.

Ren always spooned me.

No, that wasn’t right. He didn’t always spoon me. Sometimes he tucked me into his side when he was on his back. Sometimes he tucked me to his front when he was on his side and I was on my back. Sometimes I spooned him. But when I did, he held my hand to his chest, even in his sleep, so I couldn’t escape.

He was a maximum contact sleeper.

I loved that.

Secretly.

The problem was, as far as I was concerned, he was just a fuck buddy.

Lorenzo “Ren” Zano didn’t feel the same way.

We’d been dancing this dance for over a year now. Ren trying to convince me we had something. Me disagreeing.

Nope. Again that wasn’t right. Ren wasn’t trying to convince me we had something. He was simply convinced, and for the last eight months had been acting like he was my boyfriend. If boyfriends were bossy, annoying and in your face all the time, telling you what you could and couldn’t do (in my case, it was mostly what I couldn’t ).

The months before that, Ren had been trying to convince me we should explore what we had.

I guessed he just gave up trying to convince me and decided to be my boyfriend even if I didn’t agree.

The problem with me not agreeing was I tended to do a few things when Ren was around. One was argue with him like he was my boyfriend. Another was to have the occasional meal (or maybe not so occasional) with him and shoot the breeze, like he was my boyfriend. Another was sleep with him, and spend the night, like he was my boyfriend.

“I know you’re awake.”

I rolled my newly awakened eyes.

Ren always woke up before me in the mornings and always sensed when I was awake.

Except once.

Our first time together.

But what happened after I woke up that time nearly killed me, so I didn’t think about that.

Always when he sensed I was awake, he commenced with The Talk (necessitating capital letters because Ren considered these Talks gravely serious and took them that way; again, I disagreed).

Usually these Talks centered around what we argued about before I jumped him. Or before he jumped me and we went on to have hours of mind-boggling, soul-enriching, life-changing sex, then passed out and Ren instigated Maximum Contact Sleep.

Today, I could tell by his tone, was not going to be different.

“I need coffee,” I told him.

“I’ll get you coffee after we talk.”

See?

There it was.

The Talk.

And bossy.

I sighed and stated, “Zano, I don’t wanna talk.”

He put a hand in my belly, slid away and pressed me to my back so he could loom over me. Then he proceeded to press deep into me with most of his body, but some of it up on an elbow on the bed, and loom over me.

Exhibit A. Ren assumed dominant positions regularly and often in order to best be bossy, annoying and in my face; like, say, pressing me to my back in a bed and looming over me after I said I didn’t want to talk.

I caught his eyes.

God, he had gorgeous eyes.

To block out those eyes, I closed mine.

Still, I saw him, all of him, in my mind’s eye.

His eyes, his face, his hair and other parts of his anatomy (that would be all of it) usually were my undoing, and thus I would end up jumping him even in the midst of a fight. Or, alternately, I wouldn’t struggle too much if he jumped me.

He was Italian, straight up, no other blood in him. He might be American—fourth generation American to be precise—but other than not speaking a different language, I was pretty certain his entire family thought they still lived in Sicily, even though most of them lived in Englewood, Colorado. With the exception of Ren and his cousin Dominic Vincetti. They both lived fifteen minutes to the north in Denver.