Finding His Redemption Read online

  Finding His Redemption

  An Enemies to Lovers Rock Star Romance

  Melanie A. Smith

  Wicked Dreams Publishing

  Copyright © 2021 by Melanie A. Smith

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published by Wicked Dreams Publishing

  Boise, ID

  [email protected]

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  Kindle eBook ISBN: 978-1-952121-18-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-952121-19-7

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-952121-20-3

  Hardback ISBN: 978-1-952121-21-0

  * * *

  Cover design © Wicked Dreams Publishing

  Books By Melanie A. Smith

  The Safeguarded Heart Series

  The Safeguarded Heart

  All of Me

  Never Forget

  Her Dirty Secret

  Recipes from the Heart: A Companion to the Safeguarded Heart Series

  The Safeguarded Heart Complete Series: All Five Books and Exclusive Bonus Material

  * * *

  Life Lessons: A series that can be read as standalones

  Never Date a Doctor

  Bad Boys Don’t Make Good Boyfriends

  You Can’t Buy Love

  The Heart of Rutherford: Life Lessons Novels 1 – 3

  * * *

  Standalone Romance Novels

  Everybody Lies

  Last Kiss Under the Mistletoe

  Tough Love

  Finding His Redemption

  Doctor Danger (Doctors of Eastport General)

  * * *

  Short Stories

  Cruising for Love

  Hot for Santa

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To listen along, check out the Finding His Redemption Spotify Playlist

  1

  Back in Black by AC/DC

  * * *

  West

  “There is nothing more overrated than bacon, dude.”

  Andy, my driver, smirks at me in the rearview mirror. His light blue eyes are already mocking me. “Nope. I’ve got that beat: joining the mile high club. No contest.”

  “Are you serious? Look, everything is either wrapped in, flavored as, or made to look like bacon these days. It’s ridiculous. But getting your rocks off at forty thousand feet? Well, that’s just a good time, and in no way overrated. I don’t know how you could even suggest that.”

  “Have you actually tried fucking someone in one of those tiny bathrooms? It isn’t easy. Or fun. Or conducive to getting anyone off,” he argues, one hand agitatedly running through his curly blond hair.

  “Ever heard of private planes? Or the sin bin?” I counter. I watch with smug satisfaction as Andy’s eyebrows jump in the mirror.

  “First, private planes are some serious next-level celebrity shit, Mr. I’m Flying Commercial These Days.” He gives me a pointed look, and I flip him off for going for a sore spot. “Second: What’s a sin bin? Is that slang for doing it in the place they have those tiny flight attendant chairs? Because that’s not exactly private and definitely a good way to get banned from ever flying again.”

  I chuckle. “A sin bin is this little bedroom they have over the main cabin on some airplanes so flight attendants can rest on long flights where they change shifts. I’ll let you figure out why they call it a sin bin.” I waggle my eyebrows.

  “Again: Fucking a flight attendant falls under ‘next-level celebrity shit.’ I’m sticking to my guns. For us everyday Joes, joining the mile high club is the most overrated thing I can think of. Fight me.”

  “Well, since I’m clearly not back to private plane status, I’ll use this opportunity flying commercial to prove you wrong.”

  Andy laughs and smacks the steering wheel. “Video or it didn’t happen.”

  I shake my head. “Are you trying to get me in trouble? I’m supposed to be a saint now, remember? The last thing I need is a video out there of me fucking some rando on an airplane.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Andy grumbles jokingly. “Ruin all my fun, why don’t you.”

  “Uh-huh. This whole conversation was just to bait me into doing something stupid, wasn’t it?”

  I’m teasing, really. I’ve known Andy for years, since before rehab, even, so I know he wouldn’t do me like that.

  “West. Bro. You know nobody has to bait you into doing something stupid. You do that just fine on your own. So as much as I’d like to hear your take on airplane bathroom sex, maybe you’re right and you should just focus on behaving for a while.”

  “Now you’re ruining all my fun. I just said there couldn’t be a video.” I give him a wink just as he pulls to a stop.

  He shakes his head at me while he radios the guards. A few moments later there’s a knock on the tinted window.

  “That’s my cue. Thanks for the ride, man.”

  “Be good, West. For all our sakes.”

  “Oh, I will. I’ll be very, very good,” I promise with a sly smile.

  He flips me off and laughs as I step out into the hazy California sunshine. Two guards quickly flank me, one on either side, and I hand my backpack off to one. The other reaches for my guitar case, but I give him a look that says exactly how dead he’ll be if he touches my Rosie. Nobody touches my girl.

