Cassie Mint

  Rock God

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2023

  Copyright © 2023 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-915735-30-0

  Cover art by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Alba

  2. Dalton

  3. Alba

  4. Dalton

  5. Alba

  6. Dalton

  Teaser: Chef’s Kiss

  About the Author

  One

  Alba

  Sure, he sent me mail. When Dalton first went on tour, when he was just starting to make it big, he wrote me a postcard from every town he stopped in. Did that for a long time.

  Then there were the letters every New Year’s Eve, explaining his hopes and dreams for the coming year, and asking about mine. Another one of our traditions.

  There were birthday gifts, and care packages when I was sick. Sometimes a funny little stuffed animal or an ugly fridge magnet just because.

  For years and years after he left, Dalton sent me mail.

  And I wrote back. Like an idiot.

  Early on, I sent him cut-outs from my college campus magazine, and articles from the local newspaper I knew he’d like. ‘Goose terrorizes middle school over recess’, stuff like that. Dalton always loved anything absurd.

  I sent birthday gifts and holiday cards. I wrote out my hopes and dreams too every New Year’s Eve. One humiliating year, I sent a Valentine. Did his agent roll her eyes as she sorted his mail?

  On and on, we kept up this charade—this shared lie that Dalton was just off to seek his fortune, but someday, somehow, we’d meet again.

  I should have stopped it all sooner. For my heart, if not my pride. But you have to understand that for all those years as Dalton and I grew up next door to each other, changing from scabby-kneed kids to awkward, gangling teenagers, he was it for me. The sun in my sky. My best friend and my crush.

  And boy, did he crush me.

  Yeah, I should have stopped the letter thing sooner.

  Maybe it would have been less weird if we were texting or emailing too. Keeping in contact in the normal ways. But it’s like as soon as Dalton Meadows hit it big, burning a meteoric trail through the charts, he lost my number. Ghosted by a rock star. Well, I can’t be the only one, can I?

  And still I wrote back. Still I hoped. On and on and on.

  Until three years ago at my college graduation, I swore to myself: no more. This was my fresh start, my first step into real-deal adult life, and I couldn’t bring the Dalton thing with me. It was too heavy, dragging around all that unrequited love.

  So I stopped opening the things he sent. Stopped writing back. Kept his unopened letters and packages in a box at the back of my closet, buried under a mound of scuffed shoes.

  Ancient history.

  * * *

  It takes forever to get off the plane, and everyone’s hot and cranky and tired. We’re jammed in like sardines, passengers wrestling carry-on cases down from the overhead lockers and huffing when they clip each other’s heads, waiting for the air steward to open the plane doors already. The recycled air is stale.

  I don’t have a case. Only my battered college backpack, grabbed in a hurry from my closet and stuffed with my passport, my laptop, a few handfuls of clothes, and the printed out manuscript I’ve been reading for work. The crinkled pages are scrawled with my notes in red pen.

  Don’t know why I brought it, because I didn’t read a single word of it on the flight. I only read the piece of card in my pocket, over and over and over, until I got lightheaded and had to stare out of the window at the clouds.

  RSVP. What the hell?

  The rumble of the plane engine dies, and the nearest door swings open. Sunlight! Fresh air! I’m a dozen rows of seats away, and it feels like a mile. We all shuffle forward, inch by cranky inch.

  Everyone else grumbles about baggage claim and running for connections, but it all washes over my head. I’m in my own world, chewing on my thumbnail as I file toward the exit.

  What on earth is Dalton thinking? Is this some kind of prank? When I get to this Sweet Cherry Cove place, will a reality TV crew jump out at me and film my reaction? I can’t think of any other explanation.

  Dalton was never cruel, not once when I knew him. But maybe fame has changed him, you know? Twisted him up into someone who’d mess with their childhood bestie for money and attention.

  If so, this prank is pure evil.

  I grip the invitation in my clammy hand. I’ve held and squeezed and thumbed it so much the words are blurring, but you can still read them: You are cordially invited to the wedding of Alba Hernandez and Dalton Meadows. RSVP.

  RSVP my ass. I don’t care that Dalton’s a big time rock star these days, I’ll kill him for this. No security detail will stop me.

  Sunshine warms my face as I climb down the creaky wheeled staircase, the fresh breeze lifting my hair. I’m too worked up to speak as I wander through the small airport, flashing my passport and fiddling with the invitation in my pocket.

  Seriously. What is he thinking? How could he do this to me?

  Forty minutes later, my cab swings around a curve on the cliff path and a seaside town comes into view, nestled down by the beach. It’s sprawling but cute, with pastel-painted terraced houses and white boats bobbing in a marina. The ocean is so blue.

  “That’s us,” the driver rasps. He’s craggy and dark-haired with feathery eyebrows, and his whole cab smells like cigarette ash. “Sweet Cherry Cove. So. You meeting anyone special?”

  * * *

  Dalton sent three things alongside the wedding invitation: a first class plane ticket (already ignored), a stack of fifty dollar bills with a note that said ‘For the cab’, and a wooden hotel room key carved with a tiny sunrise.

