Heartstrings (A Rock Star Romance Novel)

  Heartstrings

  A Rock Star Romance Novel

  by

  Hadley Danes

  Kindle Edition

  Heartstrings

  A Rock Star Romance Novel

  Written by Hadley Danes

  Copyright © 2013 by Hadley Danes

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted , in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

  Cover art:

  Stock photography: Dreamstime

  Graphic Artist&Designer: Hadley Danes

  This book is dedicated to my loving husband Chris. Thank you for all your love and support over the years.

  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  * * * * *

  For the first few moments after I awake from sleep, I lay very, very still. If I just stay wrapped up in my comforter, eye mask firmly in place, I can almost forget that the day is about to begin. I know that the alarm on my cell phone will start blaring through my ear plugs at any second, but this tiny stretch of time is all mine. Stretching languorously, I let the faintest smile play across my face as I pretend that it’s my day off, or my birthday, or any day in the history of the world that doesn’t involve a twelve hour shift at the hospital.

  I groan as a cheery pop song starts blasting through my bedroom. Time to face the day. I roll across my bed and slap at my cell phone until it shuts up. Not the most sophisticated way to handle gadgetry, sure, but I’ve got no patience when it comes to alarm clocks. I pluck out my ear plugs and pull my eye mask away from my face, blinking at the ceiling. Warm, late afternoon sunlight is dappled across my bedroom walls, turning the cozy space into a little cocoon. The last thing I want to do is leave.

  “Come on,” I coach myself, “One foot in front of the other...You can do it...”

  Yawning, I swing my legs over the side of my bed and consult the clock. Four in the afternoon—the start of a long day. When I was younger, sleeping until four was a luxury, an indulgence following a wild night out. There were certainly some hung over Sundays in college that didn’t see me rolling out of bed for an entire day and night. But these days, my nighttime hours are hardly recreational. I landed my first job out of school as a night shift nurse, and have therefore joined the ranks of the nocturnal.

  Now, my days begin at four in the afternoon and end at eight or so the next morning. I really don’t mind working nights, truth be told. The pay is substantially better, my coworkers are agreeable, and at night, there are no family members hanging around asking a thousand questions and getting upset with you on a personal level. The hospital is still far from peaceful, but there’s a sort of comfort that comes along with working nights. It’s like we’re all at a sleepover together...except once in a while, someone’s internal organs start to fail. But besides that, it can be great.

  I pull myself out of bed and shuffle across the carpet. It’s late May, and from the little patch of the outside world I can see beyond my window, it looks like it was a gorgeous day. If only there was some way I could enjoy it before work. But I’ve got housework to finish and a ton of coffee to drink before I head in. The outside world will have to wait. I turn on the shower and wait for the water to warm up, shrugging off my pajamas in front of the bathroom mirror.

  “Looking OK there, Julia,” I mutter, giving myself as forgiving of a once-over as possible. I just turned twenty six, and in those twenty six years, I have been fortunate enough to skirt past most of the body-hating that so many of my peers have to contend with. I’ve always been comfortable in my skin, and able to accept my looks as just another component of my overall self—rather than the defining factor. The men in my life have always referred to me as “cute” or “pretty”, rather than “hot”, and that’s just fine with me.

  I run my fingers through my long strawberry blonde hair…my mane needs a good conditioning, STAT. At work, my locks are always drawn up into a ponytail or bun—I can’t even remember whether I still own a hair dryer. I let my eyes travel down, trying to determine whether there’s any truth to my grandmother’s claims that I’m “getting too skinny”. I’ve never been too skinny in my life. My hips, ass, and chest are curvy, and athletic – yes, athletically curvy. I have always loved to be on my feet and moving around as much as possible, which is probably one of the reasons why nursing was so appealing to me to begin with. I would die if I had to sit in an office chair all day long.

  That was hardly the only reason I chose this profession, of course. As I step into the hot stream of water, I let my mind cast back to that terrifying moment at the end of high school, when everyone else had seemed to know what their next steps were, everyone except for me. I had done perfectly well in high school, and was accepted into a handful of great East Coast colleges. But all of a sudden, at the brink of adulthood, I realized that the path I was setting out on had nothing to do with what I actually wanted out of life. I loved science, and had applied to biology programs exclusively. But I didn’t want to be stuck in a lab all my life, I wanted to do something that mattered in the moment, something that would have an immediate positive influence on the world.

