Heart Shaped Spotlight Read online

  Heart Shaped Spotlight

  Second Chance Rockstar Romance

  By Haley Travis

  Copyright 2020 Haley Travis. All rights reserved. Cover design by Lexie Renard.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted or duplicated in any form whatsoever without express written permission of the author. This book is intended for sale to adults only. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual people or specific locations or details is completely coincidental, or intended fictitiously. All characters are over 18, no sex partners are related, all sex is consensual. This is fantasy. In the real world, everyone practices safe sex at all times. Right? Right.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue ~ Trisha ~ Branch at the Window

  Chapter One ~ Trisha ~ Seven Years Later

  Chapter Two ~ Nate ~ Showtime

  Chapter Three ~ Trisha ~ Playing My Song

  Chapter Four ~ Nate ~ Nothing Yet

  Chapter Five ~ Trisha ~ We Don’t Say Wallflower

  Chapter Six ~ Nate ~ The Email

  Chapter Seven ~ Trisha ~ Dark Corner

  Chapter Eight ~ Nate ~ Interview

  Chapter Nine ~ Trisha ~ Questions

  Chapter Ten ~ Nate ~ Taking a Breath

  Chapter Eleven ~ Trisha ~ A Real Date

  Chapter Twelve ~ Nate ~ Phone Calls

  Chapter Thirteen ~ Trisha ~ Trips and Gifts

  Chapter Fourteen ~ Nate ~ Different Page

  Chapter Fifteen ~ Trisha ~ The Wine is Rarely Wrong

  Chapter Sixteen ~ Nate ~ Vanilla and Girl

  Chapter Seventeen ~ Trisha ~ Inevitable

  Chapter Eighteen ~ Nate ~ Hotel Coffee

  Chapter Nineteen ~ Trisha ~ Tied Up In Knots

  Chapter Twenty ~ Nate ~ Blinders and Blindsided

  Chapter Twenty One ~ Trisha ~ Rain

  Chapter Twenty Two ~ Nate ~ Beige Carpet

  Chapter Twenty Three ~ Trisha ~ Defender of the Cute

  Chapter Twenty Four ~ Nate ~ Leather Pouch

  Chapter Twenty Five ~ Trisha ~ All I Had Of You

  Epilogue ~ Nate ~ Five Years Later

  Other Books and About the Author

  Prologue ~ Trisha

  * Branch at the Window *

  My bedroom was in absolute shambles as I tried to organize, purge, and stuff all of my belongings into cardboard boxes.

  There was no time to be sentimental as I pitched clothing that no longer fit, various knickknacks, and books I knew I would never read again into the blue-tinted plastic donation bags. I didn't have time to be irritated that my light pink nail polish was becoming chipped from throwing around all of my worldly possessions. It figured – the one time I tried to look girlish.

  What kind of man tells his wife and daughter that they’re moving to a new city in under twenty-four hours? My father had always been self-centered, focussed on making more money, but this was a new level. The feeling of being helpless seeped under my skin until everything stiffened with frustration.

  As I rifled through my dresser, pulling out t-shirts and too many pairs of jeans, I thought I heard someone at the front door. Maybe my father had decided to give us a break and ordered pizza for dinner. But his raised voice sounded even more agitated than usual, and the exchange was too long for a delivery person.

  A few minutes later, I heard the tiniest tap of a branch being dragged across my window. Silently sliding it open, I looked down to see Nate’s gorgeous face. I still couldn’t believe that he was my boyfriend. His infinite sweetness was far more than I deserved. Those magical gray eyes were a magnet, drawing people to him.

  No wonder the three most popular girls in school had been staring at Nate when he sang a few songs at Sara’s party two weeks ago. It didn't even matter whether I was sitting beside him or not.

  The hot girls seemed to know that I wasn't pretty enough, popular enough, or interesting enough for Nate. Yet he only had eyes for me. He was always polite to the other girls of course, which they took as encouragement. He was simply friendly and enthusiastic around everyone.

  Nate loved meeting new people. It lit him up from inside. Which made our relationship tricky, since I cringed from large groups of people and strangers.

  Looking down from the window ledge as he smiled up at me so hopefully, I honestly wasn't sure whether he realized how different we truly were.

  He balanced on a couple of decorative stones so that his face was just below my windowsill. "Wow, Trisha, your dad is pissed," he whispered. "I was hoping he’d let me talk to you on the porch. What's going on?"

  "We're moving," I whispered back, not believing that this was the way I had to tell him.

  We'd been together for six months now. Even though I wasn’t allowed more than porch hangouts, walks on the beach, and library study dates, Nate was completely convinced that we would be together forever.

  "Where are you going?" he asked. "A bigger house or something?"

  "Chicago. He didn't say for how long. But he also didn't say whether we'd be coming back to Toronto. We might be going somewhere else after."

  Even in the dim light, I could see his face fall. I reached down so that he could nuzzle his head into my hand like a puppy. Then he reached up so that I could clasp his hand. My skin prickled with electricity from that simple touch. The confusion in his eyes made a fist tighten around my heart.

