Rock God in Exile (Smidge Book 2) Read online

  Rock God in Exile

  Contemporary Romance

  Copyright ©2020 by Kella Campbell

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

  All rights reserved — no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations in book discussions or reviews.

  Cover photography and author portrait by Tiffany John

  Ebook design & production by Ebooks Done Right

  Editor Tanya Oemig

  Published by Tied Star Books

  KINDLE EDITION • ISBN 978-0-9921152-7-2 • VERSION 1.0

  Also available in print.

  Nell sat alone at the bar, reading a book and sipping a Frosty Peach. They were a little too easy to drink, as cocktails went, but the frozen slushy mixture with the peach candy on top felt like a treat, in a way that a nice glass of wine or a standard gin and tonic never quite did. Her Sunday nights belonged to books and a quiet seat at the bar, two drinks over two hours — never more — and a plate of sweet potato fries or cream cheese wontons to snack on.

  The Frog and Ball tended to be quiet on Sundays, which suited her perfectly. A group of regulars ate nachos and watched baseball; a few couples were there for the Sunday dinner special. A pair of old guys at the other end of the bar worked their way steadily through a small fortune in pull tabs with their beer — Nell had seen them before. Over at the pool table, a man with wavy blond hair played against himself, shooting first for solids, then for stripes.

  What a bastard of a week. The comforting buzz of the alcohol in her drink soothed Nell a little. She didn’t believe in using booze to feel better — it’s a depressant, it dulls cognitive faculties, it’s bad for self-discipline, and it costs too much — but there was no denying that sometimes it could anesthetize the ache of a bad day. Or week. Or year.

  The bartender never bothered Nell; after maybe a hundred or so Sunday nights at this point, he was used to her and her book. She tipped decently and didn’t create trouble for him.

  And if the occasional jerk tried to chat her up, or muttered a pointed “antisocial” when she refused to take her eyes off the page she was reading, she just ignored him. Sundays were Nell’s Fridays, and after five straight days of dealing with mind-numbing ridiculousness, she needed her night off. Errands and socializing and necessary evils could wait for Monday or Tuesday — her “weekend” — but she didn’t have any space or patience for fools or even friends on Sunday nights.

  When the bartender placed a third Frosty Peach in front of Nell, he had a slight smirk on his face. She looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. “Enjoy,” he said.

  “What’s this about, Tim? You know I never have more than two,” she told him.

  “Courtesy of the gentleman at the pool table,” said the bartender, with just the faintest inflection on the word gentleman.

  Unable to help it, Nell glanced over. The pool player was nearly done with his game, stripes set for the definitive win, solids nowhere. He looked up at her, winked. And she realized that she wore a green striped shirt, and his muscle tank was a solid blue.

  “I don’t know,” she said. The Frog and Ball wasn’t the kind of place where men sent drinks over to her; it had never happened before, here. The book should have been armor enough.

  The bartender shrugged. “He already paid for it. You might as well drink it.”

  The sports-watchers called for another round of beer and the bartender moved to pour it, leaving the unwanted drink in front of Nell. She sighed and picked the peach candy off the top of the frozen slush. The best part. It would make more sense to just buy a bag of peach candies and eat them. “I suppose a few sips more won’t kill me,” she said aloud, mostly for the bartender’s benefit. And it meant she could put off going home for a little while longer.

  But concentrating on her book had become difficult. I will not look over at that man again, she told herself. He might take it as an invitation.

  He had blond hair, didn’t he? Seemed tall enough. And the muscle shirt showed off toned arms with just the right amount of ink. No.

  Nell pushed the slushy cocktail away and stuffed her book into her sling bag. “I’m done, Tim,” she called to the bartender. “Thanks!”

  As usual, she ducked into the bathroom on her way to the door. A twenty-minute walk home was no joke for someone holding it, and a couple of cocktails would have a predictable effect.

  The lock was broken in the stall she’d chosen, but as Nell debated whether to shift herself to the other one, she heard the outer door to the bathroom swing open and decided she might as well stay put. As Nell awkwardly held the stall door closed with one hand while doing her business, she waited for footsteps to move into the adjacent stall. Nothing. Nor any sound of the sink being used. Perhaps it was just someone reapplying lipstick or getting something out of her teeth.

  Nell opened the stall door and stepped out. Froze in surprise.

  “Hey, baby.”

  The pool player lounged against the counter, arms crossed, pleased with himself.

  “What the flipping hell?” Nell stared at the cocky length of him. “Did you follow me in here?”

  “Sure — it’s not like there’s anyone else using it, and I thought you might appreciate a little company, gorgeous.” His frank gaze fixed on her chest, blatantly admiring.

  Nell shook her head. “Unbelievable. What I’d appreciate is a chance to wash my hands, if you could get your ass off the sink. Please.” Despite the sarcastic courtesy, her tone made it a command, not a request.

  “Okay, sassy pants.” Laughing, he slid to one side, just enough for her to reach the taps.

  She assessed the situation, not pleased with her choices. Stepping up to the sink would put her too close to him for comfort; she’d otherwise have to leave with unwashed hands.

