Rise From Rock City: A Lesbian Rock Star Romance (Revolving Record Book 1) Read online

  Rise From Rock City

  A Lesbian Rock Star Romance

  Nicolette Dane

  Revolving Record / Book 1

  Contents

  Copyright

  About the Author

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  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  Yes! Another Book Is Coming!

  Thank You!

  Get A Free Story!

  Restless On A Road Trip

  Full Bodied In The Vineyard

  Hotel Hollywood

  Freestyle Flirting

  Chef Cutegirl

  Sweetheart Starlet

  Salacious Stand Up

  Dormitory Dearest

  Do You Like Free Books?

  Copyright © 2016 Nicolette Dane

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  About the Author

  Nicolette Dane landed in Chicago after studying writing in New York City. Flitting in and out of various jobs without finding her place, Nico decided to choose herself and commit to writing full-time. Her stories are contemporary scenarios of blossoming lesbian romance and voyeuristic tales meant to give you a peep show into the lives of sensual and complicated women. If you're a fan of uplifting and steamy lesbian passion, you've found your new favorite author.

  www.nicolettedane.com

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  One

  I stood outside the Mystic, leaning back, one black boot up against the brick wall behind me, fingering a cigarette and looking down into the concrete below. I was out back, behind the club near the dumpsters, trying to muscle down my anxiety, trying to get myself amped up for going on stage. I had a run in my stockings, my skirt felt a bit tight, I had a shabby unzipped parka over my shoulders. It was cold out there and a very light flurry of snow was coming down from the night sky. You could see it in the streetlights. A cold, dreary, Detroit winter. It was New Year’s Eve 1999, the millennium, and while a lot of people decided to stay at home due to the irrational fear of the Y2K “bug,” me and my band Cast Party were about to rock out in a sweaty, steamy, smoky night club.

  Bringing the cigarette to my lips, I took a long drag from it and then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the evening.

  “Fuck,” I said through a smoky sigh. I took another puff and looked around. I could hear voices in the distance, revelers out to party for New Year’s, though downtown Detroit always had a quiet to it at night. Even back in 1999. It was a portent for things to come, surely, the eerie solitude you felt that you shouldn’t really feel when in the heart of a major American city.

  The city was loving me and Cast Party. Something was happening to us. We were getting write ups in the MetroShout, the local alt weekly, our shows were pulling way more people than we were used to. The New Year’s Eve show there at the Mystic, the tickets sold out in about a half an hour. Yeah, it might be because of the holiday. But the show was undeniably hyped up by the Detroit music scene hipsters and I liked to think it sold out so quickly because we were headlining.

  As my cigarette burned down to the butt, I considered lighting up another one when the large steel door next to me slowly opened up. I looked over and saw Renee stick her head out. Renee was a dichotomy wrapped in an enigma. She was a short, cute black girl with a teased out ‘fro, unsuspecting and adorable. But she was an absolute monster on the drums. She was the backbeat of Cast Party.

  “Dude, it’s fucking cold out here,” said Renee, looking at me from around the door. “You know you can smoke inside.”

  “I don’t want to smoke inside,” I said. “I’m trying to get ready.”

  “Should I leave you alone?”

  “No,” I said. “Come have a cigarette with me.”

  “You’re shitting me,” said Renee. “You want me to stand outside in that cold?”

  “You have a coat on,” I said, reaching over and trying to grab the lapel of Renee’s coat, though I was too far away and blocked by the door. “Come out here and talk to me.”

  “Layla, you’re a crazy bitch,” she said endearingly. Renee stepped outside and let the door close behind her. “We better not get locked out.”

  “It’s not locked,” I said. I dropped my butt to the cement and stepped on it with my heel. Then, reaching into my parka pocket, I pulled out a pack of Chamberlains, retrieved two, and stuck them both in my mouth. I brought my lighter up and flicked it, igniting the ends of both cigarettes, and then handed one to Renee.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “That place is packed,” I said, putting my lighter and the cigarette pack away. “It’s definitely over capacity.”

  “It’s fucking exciting, that’s what it is,” said Renee. “This show is huge for us.”

  “Huge,” I repeated wistfully.

  “You’re going to kill it,” said Renee. “Get outta your head.”

  “I wish it worked like that,” I said. “It’s always the same, though. I always feel like this before I go onstage.”

  “People love you in this city,” she said, taking a drag from her cigarette. “You’re becoming the new ‘it’ girl or some shit.”

  “The pressure makes me wanna puke,” I admitted. “Ugh.” I shook my head and tried to get a grip.

  “You know how it’s gonna go,” said Renee, building me up. “You’re going to step out on stage and everyone is going to scream and you’re going to feel how awesome that is in your heart.” She smiled warmly at me.

  “I know.”

  “And all this shit you feel,” she continued on. “It’s going to disappear.”

  “That’s how it works,” I said. “I feel it all get crazy in the time before I get on stage, and then once I’m there, it just melts and I rock the fuck out of those people.”

  “You absolutely rock the fuck out of those people,” Renee affirmed. “Layla, I’m cold,” she whined, giving me a bit of a pleading look.