  I slip on my aviators, look around, and realize that I’m in the best mood I’ve been in for a while. I’m sober. The band is back together. Our album is climbing the charts. And I can feel people’s eyes on me. That is what I lived through rehab for. What I’ve climbed back out of the pit I dug for myself for. The attention. The adoration. The rock and roll life. Icing on the cake that is my resuscitated music career.

  Before we can even make it three steps, one brave soul, a dude who looks just a few years younger than me, darts around one of my huge guards and thrusts out a pen and notebook.

  “Holy shit, you’re Kristoffer Westberg! Can I have your autograph?”

  A lazy grin spreads over my face and I signal the guards to stand down. “Sure, man, anything for a fan.” I lean in and grab the pen, scrawling messily one-handed over the page. As soon as I’m done, the guy holds his cellphone up and I barely have time to throw up a peace sign before he snaps a pic. He releases me, turning to giddily show the pic to his friend, and I shake my head and laugh as we walk away.

  We manage to make it the next twenty steps to the terminal without incident, but as soon as we’re inside, the familiar gasps of recognition and cries of “West!” follow me. I keep my cool, looking straight ahead like it’s no big deal. Happens every day. But damn does it feel good. Like coming home.

  The guards start spreading their arm
s and taking up space, presumably to keep people away, and I soon know why as I pick up flashes in my peripheral vision. I wasn’t aware the paparazzi had infiltrated SFO, but hey, bring it on. I’m going to have to deal with it at LAX soon anyway. And the band’s album dropped recently enough that we can use all the attention we can get. Enjoying it? That’s just a bonus.

  I take my time strolling toward security, letting them follow, take pictures, and shout questions my PR people would kill me if I answered as my guards continue to push them back. I can see the guys at the checkpoint exchanging nervous glances, but the small crowd of photographers and onlookers drops back — well, are pushed back by my guards — as I lift my guitar case and lay it lovingly on the conveyor belt, followed by a bin that I unceremoniously dump my wallet, keys, jacket, and shoes into.

  As I make it through, followed quickly by my bodyguards, murmurs start back up, but nothing like what they were before. No more paps. And no one else approaches, even though I can hear the whispers. Like music to my ears after the quiet halls of the “wellness center” I spent far too long cooped up in to get back to this place. And by this place, I don’t mean heading home to L.A. — I mean this place where I’ve gotten back my freedom, fans, and fame.

  The rest of the walk to the gate and the boarding process are uneventful, save a flirty look from the chick at the boarding door. But the cute brunette flight attendant who greets me gives me a smile that says she knows exactly who I am. She manages to help me stow Rosie in the first-class closet and seat me without fangirling. Points for professionalism. But she won’t be so professional later when I’m fucking her in the lavatory I passed on my way in. A shit-eating grin spreads over my face. I may or may not actually do it, but thinking about it is fun either way.

  I don’t make eye contact with the dude in the seat next to mine as I slump down and pop my earbuds in, sending the universal “fuck off” signal. He doesn’t look like he’d be a fan with his pressed khakis and pristine polo shirt, and I’m certainly not looking to fuck him in a bathroom. The thought makes me chuckle.

  The plane pushes back from the gate and gets into the air without event. When the same brunette flight attendant comes around to take our drink orders, I pause my music but leave the earbuds in.

  “Mr. Marshall,” she says to the dude next to me. “Nice to see you. I presume you’d like your usual vodka tonic?”

  I can’t help it, I raise an eyebrow and turn to look at the guy. Surprisingly, he looks sidelong at me and shakes his head. “Just a Sprite is fine, Mandy, thank you.”

  That gets my attention. Mostly because it’s said in the exact tone I hear all the time. The one people use when they know they’re within earshot of an alcoholic. Great.

  “Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “Well, all right then.” She turns to me, and I politely pop my earbuds out. “And what can I get for you?”

  “Just ice water, thanks,” I mumble self-consciously.

  She moves on, but I can still feel Sprite guy’s eyes on me. I pull off my aviators — that were clearly fooling no one — and run my fingers through my messy dark brown hair. I glance over at him and he smiles, offering a hand.

  “I’m Morgan,” he says pleasantly.

  “Marshall, huh?” I reply, shaking his hand.

  He chuckles. “Not that Marshall.”

  That gets a wry smile out of me. Maybe he does know who I am. Though I didn’t really think he’d be related to the family that founded the amp manufacturing company. But you never know.

  “Well, Morgan not-that-Marshall, I’m Kristoffer Westberg.”

  “So, what do I call you? Kristoffer? Kris? Or do you actually prefer West?” he muses.

  I huff a short laugh. Yep. He knows.

  “West is fine,” I reply.

  “Cool,” he replies, nodding slowly. “You know, my sister is going to shit a brick when I tell her I met you.”

