Sweet Oblivion

  SWEET OBLIVION

  A Bad Boy Rockstar Romance

  Alexa Padgett

  Sidecar Press, Inc.

  Contents

  Sweet Oblivion

  Tonic

  1. Aya

  2. Nash

  3. Nash

  4. Nash

  5. Nash

  6. Nash

  7. Aya

  8. Nash

  9. Nash

  10. Aya

  11. Aya

  12. Nash

  13. Aya

  14. Nash

  15. Aya

  16. Nash

  17. Aya

  18. Nash

  19. Aya

  20. Nash

  21. Aya

  22. Nash

  23. Aya

  24. Nash

  25. Aya

  26. Nash

  27. Aya

  28. Nash

  29. Aya

  30. Nash

  31. Sneak Peek of CRAVING OBLIVION

  32. One Year Later

  33. Nash

  Author Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Alexa Padgett

  Sweet Oblivion

  Part 1 of the Oblivion Series

  By Alexa Padgett

  Sultry Oblivion

  The boy she fell for was her superstar. Now, he's a rock legend.

  Their love becomes a media circus.

  Aya and Nash are amazing together, but the rest of the world isn't so happy with their relationship. The paparazzi hound them. Bloggers and fans tear the couple down. Even Nash's bandmates are sharpening their claws.

  Every stolen moment together is a fight. Against jealousy. Against Aya's fear of the limelight. Against the world. Worse, her history with his fame threatens Nash's hard-won and tentative grasp on trust.

  Their passion burns brighter than the strongest flame, but can it survive its time in the public eye?

  Copyright © 2021 by Alexa Padgett

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Editor: Jessica Royer Ocken

  Proofreading by: Charity Chimni

  Cover by: Chris Philpot

  For Charity. I’m so thankful to call you a friend.

  Tonic

  Aya

  * * *

  I fell in love in less than one second. I looked it up, years later, to see if that really could have happened. The answer is yes. In five-tenths of a second, dopamine and oxytocin swelled and flowed from my brain, and I felt love pour through all my cells.

  It was a rush I wanted to hit over and over again.

  But I didn’t get that chance.

  I was five years old. On vacation. And as he walked away, I was sure I’d never again see the blond boy I’d given both my heart and the most perfect seashell.

  1

  Aya

  I splayed out in the silky, hot, white sand on the beach near my parents. The tip of my tongue slipped between my teeth as I worked the toothpick into the damp granules to create a chain link for my sand castle like I’d seen on the real castles in Paris. Mummy and Father spoke in quiet voices, but I could hear the strain, the tears, in my mummy’s tone. My father’s voice rose, surly, the words hurtful.

  “Those were dreams of youth, Sofia. We’re parents, and we need to focus on our future.”

  I didn’t like the way he spoke to my mummy.

  I rose from my spot under the shade of the large umbrella and shuffled closer to the water—then closer again so the cool seafoam slithered around my foot, causing me to giggle. I wiggled my toes, sinking my feet deeper into the powdery sand.

  I stepped deeper into the waves, enjoying how the water cooled my hot legs. With a gasp of delight, I bent down and picked up a shell. I ran my other palm over the conch. The pink interior was smooth as satin. I clasped the shell in my fist and bent at the waist, searching for another.

  “You shouldn’t be out there by yourself.”

  I turned my head, squinting at the shape of a boy. He was bigger than me—most people were. Before I could answer, a wave slammed into the side of my head, filling my mouth with water and knocking me into the sand.

  I struggled to rise, even as another wave slammed into me. I clenched the shell and curled up smaller, afraid to rise again. Then, the boy’s hand grasped mine and pulled. When I stumbled, he tugged me again, harder. I gasped and coughed out water as I managed to get to my feet. He led me from the ocean. I collapsed on my bottom near my sandcastle, sucking in air.

  “They didn’t see,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at my parents. “That’s why I came over. My mommy said it’s not safe.”

  I blinked up at him. “For me?” I asked.

  He squatted next to me, and I was able to see his eyes. They were a warm, soft brown—a little darker than the liquor my daddy put in his glass each night. The outer rims were dark, almost as black as his pupils.

  “For kids,” he said. “How old are you?”

  “I’m five.”

  “Same as me.” He smiled. “I’m glad you didn’t drown. That’s a bad thing to do. We only get to live on the water as long as we follow the rules.”

  “My dad’s being mean,” I whispered.

  He frowned. “Mine makes my mommy cry.”

  I gazed at him, both liking and hating that we had this in common. “I don’t like when my mummy cries.”

  “Why do you say ‘mummy’ like that?” He sat on his heels, his knees tucked into his blue swim trunks.

  “My dad’s English.” I shrugged.