  Well, I may have squeezed myself into economy class on that plane out of my own stubbornness, but I’m not spending any more money on Dalton Meadows. Editorial assistants earn peanuts, even working for a big name like El Dorado Press. I hand over half of Dalton’s bills to the cab driver, even though that means a crazy-big tip, and tuck the rest away for the journey home.

  “Woah,” the driver says, stuffing the bills into his shirt pocket like I might change my mind and snatch them back. “Thanks, doll.” The slam of the passenger door echoes across the town square, and heads swivel to look at me as the cab peels away with squealing tires.

  A seagull cackles. A little kid licks his mint chip ice cream and stares.

  Awesome. If there is a reality TV crew lying in wait, this is their shot. I’m tired, blushing, my blue t-shirt has pit stains, and I have no freaking idea where to go from here.

  Even worse, my chest aches like crazy. It’s like my body knows that Dalton is near, that we’re in the same town for the first time in years, and it’s pining for him already. There’s a knot lodged under my ribs, right where my heart used to be.

  It was always like this. Back in high school, whenever I caught sight of Dalton in the corridors, my heart would thump harder and harder as he got close, and by the time we drew level, my insides were one big bruise.

  I felt his presence so keenly. Sometimes, I knew he was nearby even before I laid eyes on him—all because of the way my pulse skittered. Living next door to each other was the sweetest torture.

  Back then, he’d smile so wide for me, cheeks dimpling. Sometimes he waved from his bedroom to mine, when night fell and our windows were lit up gold, facing each other across our driveways. Dalton was blond haired and blue eyed—this musical Adonis who chose me as his best friend, even when he could have picked anyone. The football guys, the brainiacs, the student president, you name it. They’d have all been thrilled.

  He was smart. Athletic. Creative and funny and kind.

  And he picked me. Average Alba.

  Everybody loved him, like I said. But no one loved Dalton Meadows like I did.

  No one else would be dumb enough to go on this wild goose chase either, but hey ho. Shouldering my backpack, I set across the cobblestones to the only hotel in sight: Daybreak Inn. It’s white-washed stone, with net curtains hanging in the windows. The painted wooden sign is carved with a sunrise that matches my wooden key ring.

  Inside, the hotel is beach themed, with fishing nets and shells hung on pale blue walls. The receptionist is a red-headed lady in her thirties with laugh lines and a swollen baby bump, and most of her counter is taken up by a half finished ship-in-a-bottle. Tubes of wood glue and tiny brushes lie across her bookings sheet.

  She turns my room key over in her hands, smiling a secret smile, then hands it back with a wink. “Room thirteen, hon. Lucky for some.”

  “Thanks,” I say. My body turns to leave, but I linger. “Is, um. Did—did my friend leave a note or anything?”

  The receptionist shrugs, her fluffy pink cardigan slipping off one shoulder. Her eyes sparkle, and she’s enjoying this way too much. It’s the smug joy of someone who’s in on the joke. “Why don’t you go on up and see?”

  I swear to god, if there’s a TV crew in room thirteen and this receptionist is in on it, I will… fine, I won’t yell at a pregnant lady. But I will leave a very harsh review online. Probably.

  Okay, I’ve never done that in my life. But I’ve never been ritually humiliated by my ex-crush before either. Who knows what I’m capable of?

  There’s no elevator, and the hotel staircase has a dark blue runner and hand-smoothed oak banisters. The stairs shriek with every step. Room thirteen is on the third floor.

  It’s like an out of body experience, watching myself climb these stairs past paintings of shipwrecks and krakens and mermaids. I watch from the ceiling as my sweaty, tired body fumbles with the room key, nudges the door open, and freezes in the doorway. Gentle guitar music floats from the balcony, where white drapes flutter in the breeze.

  “Dalton?”

  That’s what I would say, if my tongue worked right now. Instead I’m a statue, mute and rigid. The wedding invitation is still gripped in my clammy palm. I’m so dizzy.

  It’s him. It’s really him.

  After a long minute, the guitar stops. A chair scrapes on the balcony, and a deep voice breaks the silence.

  “Alba? Is that you?”

  Two

  Dalton

  She’s different. Eight years without seeing a person will do that, I guess. My childhood best friend is older, calmer—and curvier too. Hot damn. She stands differently than she used to, with her chin held high and her shoulders back. My Alba used to inch behind me whenever we met strangers.

  This girl is proud, but she has shadows beneath her eyes. Her dark hair seems longer than I remember, thrown up in a messy bun, and her lips part as she stares at me.

  Beautiful.

  So goddamn beautiful.

  Some things never change. The sight of Alba Hernandez always did feel like a punch to the chest.

  “Hey,” I say. “You came.” My throat is sandpaper. This doesn’t feel real.

  Her eyebrows fly up, and it’s like my words have jolted her back to life, because Alba holds up a crinkled invitation and waves it at me. “Of course I came. What the hell is this, Dalton? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  Not the reaction I hoped for, I’ll admit—but eight years in the spotlight have trained me well. My features don’t flicker at all, and my smile is slow and easy. It’s the signature charm that made my fortune, and I’m banking on it now. “Come on. Would marrying me be so bad, Alba?”