  “Get out of my space.” She stepped up to the sink as though he weren’t even in the room. He moved away at her approach, and she thought at first her confidence had driven him back — until he looped around and came up behind her, trapping her against the counter with a hand on either side of her.

  “What’s your perfume? You smell good enough to eat,” he murmured, his mouth flirtatiously close to her ear, her neck.

  Whoa! Flipping crap. How had she let herself get into a position like this? She could feel the heat of his body and smell the alcohol on his breath mixed with his body wash or cologne or whatever it was. A shiver rippled through her.

  “Haven’t been able to take my eyes off you… sitting there, flirting with me over your book… and you’ve got such heavenly tits...” One of his hands left the counter and snaked around to caress Nell’s waist.

  “Get your hands off me,” she snarled. When he didn’t comply immediately, she lost it. “That’s it. Fair warning was given. Flipping asshole.” With everything she had in her, all the power from every training session, every self-defense drill, she raised an arm, torqued herself around and nailed him with a hammerfist in the side of the neck. Pressure point. Brachial plexus origin. As his arms slackened, she turned, gripped his shoulder for leverage and slammed a knee into his groin. He dropped, groaning and cursing. “Don’t assume women are helpless. Some of us are black belts. Some of us will make you sorry you tried it.” Kicking away a pawing hand with one foot, she stalked out of the bathroom.

  Do I say anything to Tim? Or do I just leave?


  Technically, she knew she should probably say something. But explanations would be complicated. And a martial artist’s hands and feet can be considered weapons in a court of law.

  The pool player could explain what had happened, if he wanted to — starting with why he’d been in the women’s bathroom.

  She left.

  Wednesday morning, the first day of Nell’s workweek, came all too soon.

  Her usual round of squats and pushups and crunches jump-started her body and put her into a better frame of mind than she’d woken up with, but didn’t leave much time for anything except a quick shower and basic grooming. Not that anyone at the office would care if Nell Whelan did or did not wear eyeliner and mascara, as long as she followed the workplace dress code and looked like she was doing her job.

  Pushing the vileness of business casual slacks and blouses into the back of her mind, she ate some cold leftover stir-fry for breakfast and made a protein shake to get herself through the rest of the morning.

  I’ll have a cup of tea when I get to the office, she told herself. She kept a stash of good tea in the bottom drawer of her desk, a small luxury that made her office existence a little bit more bearable.

  She didn’t get a seat on the bus, but that was normal, and at least her commute took only twenty minutes. The riders who got on early enough to have seats were coming in from the suburbs and had probably been on the bus for half an hour already. Tinny music from several sets of nearby earbuds buzzed softly around her, and she gazed out the bus window at the sunrise.

  Work never changed. Nell was the first one to arrive, as usual, and she liked it that way. The elevators weren’t yet as crowded as they would be later in the morning, but two early birds waiting by the elevator bank were enough for Nell to take the stairs. Six flights were nothing; she usually did the stairs both ways at lunch anyway without breaking a sweat, but an extra set in the morning would be good for her. She reached the sixth floor, unlocked the glass front doors of the office, and moved through the space turning on lights.

  The office had its usual early morning smell of cleaning solution and electronics. No one was ever around this early. Nell liked to get a start on her day before the rest of the managers and assistants and booking agents turned up to fill the office.

  She turned on her computer, made her tea, tidied the photocopier room and kitchenette — even though that wasn’t technically her job. She couldn’t bear to have the office’s public and shared spaces in disarray, and Lila the receptionist never did it.

  Basics attended to, she started on her email inbox.

  I hate my job. I hate my job.

  Nell was a supervisor for a vacation properties company. Wildforest Vacations Inc. owned assorted cottage resort parks — charming rustic cabins and cottages in picturesque rural areas, clustered around a restaurant and general store. Some were aimed at couples, some at families, some at singles and the party scene. Each property had a supervisor, and each supervisor was supposed to have an assistant in the office as well as an on-site manager at each property. But Nell’s previous assistant had quit without notice the month before, and Wildforest hadn’t yet hired her a new one. Two people’s jobs to get done in one person’s hours, on one salary. Not that Shannon had worked terribly hard. Lila had agreed to help Nell out until a new assistant could be found for her, but although the receptionist was friendly and had a great telephone voice, she wasn’t much for organization skills or neatness or quick work.

  Emails from the on-site managers were Nell’s first priority each morning, in case something urgent needed to be dealt with right away. Brian at Winter Pine Cottages was practical and reliable, if a bit abrasive, and Nell tolerated working with him because he got things done, while Stuart at Secret Creek Lodge reminded her of a male version of Lila — great voice, super friendly, not so organized and a bit short on common sense. Deep down, Nell thought both of them were lucky. They lived in jeans and plaid shirts — Wildforest’s idea of what a “camp manager” ought to look like, but it was comfortable and much better than her stupid slacks and blouses.

