Head-Tripped: A Sexy Rock Star Romance (Ad Agency Series Book 2) Read online

  Head-Tripped

  Ad Agency Series Book 2

  Nicole Archer

  Twist Idea Lab, LLC

  Contents

  Head-Tripped Soundtrack

  Quick note

  Tour Map

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Review Me

  Other books by Nicole

  Head-Tripped Copyright ©2017 by Nicole Archer

  1-472407831

  ISBN: 978-0-692-87467-7

  First Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher:

  Twist Idea Lab, LLC

  707 Parkview Circle

  Richardson, TX 75080

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-692-87467-7

  Created with Vellum

  To all the book bloggers who work tirelessly to promote the authors they love.

  Head-Tripped Soundtrack

  This book comes with its own soundtrack. If you’re reading on a device with Internet access, simply click the link at the beginning of each scene. If you don’t already have a Spotify account, you’ll need to sign up for the free streaming service. You can play it online or from your mobile device.

  If you’re reading a print version or have a device without Internet access, you can find the Head-Tripped playlist on the website: nicolearcher.com, as well as on Spotify.com under the user name: nicolearcherauthor.

  Quick note

  At the end of the book, there is a glossary to help decipher the foreign languages spoken in the story.

  Also, all the quotes are from Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, by Lewis Carroll. Effie is loosely based on Alice.

  Hope you enjoy the adventure.

  Love, Nicole

  Tour Map

  “Before Alice got to Wonderland she had to fall pretty hard down a deep hole.”

  Anonymous

  1

  Overture

  Manhattan, New York

  “‘Only it is so VERY lonely here!’ Alice said in a melancholy voice; and at the thought of her loneliness, two large tears came rolling down her cheeks.”

  Soundtrack: “Empathy,” Crystal Castles

  This was no ordinary audition—it was an audition for a new life. This is it, Effie Murphy told herself, my way out of the hole.

  How could she possibly fail? She’d been practicing this song since the age of three. She didn’t even have to think while she played. Even with only two hours of sleep, nothing to eat all day, and her hands riddled with pain, she could still play it by heart.

  At the end of her performance, however, there was no standing ovation. And no one threw roses at her feet. No one clapped or shouted “bravo.” In fact, the only sound in the auditorium was a theater seat flapping closed after someone walked out.

  “Would you care to explain, Miss Murphy, what that offal was?” Professor Frommer’s sharp Israeli accent sliced through the silence.

  Effie shielded her eyes from the spotlights. “It was awful?”

  “No, not awful,” he clarified. “Offal. As in the rotting carcass of a dead animal. This is what you present? After six months of preparation? This tripe?”

  Her heartbeat shot up to two hundred and eighteen BPM.

  “I played with your mother in Berlin many years ago, you know,” he said. “Had she seen this performance she would have disowned you.”

  Too late. Her mother had already disowned her years ago. That witch didn’t care about her.

  “Your left-handedness is a tragic handicap,” he said. “Perhaps you should rethink this instrument. I suggest over the summer you take time to consider your career as a violinist. You’re one of ten child prodigies in this class, Miss Murphy. Here, you’re not exceptional—you’re average. In fact, after that performance, I’d say you’re less than average—you’re sub-par.” He dismissed her with a wave and called for the next student.

  Now what? Her only job opportunity had just flown out the door with one of the other faculty members. What would she do for money? How would she pay for school? How was she going to eat?

  A trigger in her brain fired. If she ran fast enough, she could get high in thirty minutes. She tossed her bow in her case and bolted off the stage.

  Outside, a chilly spring wind whipped her face on the way to the corner drug store. Two months ago she’d quit smoking because the cost of cigarettes had become as expensive as a coke habit. But she needed one now—desperately. Just one, then I’ll throw the rest away. Just one hit, and that’s it.

  At the counter, she grabbed a handful of lollipops instead, and shoved money in the clerk’s hand.

  She staggered toward Central Park with the candy gripped between her teeth and parked herself on a bench underneath a canopy of cherry trees. A pink petal blew off and stuck to her sucker. Stupid spring. Stupid ugly trees. Stupid ugly day. Stupid ugly city. What an awful place to start over. An “offal” place.

  A couple strolled through her tainted view. The woman laughed at the man’s private joke, and he tousled her hair and kissed her cheek. They giggled and smooched some more then disappeared around the bend, dragging Effie’s broken spirit behind them.

  New love—the worst thing to witness when you’re alone.