  “Let’s just finish these, okay?” I said, holding up my half-smoked cigarette.

  “Fine.”

  “Do you ever feel scared of success?” I asked, looking over toward Renee out of the corner of my eye, feeling nervous saying something like that. “Like, we’re on the cusp of something big and it could all just tip over before we know it and then… we’re just… something?”

  “You’re talking, like, fame?” said Renee, slowly nodding.

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck no, I’m not scared of it,” she said. “I need this. This is my ticket out.”

  “Right,” I said. I knew Renee well.

  “I didn’t go to college like you,” she continued on. “I’m a fucking waitress. I want to be a star.”

  “I mean, I went to art school,” I said. “It’s not like I have a business degree to fall back on or something.”

  “But it’s something,” said Renee. “Look, you just need to chill the fuck out and do what you do best. Sing your words.” She offered me a tender, knowing smile.

  “Are you worried about this Y2K thing?” I asked, not knowing why I might change the subject but unable to stop myself from releasing the words.

  “What?” sa
id Renee, giving me a strange look. “Do you know how expensive computers are? I don’t have one of those.”

  “What about the banks?” I said. “Like, are ATMs going to stop working?”

  “I don’t have any money,” she said. “No, I’m really only worried about making sure I don’t fuck up a drum fill.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling reassured for some reason that was beyond me. I smiled softly at Renee. She was a great friend.

  “I’m done,” she said, tossing her cigarette to the ground and stepping it out. “Are you coming back inside?” Renee grabbed for the door and pulled it open halfway.

  “Sure,” I said. I, too, dropped my cigarette and stepped on it. With another exhale of smoke and breath, Renee and I returned inside to the Mystic.

  We were immediately hit with the sweaty humidity of a packed club, along with the shredding of rock guitar coming from the band who was currently up on stage, and the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated the room. Making our way down the back hall, passing the green room — which, at the Mystic, was an absolutely gross pile of shit — I stopped when I realized I still had my coat on. I quickly took the parka off and Renee, seeing me do this, followed my lead and removed her coat as well. I took both of the jackets, opened the green room door, and chucked them inside along the wall. Now we were ready to get back to it all.

  As Renee and I stepped out into the main room of the Mystic, overloud music pounding against our ear drums, I could feel the eyes on us as we passed. It felt really good. If you asked me in an interview what I thought of being looked at or talked about so much, I’d probably try to play it cool and say that it didn’t affect me. But I really loved the attention. It made me feel special. It made me feel big.

  And I was totally done up for the show. Black combat boots, black tights, black skirt, a red plaid button down shirt with a black cardigan over it. My hair was dyed black as well, with severe bangs cut across my forehead. I had always wanted to be Winona Ryder in Beetlejuice, or some kind of goth-punk princess. I even had my labret pierced way before it was cool or even a known thing. Back then, walking around with that little steel ball under my lip, people had no idea where I’d come from.

  Renee was a lot more rocker chick than I was. Her style was ripped jeans, red Chuck Taylors, a tight faded black Bob Marley shirt that featured her impressive rack. And that awesome ‘fro. She was a cool girl and although we were sort of opposites in style, in the band it worked out perfectly.

  Although people, mostly the guys, stared at Renee and I as we approached the bar, nobody would try to talk to us. It was a strange feeling. Just a few months prior, Cast Party was playing shows and doing our thing, but we hadn’t experienced the hype machine yet. We were unknowns. As soon as things started happening for us, however, and we were getting known around town, our experience when we were out in the scene became totally flipped. Sure, the errant guy with a little too much booze in him would try to flirt with me — which I would just laugh off because, well, I like pussy — but most of the time we were just sort of put on a pedestal. It was good and bad.

  “Two beers, please,” said Renee to the bartender in a loud yet muffled voice, holding up two fingers. You could hear people talking emphatically around the bar, trying to send their voices over the music. My eyes darted back and forth along the bar, searching for someone that I recognized. Before I knew it, Renee was handing me a beer and together we turned to face the stage.

  “I don’t have my beer tickets,” I said, suddenly feeling my skirt with my free hand. I didn’t have any pockets.

  “The bartender didn’t charge us,” she said.

  “Cool.”

  “These guys fucking rock,” said Renee, motioning to the stage with her bottle before bringing it to her lips to take a pull from it.

  “They could be tighter,” I said.

  “True,” she said. “But I like it kinda loosey-goosey sometimes.”

  “Are we next?” I asked.

  “We’re next.”

  “Like, what? Fifteen?”

  “Probably.”

  Just then, as though he came out of nowhere, the wiry and tall body of James leapt in front of us. Bent at the knees, arms raised, fingers bent, he roared at us like a lion, though his mane of hair was long and dark and stringy and greasy. At first both Renee and I were startled, but then the three of us laughed together as James straightened himself up and closed in on us so that we could talk over the music.

  “Couple of babes,” said James, having to lean down slightly to talk to us. “Where’s my beer?”

  “You can have mine,” I said. “I’m feeling queasy.” I offered my bottle to him.