  “Why don’t you apply to be a camp manager?” Nell’s friend Amy had asked her one night, after listening to a frustrated outburst about office life. Amy lived for her acting career and didn’t seem to mind sleeping on friends’ couches or slinging coffee during the bad times; maybe she couldn’t understand Nell’s need for security, stability. Anyway, the camp manager life sounded idyllic in some ways, but not much of a challenge, and Nell couldn’t imagine giving up her martial arts training as she’d have to if she moved out of the city.

  Life is complicated. I can’t have everything. Nell sighed.

  At least, on this particular Wednesday morning, there were no urgent disasters for her to handle. One leaking pipe at Winter Pine, fixed by Brian, with a net result of two wet rugs that had been removed from the cottage in question for drying. The renters had been offered a move to another cottage but were fine where they were. Spare area rugs had been provided. Nell made a note to call Perks & Promos later, once everyone was in for the day, to see what they could do for those renters to make up for the burst pipe and boost goodwill. Apparently, nothing at all had happened at Secret Creek since Sunday afternoon — Stu’s email basically said, “It’s all good.” She could picture him saying it, with a shrug and a laugh. As long as no one died, Stu would probably think things were all good.

  Lila stuck her head in Nell’s office doorway, saying, “Morning, sunshine!” with offensively cheerful enthusiasm. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”

  Nell hadn’t accepted a cup of coffee once in the four years she’d been with the company, but Lila still offered every morning. Sometimes Nell wished Lila would offer to make her a cup of tea, but really, she’d just decline anyway. Lila’s idea of tea was probably a generic orange pekoe teabag with coffee creamer and two packets of sugar. A few times, Nell had offered to make tea for Lila, but the receptionist wrinkled her nose at the premium rooibos and whole-leaf green teas and said she thought regular tea was okay but liked coffee better. “No, thanks, Lila. I’ll make myself a second cup of tea in a bit.”

  Lila giggled. “You and your tea. Are you drinking that vanilla spice rooibos you like so much?”

  “Not this morning. Green tea tastes better with my protein shake.”

  “Eww,” said Lila. “I hit the drive-thru and grabbed an Egg McMuffin on my way in.” Lila had a smart little black Jetta, bought for her by her parents, and the Wildforest owners had somehow been prevailed on to grant her a parking stall in the underground lot as part of her employment contract.

  “I like my protein shakes!” Nell shook her head. “And taking the bus is good for the environment. I don’t mind not having a car.” In her heart, Nell coveted a Tesla — all that sleek luxury and status in an environmentally friendly package.

  Lila rolled her eyes. “I never said anything about you having a car, Nell. And I guess I’d be fit like you if I drank protein shakes and worked out all the time, but eww. I just want to enjoy my life and eat delicious things.” Somehow, Lila was oblivious to the fact that she clearly weighed less than Nell — not that Nell wasn’t all muscle, and nor did she care about dress sizes, but her solidity looked a bit chunky next to Lila’s relatively ectomorphic frame. “I’m going to go make that coffee. Later!”

  The kitchenette will have to be tidied again, Nell thought. Lila would leave the coffee canister out on the counter, the used filter and grounds in the machine, and a litter of spoons and stir sticks and sugar packets in the sink.

  The front of the office looked spacious and calm — a prosperous and imposing reception desk, a sitting area for guests with a comfortable couch and two armchairs clustered around a coffee table. The nearby kitchenette meant that Lila could offer visitors coffee or tea without leaving the reception desk unsupervised. Behind this gracious front area lay a warren of small offices and passageways and cubicles. The photocopier and office supply room was right be
hind Nell’s office, with a thin shared wall. She could hear every copy being made. She’d gotten to know the photocopier very well, in fact, and could fix most of its jams and troubles without having to call a technician. Not her job, but it made everyone’s day go faster if they weren’t held up waiting for a tech to come fix the machine, and a little mechanical aptitude came in handy.

  She might as well make sure the paper drawers were full. It seemed a small thing, to fill up the various paper trays of the photocopier as needed so the next person wouldn’t have to stop, job half done, and deal with refilling the paper. And that reminded Nell that she needed to order paper for both cabin sites — toilet paper, paper napkins, paper towels, paper for the site office printer, note pads for the guest cabins. An assistant to take care of basic orders would be awesome. But there was hardly a chance of them finding her someone anytime soon, so Nell would have to do the ordering and whatnot herself.

  Just before lunch, her boss swung into her tiny office without so much as a knock. “Nell. You’re here. Good.”

  Suppressing a desire to ask where else she might likely be at 11:30 on a workday, particularly as they weren’t supposed to go off-site without permission, she forced a smile and said, “Of course, Tommy. What can I do for you?”

  “First of all, did you know? About Aidan?” He fixed her with a cold look.

  “No, what about Aidan? I — we don’t exactly socialize or anything. He’s just a co-worker; I barely know him.”

  Tommy Baxter practically snarled with displeasure. “It’s the height of our busy season, we’re short-staffed as it is, and that turd went and quit without notice. Sent me a goddamn email and didn’t come in today. Says he’ll mail in his keys.”

  Nell struggled to control the expression on her face. “Wow. That’s… so wrong of him.” And exactly what we all wish we could do. Part of her wanted to applaud Aidan for getting out, but his defection would doubtless make life more difficult for the rest of them.