Rocked by Love Read Online Ella Goode

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Insta-Love, Romance, Virgin Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)

Every night I get on stage and fifty thousand fans dance to my tunes, ,sing my lyrics, and scream my name. If I go to a restaurant or a club or even store, someone knows me. And it’s that level of fame that drove me out into the desert after a sold out stadium show in Las Vegas. In the middle of nowhere I found a true oasis in Clover. She’s not used to a fast life with bright lights but I can’t go back to that world without her.
A man with no name, no job, no car isn’t on top of my list of eligibles. I have a bar to run and friends to feed. I don’t have time for this hot stranger who looks like he wants to eat me alive. He’s got too many secrets and I’m a girl who likes open books. Unfortunately, I can’t stop my heart from yearning for him. My steady foundation here feels like it’s been rocked by love but I don’t know if that’s enough.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



“Thank you, Las Vegas! I love you!” I pull out my earpiece and let the sounds of the crowd fill my head. The cheers are loud enough to raise the roof. The best part of every concert is this moment when I’ve sung every note, played every chord, and have left it all on the stage, and in return the stadium attendees scream out their love. It’s mutual, though. Fucking fans are the best. I could stay here for hours, but my body won’t take it. Blood pumping, mind buzzing, I let the lift carry me down under the stage. At the bottom, I collapse into a waiting chair. The cheers kept me upright for two hours, and now that the concert is over, I’m drained.

My assistant, Cloudy, shoves a mug into my hand. “It’s honey water.”

“Thanks,” I croak. My vocal chords are on fumes. I stretch my legs out, lean my head back and listen to the dying chants. When the crowd doesn’t want to leave, I always have the urge to go up and do one more encore. But my voice is shot, so I remain seated.

A couple hands start patting small towels against my face and neck. I close my eyes and let the styling team dry off my sweat, brush the tangles out of my hair, and remove the heavy silver rings and necklaces. Someone unbuttons my shirt, and someone else directs a fan toward me. Feeling somewhat human, I push to my feet.

“Ready?” The intrusive voice of my manager arrives.


“It’s only a few photographs, and the person is doing the article for GQ.”

I swallow a sigh. The best part of being a rock star is performing. The worst part is all the other shit. “I don’t feel like it.”

“But you’ll do it.” Chris is confident, and to be honest, in the five years he’s managed my career, I’ve never given him much reason not to be. I do my interviews, show up for my performances, refrain from drugs, and earn him a shit ton of money. In exchange, he makes sure that the day-to-day bull is kept to a very bare minimum.

But there are moments where I miss playing gigs in small college towns in seedy bars that didn’t hold more than a busload of people. The floors were sticky and the acoustics were crap, and the crowd was often drunk, but there was no pressure and no expectations and no rich people angling for a photo op or interviewers trying to dig up the skeletons in your past. You played your music, and if they liked you, you got invited back. I was invited back a lot.

Another set of hands appear to wash off my chest.

“I’ll talk to the reporter, but not do the photos.”

“It’s for the promoter’s sister. He promised her. It’s her birthday.”

As if I haven’t heard that before. “When?”

“When what?”

“When’s her birthday? Today? Or seven weeks from now?” Everyone claims it’s a special occasion.

Chris pauses because he never asked.

“Falling down on the job?”

The hand that wipes down my chest is almost a little too friendly, lingering a little too long over the ridges of my abs. I glance down to see an unfamiliar face. “Enjoying yourself a little?” I ask, irritated.

The woman flushes and is immediately pulled away. Cloudy hurries over. “Sorry about that. Daniel got sick in the middle of the concert, and we pulled someone up from the costume pool. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure that it won’t.” I don’t need to have random girls groping me backstage.

Cloudy gives me a terse, apologetic nod and then hands me a fresh T-shirt, which I shrug on.

“Lead the way,” I tell Chris. “This is the third time the reporter has been here. Any reason why?” Usually reporters only get one, maybe two hours, at a restaurant, and sometimes they don’t even rate a restaurant.

“She said she just had some follow-up questions, and it’s Grammy season.”

“Email doesn’t exist?”

“I told her five minutes, and she did fly all the way here from New York.”

“I hate Grammy season.”

“We all do.” He claps me on the shoulder.

The promoter's sister turns out to be the promoter’s sister, the sister’s family, her best friend, the best friend’s family, and some random neighbor. In total, there are about fourteen people in my green room. The moment I step inside, shit is shoved in my face. Everybody wants an autograph. I clench my teeth and start signing. “How much does this go for on eBay these days?” I ask one of the kids, who clearly is not a fan of mine.

He laughs uncomfortably. “No idea.”

“I wish you would’ve sung ‘No One’s Business.’ That’s my favorite,” someone chirps from the corner.

“Trying to do some of my new music,” I reply.

“When’s your next album coming out?” someone else asks.

“The current one is only three months old.” Do they think churning out music is the same as a fashion line refresh at Shein?