  How did they find each other in that mass of people? Did they just run into each other by happenstance? And what did it feel like when they met? Was it like being shocked by static electri
city? Or more like huddling in front of a warm fire? Or maybe it was like a deep breath?

  She couldn’t even picture holding hands with someone, let alone falling in love with them. Men didn’t fall in love with damaged goods.

  Her phone vibrated. Skip Shimura’s name flashed on the screen. Her savior. In more ways than one.

  “Yo,” he said. “Where you at? I’m outside your school. I know I’m early, but the award show is in an hour, and traffic is a bitch.”

  She groaned. “Oh, no. I forgot. I’m sorry. You’ll have to go without me. I’m not dressed—”

  “F-bomb,” he was gritting his teeth, she could hear it in his voice. “I know I shouldn’t point this out, but you owe me.”

  She did. She owed him her life.

  “I don’t care if you’re dressed up like a braless hippie. Get out here.”

  It almost required supernatural determination to lift herself off the bench and head in his direction. “I’m around the corner in Central Park. I’ll be there in five.” Forty BPM—the slowest beat possible—that’s how fast she walked.

  Skip’s driver opened the door and a cloud of pot smoke blew out. Skip jumped out, wearing a black suit with a black tie and a black shirt. He was also wearing glasses—yellow-tinted horn-rimmed glasses. “Dude, get in.”

  She plopped down across from him. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why are you wearing them?”

  “They make me look smart.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “Who gives a shit? Let’s go over the plan.” He fished out a folded-up piece of paper from his suit pocket and handed it to her. “Memorize your sister’s acceptance speech.”

  “How do you know she’ll win?”

  “Not she. You. You are Callie tonight. If anyone figures out you’re her twin, I’ll be in deep doo-doo, so mum’s-the-fucking word.” He flopped back on the seat. “One night. One damned night. That’s all I asked for. But, nooo, she and Rhodes are too busy screwing somewhere out in the boonies. They wouldn’t even be together if it weren’t for me. And this is the thanks I get?” Skip’s normal demeanor was somewhere between comatose and dead. He was definitely on edge. Surprising, given the weed he just smoked.

  “Dude, you’re freaking out.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Calm down.”

  He flicked her off. “Winning this award is a big deal. Awards attract new clients. The agency is in the hole. I need out of the hole.” He poured himself a shot of something. “I’d offer you one, but . . .” He gave her a one-sided smirk. “Anywho, Hot PR chick has an insider at One Club. That woman is co-neck-ted. The word on the street is your sister’s campaign won best in show. Now memorize that speech, wonder child, and make papa proud.”

  “Did you just refer to yourself as papa?”

  “Read the damn thing.”

  “Yada, yada, yada . . . ‘I’d like to say a special thanks to Skip Shimura, owner of the agency. Without his creativity, entrepreneurial drive, and excellent leadership, I wouldn’t be here—” She snorted then crumpled it up and threw it on the floor. “Callie would never say that.”

  “Please, F-bomb.” He clasped his hands in prayer. “Just read the script.”

  “Don’t worry. I got this.”

  He took off his fake glasses and eyeballed her. Skip was an attractive man. With his Scandinavian mother’s high cheekbones and his Japanese father’s smooth olive skin and thick black hair—he could have played an exotic male lead in any movie.

  If he weren’t such a stoner, and she weren’t such a mess, she’d almost consider doing him. She was just that lonely.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he said.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re gonna pull some devious shit at the award show. I’m serious, F-bomb, this is a big fucking deal.” He drank another shot.

  “You haven’t called me F-bomb in a while.”

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t been ‘bombed Effie’ in a while. Hey, I forgot to ask, did everyone get boners after you played? Did you get the spot in the symphony?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Lately, she lied so much she couldn’t keep her story straight. But if she told the truth, that she was out of money, couldn’t pay for school, and hated New York, he and her sister would send in the relapse army. Or worse, they’d pity her. And she was tired of that.

  “I’m fine,” she’d lied to her sister. “Yep, got my scholarship back. Everything’s covered.”

  In reality, Juilliard didn’t give her one red cent. If it hadn’t been for her meager financial aid, a burgeoning student loan, and Walker’s free digs, she’d still be living in a halfway house back in California.

  Help wasn’t something she could ask for anymore. Not after all the horrible things she’d done. Everyone had been covering her ass for far too long, and as far as favors went, she was in debt up to her eyeballs.