  That gets a chuckle out of me. “Well, if you have something I can sign, I’m always happy to autograph something for a fan.”

  Morgan considers me for a moment. “Thanks, but I wouldn’t say she’s a fan. Though she used to be your biggest fan. That was back in the day though.”

  Well fuck, that’s got my attention.

  “Used to be?”

  Flight attendant Mandy returns with our drinks, and it just goes to show how distracted I am by Morgan’s statement that I don’t respond to the coy look she gives me. Instead, I watch Morgan pause to take a sip of his Sprite.

  “Yep,” he finally replies, smacking his lips on the “p” like a pompous ass. But he doesn’t elaborate.

  And I’m too fucking curious for my own good.

  “So, what happened?”

  The dude shrugs. “It’s not my story to tell. But if you really want to know, she’s a journalist at Rock Scene Magazine in L.A. now. You should go ask her.” He reaches into the briefcase tucked against the wall of the plane at his feet and fishes out a business card.

  I take the card, examining it curiously. Max Marshall, Writer is printed neatly over the magazine’s logo, under which is an email address, phone number, and address downtown. It’s a publication I’ve never heard of, but there are so many these days.

  “Thanks,” I murmur, still contemplating the little white rectangle. Wondering what turned Max Marshall off so much she went from my “biggest fan” to not one at all. Especially since she obviously hasn’t lost her love of rock itself. The knowledge irks me more than I’d like to admit.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Morgan replies. I look up at the tone of his voice to find him smirking at me.

  “Why not?” I ask warily.

  Morgan tilts his head. “Because my sister brooks no bullshit. So don’t ask if you don’t want an honest answer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think you guys are awesome. Max, on the other hand … anyway, just a fair warning.”

  I flip the card nervously as I think about his implication. She must really hate me. And I’m as annoyed by it as I am nervous. Sure, I fucked up, but that’s in the past. I’ve paid my dues. The band’s back and better than ever. So what’s her damage? What can she possibly hold against me now?

  I look back up at Morgan Marshall, who is now buried in his laptop screen with some serious “fuck off” vibes of his own going on. Obviously he’s not in the mood for any further discussion on the topic. I’m so twisted up by the idea of Max Marshall and her story that I don’t even try to fuck the hot flight attendant. Probably for the best since it’s a short flight anyway.

  I do try to chat up Morgan as we’re waiting for the door to open, but he pointedly sticks to polite, superficial chatter. He’s a software engineer who works in both the San Francisco Bay Area and Los Angeles, though he’s based in L.A. He loves our new album and wants to know when the tour is. That’s where I have to be vague and dodgy because it hasn’t been announced yet. And after that we’re disembarking, and I lose him as soon as I’m joined by my L.A. security and start pushing through the waiting crowd.

  Probably best we didn’t talk more about his sister. I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth anyway. If there was ever a time to make sure every media outlet is on our side, right before announcing our comeback tour is it.

  Guess it’s time to pay a visit to Rock Scene Magazine.

  2

  Everybody Loves Me by OneRepublic

  * * *

  Max

  “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” I ask my assistant blankly.

  “Kristoffer Westberg is here to see you,” she whispers again, this time glancing over her shoulder.

  “Did he say why?” I reply, looking into the main office area to make sure he didn’t follow her from reception.

  Rock stars like Kristoffer Westberg don’t just drop by the office of a small, albeit well-established, industry magazine. Especially not specifically asking for a reporter who long ago stopped giving a shit about him and his band.

  Alexsis screws her lips to the side and shakes he
r head. I refrain from getting on her case for not asking. But I can tell by the waves of nervous excitement coming off of her that the dark good looks and charisma that I’m all too familiar with have had their way with her tender, young heart. Been there, sister.

  I rise with a sigh, putting my best polite face on. Alexsis fidgets nervously behind me as I step out from behind my high cubicle walls into the open-plan main office area.

  And lo and behold, there he is, leaning casually against the wall next to the reception desk, somehow managing to look bored and above it all yet totally charming at the same time. The asshole.

  He straightens up when he catches sight of us approaching, and my mind vaults back three years to the last time I saw him. Just as smoldering hot. Just as intimidating, even at only a couple inches over my five-foot-eight self. Same thick, dark eyebrows set over equally dark eyes. Same straight nose and defined jawline with just a bit of stubble. Same tight black T-shirt and dark-wash jeans. I guess when a look works for you, you stick with it. And I must admit — albeit begrudgingly —the look works for him at thirty-six just as much as it did at twenty-two. Possibly more.

  What’s different is that his dark eyes are much clearer this time as they rake over my Rolling Stones T-shirt and ripped black skinny jeans down to my black Doc Martens.