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