  “I don’t want to catch lesbo,” said James with a dumb smirk on his face. But he took the bottle anyway.

  “Do you know how stupid that sounds?” I said. “Of course you want to catch lesbo. Unless you’re interested in dick.”

  “Touché,” said James, throwing his head back as he took a long gulp of beer. He gave a refreshing sigh as his drink ended. “Truthfully, I’ll take what I can get.”

  “Shit, James,” said Renee. “You know these groupie bitches always toss themselves at you after we play.”

  “Do you take me for some kind of slut?” said James. “I’m looking for a girl like my momma.”

  “I’ve met your momma,” said Renee. “And I’m sure she could be any one of these girls!” Renee and I laughed together.

  “Now I know you’re not talking about Barbara like that,” said James. He was laughing now. We always had a great time. Our ties were strong.

  “Barb’s a tough old cuss,” I said. “You’re not going to find her here. She’s working third shift at the mill.”

  “She’s a school teacher, Layla,” said James with a smirk, folding his arms.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I had her for English. I stand by my remark that she’s a tough old cuss.”

  “Ah!” said Renee with a dreamy sigh, leaning toward me and grabbing at my upper arm, hanging on. “The idyllic life in the suburbs.”

  “I forgot,” said James, scratching at his chin to make a production out of it. “Did you actually have high school in Detroit? Or is it one of those things where you make it through middle school, you’re done, you get a job at the coney island… that’s it, right?”

  “Hey!” said Renee. “I’ve only worked at the coney island as long as I have because my family owns it. You better not try to pull any of that shit with me. The Fortes are entrepreneurs.”

  “Ren-ay For-tay!” exclaimed James, exaggerating the vowels, bending down a little, wiggling his backside.

  “It’s a nice name,” said Renee. “Don’t you make fun.”

  “You started it,” he said. “Making fun of Barbara.”

  “All right, children,” I said, playing peacemaker. “Let’s dial it down a notch.” I spoke through a stifled laugh, genuinely feeling happy. My stomach was beginning to feel better. Something with the dynamic of these people, it relaxed me.

  “Where’s Paul?” Renee asked.

  “I do believe Paul is chtuning up his bass,” said James in a poor rendition of a Liverpool accent.

  “What?” said Renee. “He’s what?”

  “Chtuning his bass,” said James again.

  “Chooning?” said Renee, scrunching her face.

  “Okay, tuning,” said James in his normal voice once more. “Tuning his bass.”

  “What was that you were doing?” she asked skeptically.

  “A Beatles thing,” I interrupted. “Because, you know… Paul… bass.”

  “Oh,” said Renee. “Don’t quit your day job, James.”

  “Jokes on you,” he said. “I don’t have a day job.”

  The three of us laughed together.

  I wasn’t sick any longer. I was feeling ready. I had a wide smile on my face. I was ready to rock.

  “This is our last one,” I breathed into the mic, my heart racing, my body exhausted, sweat on my brow. The colorf
ul lights beamed down on the four of us on that small stage. The room was packed, people pushed up to the front and tried to get as close to the stage as possible. A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the crowd as they hung on my words. They cheered for us, hooted and hollered, the excitement having built throughout our set.

  I looked over my shoulder at Renee, sitting behind her drum kit, indicating I was ready whenever she was. And in turn, she looked over to Paul who nodded at her. Paul was a quiet guy, dressed in jeans and a white tee, unkempt hair and a patchy thin beard. He was happy to be able to fade into the background and concentrate on his dance with Renee, drums and bass having a special connection in rock music. James, however, was a wild man on stage and as the three of them came alive together, the music suddenly blasting through the amps, he widened his stance, tossed his long hair forward, and screamed.

  The crowd went nuts as the music started. It was one of our most loved songs, a song we knew people always enjoyed, and we often saved it until last. It just happened naturally. You find a song that works and you play it up. It was called Holy Cow.

  “Holy cow, I’m laying here deep in wonder,” I began into the microphone, grinning happily as I sung. “Thinking ‘bout what is coming next… for… me.”

  To my pleasant surprise, and almost bringing a tear to my eyes, I saw the people up front singing along with me. What made it all the more special was to see the smiling girls out there, looking up at me, like I was some sort of inspiration. They were singing with me emphatically, happy, eyes closed, dancing. It was like they wanted to be me.

  “Forgetting all of my faults and blunders,” I continued. “I don’t need them anyway! Leave them all behind.”

  I was a different person up on stage. I was outgoing, I was naughty, I was sexy. I bobbed side to side as I sung, shook my arms back and forth, my hair flipped around my head. And I smiled. I was someone up there. I was important. I wasn’t the weird shy girl I had been through my teenage years. I wasn’t just potential. I had been ignored, I had been called names, I had been treated badly because I was different. Because I dressed a certain way. Because I was a lesbian. But up on stage, these people didn’t see me as someone to bully. They saw me as a rock star. If you had asked me at 15 what I thought I’d be doing at 25, I doubt I would have said I’d be up on stage at the Mystic, headlining the New Year’s Eve show, with hundreds of people singing along to the lyrics I wrote.