  So, instead of packing up and heading off to become a bio major, I decided to take a year off. That stretch of time was the first breather I had had since kindergarten, and I discovered that there was a lot of soul searching to be done. I waited tables and tended bar to save up some money, and really got to the bottom of what I wanted to do with my life. One day, as if the idea fell from the sky directly into my lap, nursing occurred to me as an option. And from the moment it presented itself as an option that was it. I knew what I wanted to do. I was going to go to nursing school. I would become an RN and begin a long career of helping others. As soon as I made the choice to pursue nursing, it was like my life snapped into focus.

  Nursing school had hardly been a breeze. I was fortunate to get accepted into one of the best programs in the country, and I was determined to establish myself as a competitive candidate. The four years of undergrad flew by at breakneck speed. I certainly managed to make some great friends, and even date a little, but the main priority was always studying. And by the end, it had paid off. I earned the highest marks and honors of anyone else in the program, and graduated with stars in my eyes—thinking that I’d be able to waltz into any hospital and get a job.

  That was, of course, wishful thinking. I hit a brick wall after graduation that seemed absolutely insurmountable. At every h
ospital I applied to, I was told that I needed more experience. What no one seemed ready to tell me was how I might go about getting this experience! It was the same catch-22 that all new graduates were going through, but some little part of me had hoped to be spared the run-around. I spent a solid year back at my parents’ house applying to job after job. The quest seemed never ending.

  Finally, around the time of my twenty-third birthday, something finally came through. I was offered a night shift at a nearby hospital. The pay was great, the commute was short, and I was thrilled to finally be offered a position. I was told that I would be working with geriatric patients, which seemed like a fine enough gig. After all, how much trouble could a bunch of sleeping grandparents be?

  Little did I know that my actual patients would, for the most part, be confused, agitated, and downright hostile. Nor did I realize that, come nighttime, those patients would tend to wake up without any idea as to where or who they were. It was incredible—the second the visitors left for the day and the nursing shifts switched, it was like a switch was flipped or something, it’s called “sun-downing syndrome”. And for the next twelve hours, it was my job to care for a handful of elderly patients who often turned to cursing, hitting, biting, and spitting on me. I earned more bruises during my time at that job than I would have had I been a roller derby professional. When I got a black eye from an older woman who thought I was her husband’s mistress, I decided it was time to look for another job.

  Luckily, an ER post opened up right at that exact moment, and I pounced. The hospital agreed to transfer me, and though the environment was chaotic, it was a vast improvement to the work I had been doing. You really do see everything in the ER, and so you never really get bored. It was hard watching the elderly night after night—hard not to get depressed or fatalistic. But in the ER, I didn’t have time to intellectualize what I was seeing and experiencing. It was pure action—just the way I liked it.

  I have been working at the same hospital for three years now and I’ve stuck with night shifts the whole way through. The extra money goes right to my student loans, and I’m used to the lifestyle now. I usually work four nights a week, and have the rest of the time to myself. My mother’s always nagging me about how bad it must be for my body to be jerked around like this, something about circadian rhythms, but my body doesn’t seem to be complaining so far. Besides the irregular sleep cycle, I’m a pretty healthy person. I hardly ever drink, I’ve never smoked, and I try and go running a couple of times a week. All things considered, I’m a pretty stable, normal girl. Can’t complain about that.

  I scrub down my body and lather up my hair, savoring the feel of the hot water against my tired muscles. I’ve been working like a maniac lately, picking up extra shifts in anticipation of my upcoming vacation. In one short week, I will headed off on a cross country road trip all by myself. I’ve been planning the trip for a year, and finally saved up enough vacation time to do it right. For two weeks, it’ll just be me and the open road. I got my little car all tuned up and ready to go, I’ve mapped my route down to every last gas station and pit stop...I just have to make it through this week, and I’ll be free and clear. I smile to myself as I step out of the shower, imagining the peace that will come over me as I stare down a long stretch of empty highway, not a care in the world.

  But first things first. I pat myself dry and step into my baby blue scrubs. My dad bought them for me as a graduation present—they’ve got my name, Julia, stitched into the sleeve. It’s a little corny, I know, but they make me feel close to home. My parents don’t live far away, barely half an hour. I grew up outside of Philly, which is where my hospital is located now. But I’ve only been out on my own for a few years, and it gets a little lonely sometimes. I’m an only child, so my parents were always very involved with my life. Even now, they don’t hesitate to offer opinions and advice, whether I ask for it or not. I don’t know what I’d do without their support, overbearing as they may sometimes be.

  I brush out my long hair in the mirror, my light blue eyes skirting over my body, searching for any last minute adjustments that need to be made before work. I don’t wear any makeup on the job, but my skin has always been remarkably clear and fair. My smile is what really gets me by at work. It’s nice and big, the first thing that patients remark on. And if a smile will set them at ease from the get go, I’ll flash it as many times as I need to.