  She scoffs, and her scorn is like acid drenching my insides. “I know you don’t need a green card, Dalton. Whatever this is, it’s messed up.”

  She thinks it’s a trick? Pain splinters my chest, but I grin wider. Guess I can’t blame her. I may have kept writing all these years, spilling my innermost secrets and desires onto paper night after night, treasuring the only real connection in my whole empty life—but Alba hasn’t written back in a long time. Years, really.

  What happened? Did she get bored? Move on?

  Did she meet someone else?

  My grinding teeth are audible. I force my jaw to relax. “It’s not messed up at all. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had. Maybe the only good idea I’ve ever had.”

  “To prank me,” Alba says flatly.

  “To marry you,” I correct.

  She goes on like I never spoke, hands gesturing wildly like they always do when she gets mad. Alba paints her moods through the air. “To fly me across the country, and take me away from my life and work and friends, all for some sick joke—”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “—when we’re nothing to each other anymore!”

  My heart stops. I sway on my feet, the room tilting around me.

  This is a nice place to have a heart attack, I’ll give it that. The honeymoon suite in the Daybreak Inn has a four poster bed; a seashell lamp; a chaise lounge and coffee table; a balcony with salty sea air. Kitschy but cute, exactly to Alba’s taste. But where to land? Everything near me has hard edges.

  “Dalton?” Alba says. Her voice sounds echoey, like she’s calling down a tunnel. “Dalton. Shit. Just… sit down, okay?”

  When did she take my shoulders? One minute I’m standing rigid in the center of the oak floorboards, my whole fucking world falling apart, the next I’m perched on the edge of the blue and cream bedspread while Alba kneads my shoulders. She leans over me, her heart-shaped face pinched with concern. At least she doesn’t want to slap me anymore.

  Her neck smells like cinnamon. Warm and spicy. Each hit to my lungs is so painfully familiar, because this girl smells like home.

  Back when we were teenagers and she hung out in my room after school, I’d go around afterward sniffing my sweatshirt sleeves and pillowcases, hoping she left her scent behind. Needing proof that she really chose me, at least for those hours. Wishing she’d come back.

  “Maybe I should call someone,” she says now.

  Like who? Alba is my emergency contact. She always has been. Good thing I never had an emergency, I guess, because I clearly misread this connection.

  “I’m fine,” I scrape out. When I wave her off, she steps back quickly, arms dropping to her sides. So keen to let me go. My skin burns where she touched me through my t-shirt a moment ago.

  Eight years. Eight years without her hands on me, without her scent in my lungs, without her musical voice in my ears—and I’m no less smitten than before. If anything, it’s worse.

  But you know what? Alba is right. This was an insane idea. Because I’ve carried a torch for this woman for all this time, hoping and planning that one day we’ll be together, glued to each other’s sides, but meanwhile she…

  She’s forgotten me. Moved on.

  Ouch.

  Doesn’t she know that I did it all for her? The music, the riches, the world tours, the constant exhaustion—doesn’t she know it was all so I could give her the kind of life she deserves?

  I’m a chump. And this is humiliating.

  If the press ever got hold of this… I scrub my face, swallowing bile. My life is not my own anymore, and my heartbreak is the perfect headline. And Alba…

  They’d torment her too. They’d tear her to shreds. No one can know.

  My childhood best friend blows out a long breath, then starts pacing back and forth on the striped, woven rug. A red backpack bumps against her ass as she walks, the seams frayed and bristling with loose threads. She’s muttering to herself—something about rock stars and breakdowns and rehab.

  What’s that now?

  “I don’t need rehab.” My only addiction is her. Can rehab cure me of that? I don’t think so. “I’m fine, Alba. Forget it. Go home and pretend I never asked you here.”

  She huffs and paces faster. The evening sunshine spills through the windows and licks at her golden brown skin. She looks softer than silk.

  Listen, if Alba wants to move on, I won’t stop her. I’ve always known this girl is miles out of my league, so far above me I could barely see her—but I thought becoming a world famous rock star might tip the odds in my favor.

  Bad plan.

  “Well.” My knees crack as I stand up. When did I get so damn creaky? I’ve aged a decade in the last ten minutes. “It’s been good to see you. Sorry to drag you away from everything, Hernandez. Hope you have a good life.”

  My tone is light but the words ring false, even to me. Guess you can’t really hide when you’re dying inside. Alba snags my elbow as I stride past.

  “Dalton, wait. I’m here now,” she says. She’s still frowning, concerned. Christ, those big, brown eyes will haunt me to my grave. “Don’t you want to get dinner at least? Catch up?”

  If I had my way, we’d be husband and wife by now.

  But sure. Dinner’s fine.

  * * *

  Sweet Cherry Cove may not have tons of restaurants, but the Rockin’ Rockpool Diner more than makes up for it. Decked out with red vinyl booths and old records on the walls, the wait staff zooming around on roller skates, at first glance you might call it tacky. Then you try the food, and believe me—you forgive all the retro 50s shit in a blink.

 

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