  Skip unwrapped a box and pulled out a short black wig. “Put this on.”

  She examined it. “Callie dyed her hair back to blonde, you know?”

  “No one else knows. And even if they did, it didn’t grow down to her butt overnight.”

  “This is beyond ridiculous.” She bunched her hair on the top of her head.

  He looked at his watch. “We’re looking good on time.” He pushed a button and called to his driver. “Hey, Alan, pull over in front of Dolce & Gabbana. I’m gonna run in and buy Trainwreck here something besides this hippie garb she’s got on.”

  “No, Skip—”

  “Shut it and put that damn wig on.”

  Alan double-parked and opened the door. Not even fifteen minutes later, Effie slid back in the limo, wearing stilettos and a blue dress that barely covered her crotch. Red rhinestones spelled out the word ‘princess’ on the front. As if that weren’t bad enough, Skip made her wear a bra and thong underwear that felt like razorwire in her ass. A perfectly uncomfortable outfit for a perfectly uncomfortable situation.

  “Looking fly, F-Bomb,” he said.

  “I look like a jackass.”

  “Whatever. Better than a broke hippie. Now, down a couple Red Bulls before we get there and catch a nice caffeine buzz while I blaze up.”

  2

  Verismo

  Soundtrack “The Month of May,” Arcade Fire

  Elias Lovaro dropkicked a soccer ball against his fifteen-thousand-dollar custom-made guitar.

  “Gooooooaaal,” he shouted, then drilled a shot against the studio wall. It bounced off and hit a half-full blender of wheatgrass, carrot juice, apples, and some other crap, and knocked it over into the mixing board.

  The music died abruptly. His DJ roommate Eli St. James (a.k.a. “The Saint”) sprinted to the mixing board and grabbed the blender. “What the fuck!”

  Elias pushed a pile of old takeout boxes off the sofa and sat down.

  St. James gripped his hair with both fists while he surveyed the damage. “What the fuck! No eating and drinking in the studio. That was your rule. You better cough up the dough to fix this shit. I’ve got a gig in here tomorrow.” St. James grabbed a Styrofoam container off the board and chucked it into the trash. “Our crib looks like a crack den. What happened to the housekeeper?”

  “I fired her,” Elias said.

  “What was it this time?”

  “I caught her taking a naked selfie on my bed.”

  St. James waved his arms out wide. “So?”

  “She was wearing the gag gift Annie bought Cato for Christmas.”

  “That pink studded g-string with the words Lil’ Bitch on the front?”

  Elias nodded. “After Cato’s gay bar incident, if those pictures got out . . .” He kicked the ball against the microphone stand and toppled it over. “My tour is already toast. I can’t handle any more bad publicity.”

  St. James set the stand upright. “Why’s the tour toast?”

  “No new music.”

  “Then write some damn songs.” St. James threw t
he soccer ball at him.

  He slapped it away. “Fuck off, puto. Think I haven’t been trying?”

  St. James smirked. “Fuck off, bitch? Is that how you talk to your roommate? Tell me to fuck off. What’s wrong with you? You’re all dark and broody. You on your period or something?”

  If only this problem would have disappeared in a few days. But this block had been going on for months. He grasped his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes. “I don’t know, man. I’m just not feeling it. Nothing’s coming to me.”

  “No wonder, since you’ve been living in the studio for a month.” St. James picked up a soiled napkin with a pair of chopsticks, presenting it as evidence. “You need to get out. See people. Take the night off. Plus, you’re getting on my fucking nerves. I only agreed to be your roommate because you’re never here.”

  Elias fought off the urge to punch his roommate by cursing at the ceiling. “La puta madre! Think I want to be trapped in here?”

  St. James sighed and sat next to him. “The agency is having a party tonight—an award show. Come be my wingman.”

  “You still work there?” Elias asked. “Thought you were making bank producing?”

  He shrugged. “I love designing shit. Free health insurance. The people are cool. Not fake like the music industry.”

  That was reason enough for Elias. Other than St. James, his band, and his mom, everyone else wanted something from him.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.” His roommate punched his shoulder. “Plus, I need someone to keep me from sleeping with Sabrina again.”

  “The chica you work with? You’re not with her anymore? Why not? She was hot as fuck.”

  “Yeah, a hot mind fuck. I didn’t like her little games. She’s always trying to make me jealous. I don’t need that shit in my life.” He picked up the soccer ball and threw it against the wall.