  I settled my perfect conch on his knee. My skin felt hot, and I couldn’t hold his gaze, so I rubbed my wet legs into the sand, coating them in the fine, white powder. I peeked at him. He was studying me, not the shell.

  “You’re pretty,” he said.

  “So are you,” I replied.

  He grinned, and a dimple appeared in his rounded left cheek. “Yeah, I am. My mommy’s the most beautiful-est lady in the world. She says I look like her. But she doesn’t have purple eyes like yours.”

  Something about this boy made it hard for me to find my words.

  He snatched up the shell and stood. “Thanks.”

  He turned and trotted back toward his mother, who’d started to walk this direction from another of the large blue umbrellas. Hers was halfway down the beach, in front of the largest villa. She wore a large, black hat and large sunglasses. Her pale skin glistened, and her one-piece swimsuit was cut higher on the legs and lower across the chest than my mum’s. Her bright red lips turned up in a smile as the boy approached her.

  “What’s your name?” I called.

  He stopped about halfway between us. “Nash. Nash Porter, and one day I’m going to be a superstar.”

  He darted to his mother and lifted the shell he cradled in his hands. She admired it, patting his head before moving off once more. He followed, seeming to trip over his feet in an effort to keep her attention.

  Nash Porter.

  I watched him walk away, the hand that had held the conch now sitting over my hammering heart.

  2

  Nash

  Seven Years Later
<
br />   * * *

  Screams ripped through my noise-canceling headphones, making me wince—in the best possible way. I rocked back on my heels, awed by the power of twenty-thousand people cheering for my dad’s band, Quantum.

  As the band hit the opening riff, a rush of adrenaline flowed through me, and my fingertips tingled. As the guitars sang through the early measures, my chest throbbed in time with the beat.

  Then, Dad began to sing my lyrics. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his long bangs stuck to his forehead. He shot me a wink.

  Our little secret, it said.

  I grinned back. Oh yeah. As long as I got to come along and see this response to my music, I was more than happy to stay back here. For now. Bieber had been thirteen, a year older than me, when he stormed the world stage. But as my dad had pointed out, he’d made some bad choices along the way.

  “Enjoy being a kid, Nash. It doesn’t last long,” he’d said with his hand on my shoulder, gripping it in that comforting way of his before the pat, pat, pat on my back.

  The screaming grew to a crescendo.

  “Not a bad response, little bro,” Lev said, slinging his arm around my shoulder.

  I beamed. He laughed, his voice cracking halfway through it, causing him to slam his mouth shut and blush, tossing a glance at Gemma Cordova, the roadie’s fifteen-year-old daughter. That hadn’t happened to Lev in a while—not since he was about my age. Now, at fourteen, he seemed so much older. Well, until he wanted to impress this girl.

  Gemma remained transfixed by the new song, unaware of Lev’s self-consciousness. Pride swelled so hard that it pressed against my ribs, a happy bubble I never wanted to pop.

  When Dad arrived in the green room after the show, he came right over and hugged me. “You see that reaction? Nash, my boy, we’re on to something huge.” His eyes twinkled.

  I wrinkled my nose at the sweet cloy of perfume and the smear of red across his lip and cheek. Before I could ask him about it, a group of women tumbled into the room, beelining toward my father, all screaming Braaaad. He chuckled as he threw open his arms, stepping forward.

  He winked at me and Lev. “The benefits of fame.”

  “He’s such a douche,” Lev muttered as he turned away.

  Somewhere in the past year, Lev’s devotion to our father had melted into deep-seated disdain.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Lev sucked on his drink—I was pretty sure he’d spiked his Coke with one of the bottles of liquor sitting on the overladen buffet tables, but I didn’t ask. We were touring with a rock band, and as Lev said, when in Rome…

  “He got a blow job backstage from one chick, and now he’s going to bang at least one more.”

  My stomach curdled as I watched Dad wrap his arm around a curvaceous blonde with big, teased hair.

  “Her shirt barely covers the underside of her tits,” Lev muttered, grimacing. “And her shorts don’t cover her ass cheeks. Classy.”

  “But…Mom…”

  Lev snorted. “Is shooting that perfume ad in Paris.” He turned to me, dark eyes serious. “And we’re not going to tell her what goes on here. Because she’d cry more.”

  Lev’s hands fisted so hard he broke his plastic cup and his drink rained down on his new Air Jordan sneakers and jeans.

  “But…”

  Lev growled as Dad bent to kiss the woman. I shuddered at the aggressive way he stuck his tongue in her mouth.

  “Dad’s a cheat, Nash,” Lev said, voice flat. “I caught him, and he laughed.” Lev’s pale skin mottled. “This is why I’m glad Mom isn’t here. She’s had so much success while Dad’s struggled.”

  My jaw dropped. “He has?”