  Satisfied with my appearance, I turn on my heel and head downstairs. The coffee machine is on an automatic timer, and I make all my meals on Sunday and package them up for the rest of the week. As I step into the kitchen, my cat Gustav is sitting on the counter, waiting for his own breakfast. As a teenager I promised myself that I wouldn’t get a cat until I had a long term boyfriend, so as to avoid becoming a cat lady. But that plan had been dashed to pieces when I found a tiny stray kitten in the hospital parking garage one night. He’d been nothing more than a little puff of gray fur that day, and there was no question of leaving him there alone. I’m OK with being a cat lady in training, though. Gustav happens to be excellent company.

  I crack open a can of cat chow and let Gustav have at. The coffee machine beeps as I swing open the fridge and find six cups of yogurt, fruit, and granola lined up in front of me. Not a thing out of place. Then out of nowhere, a pang of dissatisfaction ripples through me. The sight of my twenty one meals arrayed before me, the feel of my work uniform against my skin, the sheer predictability of my existence smacks me right in the kisser. I do love the life I’ve built for myself, but it can get a little depressing and monotonous sometimes. It’s like I’m on autopilot. The view is just fine, and the ride is comfortable, but there’s simply no room for spontaneity. And absolutely no excitement outside of work.

  “Well, we can’t have it all, can we Gus?” I say to my feline companion, giving him a good scratch behind the ears. He purrs his agreement, and I try not to make too much of the fact that I’m alone in my house, having a conversation with my pet. Cat lady status suddenly seems much more imminent than it once did. But as ever, I have a job to do. There’s no time to sit around wondering about what my life might be like “if only...”. I should be grateful for everything that I have—a great job, a loving family, supportive friends. So what if I haven’t been on a successful date in...oh...six months or so? That’s what my vibrator is for. At least it never forgets to call back. Or expects me to make breakfast in the morning.

  I hurry out to my newly-improved car and start off for work. As I drive through my neighborhood, waving to the moms and dads getting their kids off to school, I wonder whether I should be striving to get myself a family soon. As much as I love kids and people, I’m not in any rush. If there’s anything I feel like I’m missing out on, it’s my wild and crazy twenties. So many of my friends moved to the city after graduation, got barista and bar tending jobs rather than rushing into a set career. And though they certainly don’t have the job stability I do, they seem to have a lot more...fun. After three years at this job, I sometimes worry that I’m forgetting what fun is. These days, making avocado face masks from scratch and organizing my closet seems like fun.

  I worry that I’m missing out on my rightful debaucheries, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. I sail into the hospital parking garage and hop out of my car. I’m right on time, as usual, but that doesn’t mean that I have the luxury of strolling. I push through the hospital doors and head for my station. The day nurses are getting their reports together, and I listen as the woman I’m relieving fills me in on the state of things in the ER. It had been a pretty quiet day, as far as things went. I hope that the night will continue on in relative peace, but don’t dare say it out loud. That kind of talk will jinx you in a second. I tuck my things into my locker and head back out into the unit, waiting to be put to use.

  “Good morning, doll face,” says a chipper voice from behind the desk. I turn to see my fellow nurse Penny grinning back at me. Penny and I started in the ER at just about the same time, and bonded
quickly over our mutual terror of messing something up. She’s always been the quintessential pretty nurse—if we’d lived in the forties, she would have been the one that all the soldiers wrote home about. Her hair is coppery red, hence her name, and with her high cheekbones and cute button nose, she’s far and away the prettiest person I’ve ever seen up close.

  “You look like you’ve got a secret,” I tell her, sidling up to the desk.

  She heaves a sigh and smiles wickedly. “I do have a bit of a dilemma, Julia.”

  “Spill,” I say, savoring a couple minutes of girl talk before some catastrophe strikes.

  “Well,” Penny says, “You remember that guy Jeremy I was dating?”

  “The oncologist?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Well, things are going OK with him, but I’ve sorta been seeing this other guy at the same time. His name’s Dylan. He’s an intern.”

  “I’m definitely not seeing the dilemma,” I say. Even with our busy, chaotic work lives, Penny manages to keep a revolving door of lovers in her life.

  “The thing is,” she whispers conspiratorially, “Jeremy just told me last night that he wants to try having a threesome with me and someone else.”

  “Another woman?” I ask.

  “No,” Penny says, “Another man!”

  “...Wow,” I say, at a loss.

  “So, how am I supposed to ask Dylan? I mean, I know he’s going to say yes. He’s not physically capable of saying no to me. But I want to at least go through the charade of asking. And then, oh my god, when we’re actually in it...? How am I supposed to handle that much sex?”