  “Yeah, man. Your songs—they’re killer. Way better than Quantum’s last two albums. From what I heard, this one’ll go gold, maybe platinum.” He pulled me in close and noogied my head. “Because of you.”

  “But…”

  Lev glanced back at Dad and the woman, a ripple of displeasure shooting through his arms as he released me. “Look, maybe now that they’re both successful it’ll be better.” His eyes pleaded with me. “Right?”

  My stomach twisted. “I…” Something cracked in Lev’s eyes, and I grabbed his hand like I used to, when I was really little. He let me. “You’re right, Lev. Now that they’re both successful, everything’s going to be better.”

  “We’re going back to the hotel,” he said with one last glare at our dad. “Don’t look,” he muttered, tugging me toward the door and our security detail.

  I trailed behind him, the high from the night buried under the weight of the news that my father was a cheater—and that my songs might be the only thing that could keep my family together.

  3

  Nash

  Two Years Later

  * * *

  Three months in, I’d deemed ninth grade even more obnoxious than middle school, which had been my own personal hell. Clothes, expensive car rides, and even personalized, nonjudgmental learning environments failed to create decent humans here at Austin’s elite Holyoke School. This was never more apparent than when my mom was in the news again for yet another substance-induced meltdown.

  But mostly, this year caused an unbearable ache because once again, Lev wasn’t here to share it with me. He wasn’t here to share anything with me anymore. He was dead. And it sucked that I had to do this alone.

  As much as I wanted to hunch under my backpack straps, I stood straight and tall, my brand-new Chuck Taylors thumping against the stained concrete hallway. My shoulders tensed as Lord Prescott, the leading private-school douche-monkey, rounded the corner. Like me, he wore black athletic pants and a brightly colored T-shirt. Mine had the logo of my father’s band, Quantum, and Lord’s said, I can’t be responsible for my face when you talk.

  His hair was spiked up in front because he couldn’t manage the pouf most boys seemed to prefer, but he had added the requisite black beanie that sagged down his thick neck. Lord was a couple of inches shorter than me now. Over the long, hard, grief-filled summer, I’d started to shoot up and fill out. But Lord’s viciousness ran at least as deep as his confidence, and he’d picked me out last year, right after Lev’s death.

  “How’s it going, Nashville?” Lord asked with a smirk. Animosity slithered through his dark eyes.

  I noted three additional boys, all muscular and with similar vapid expressions, behind him, and my quick scan of the hall showed it was free of teachers. Lord always waited for the teachers to disappear before he baited and hurt people.

  I didn’t even bother to roll my eyes and the lameness of his joke about my name, but I did hear the first, faint stirrings of a song. I strained, desperate for the melody…but it faded.

  Damn Lord for getting my hopes up. I hadn’t been able to write music since I’d watched my dad screw around with the groupies—first on that last tour and then at every one of the local shows I’d attended since. I’d already been angry with him, and then Lev’s death had decimated me, and now I wasn’t sure if I’d ever crawl out of this hole.

  My father’s frustrated comments this morning trickled through my mind. “It’s time to buckle down and get serious, Nash. I need to finish this album, which means I need more songs.” He hadn’t followed that up with his usual comforting shoulder squeeze. In fact, he’d strode out of the house without so much as telling me to have a good day.

  “Leave me alone, Lord. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Aw… Not feeling so hot these days, Nashville?” Lord taunted.

  My dad had tons of worries and photo ops on his mind. Quantum needed a new album in order to start their world tour. The single we’d cowritten before everything went to shit had burned its way up the charts, causing fans to clamor for more, but that tour I’d gone on with Lev was long gone—not unlike my ability to compose a tune.

  I refocused on Lord, the perfect outlet for my anger, my worry over my father’s frustration—everything.

  “Considering my parents like me enough to stay in
the same city, I’m good,” I told him.

  Lord snarled, his buggy eyes narrowing to a squint as his hands fisted. I held my ground, waiting, though I rolled up on the balls of my feet and tensed, readying for a blow.

  “Your mom isn’t here—” Lord began.

  Hugh Peckham materialized next to me as I cut him off. Lord wasn’t going to say anything about my mother. “What do your parents do?” I asked. “Do they work or just spend their trust funds…as far from you as possible?”

  Seriously, his parents had named him Lord. Of what? I’d always wondered.

  Lord’s posse of like-minded bullies pulled him away before he could throw a punch at me. Smart of them, though I wasn’t opposed to busting my knuckles, taking a few hits, or even breaking a bone or two. If I did, maybe, finally my mom would remember I existed. Maybe my father would stop being so distant.

  Nothing had worked since Lev’s death—not stellar grades, not the cigarettes or the vaping cartridges I stole from Lord, or even me swilling from a bottle of vodka while sitting on Mom’s bed and talking to her last week.