  "I'm sorry, I have to pack tonight,” I whispered quickly. “The moving truck comes at eight in the morning, and we have to leave at ten to catch our flight."

  "What the hell? You're leaving tomorrow? You can't." Another fist circled my throat from the desperation in his voice.

  "I know,” I choked. "We’ll have to figure it out. I don’t even know the new address."

  "I can always email you," he said. Even his fake smile was cute on those beautiful lips. "I'll send you funny photos so often you'll get sick of me."

  "My dad's been in hyper spy mode lately. He shut down my email account because Tina and Amber sent me a couple of photos from that party." Nate knew how much crap I’d gone through over the past year, with constant intrusions, and complete lack of respect for my space.

  "I thought you had that locked down.” Nate was never big on technology. That was my department.

  "I did. That's why I changed my email every month, and why it was a string of numbers instead of names. But he helped himself to my laptop when I left to go to the washroom. Two minutes later, it was gone, and I’m forbidden to have a personal email again. He’s sworn to take my computer away if I use it for anything other than schoolwork, and he’s going to search it every day."

  "Jesus Christ," he hissed. "I'm so sorry, baby. Look, I'll find you somehow."

  He gave my hand a squeeze, both of us staring at the little silver and amethyst ring that he had given me. It was a simple band with a round purple stone. Plain enough that it could represent anything. I told my parents that I got it from a street vendor. There was no way I could tell them that I sort of had a promise ring at only eighteen.

  I slid it off quickly, handing it to him.

  "What… What are you doing?" Nate asked.

  "I lost my lucky ring, didn't I? It must have fallen off in your car when you gave me a ride home from the library last week, right? So they'll have to let me contact you so that you can mail it back to me."

  "You're brilliant, baby," he grinned up at me, tucking it in his pocket. Then his face fell. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, even for a few days.”

  I heard a noise in the hallway that may have been footstep
s. "I have to go," I breathed. "I'm sorry. I'll miss you so much."

  He gave my hand another squeeze, then ducked down. I could barely hear him whisper, “I love you, Trisha."

  Sliding the window so that it was only open a few inches, my bedroom door flung open. "What are you doing?" my father demanded. I didn’t understand why he always had to be so loud. He was intimidating enough without the volume, his shoulders filling the door frame. He looked more like a linebacker than an actuary. Yet he was always looking for risks, and ways to crush uncertainty.

  "I'm letting some fresh air in here," I said. "Packing stirs up dust."

  He stomped to the window, looking around, but apparently he didn't see anything. Rushing back to the hallway, he said, "Try and get this room packed quickly. Your mother needs your help wrapping all of the dishes."

  "Okay."

  He didn't bother shutting the door behind him. It didn't matter anyway. I had no privacy. I had no means of communication since they confiscated my phone last month. He’d searched the phone twice a day, so I couldn’t have any private communication. Then he took it away entirely because I was two minutes late coming home from school. Next he had deleted my hidden email, my only safe communication with my friends.

  And now he was moving me away from Nate. The only person who had ever tried to understand me. The only person I'd ever really loved. Not that I truly understood love yet. The deep desire to be with him, the ease of sharing every feeling with him, the way he held me, telling me that I was amazing… it certainly seemed like what love was supposed to be.

  I knew that Nate would be absolutely fine. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. No matter what became of him, the hot popular guy with an amazing voice and a guitar would always land on his feet. I was going to have to rebuild myself in a new city, completely alone.

  Someday I’d be in a place where I could control my own life. I had to believe that someday I’d have true privacy, and choose what I shared with others or not. I had no way of knowing if Nate would really be there with me. But I’d find a way to be happy.

  Using my sweaters as packing material, I quickly wrapped up some networking manuals. I couldn't believe that this was my life. Even though I knew my life would change for the better someday, it was going to be a long, hard, lonely road.

  Chapter One ~ Trisha

  * Seven Years Later *

  Unpacking the last book, I stood back to admire my new shelf. Technical manuals across the bottom, fiction through the middle, and a few treasured classics near the top with my candle holders. Most of my reading was digital these days, having to stay ahead of what I needed to learn for work. But I liked having paper books around. I couldn’t believe I’d been in this apartment for two years before getting a proper shelf.

  Breaking down the last two cardboard boxes and setting them near the door for recycling, I took a moment to admire my little apartment. It was obvious that I wasn’t a minimalist. But five years of being dragged all over the continent by my father made me pare down my possessions each time we moved. Which turned out to be nine times before I left my parents in Calgary, and I landed back in Toronto.

  Now that I was somewhere stable for as long as I wanted, my space was becoming cluttered with photos I’d taken, bits of old computer and technical gear that I considered art, and endless thrift store treasures. A small dish of beach stones sat in the very center of my new shelf, one of the few sentimental objects I truly cherished.

  Flopping down on the dark green easy chair that I’d found on a corner two blocks away, I tried not to think about the first time I had to pack up and leave a place. Those memories had been sneaking back no matter how hard I tried to keep my mental walls up.

  Peering out the rain-streaked window, I was irritated with myself for not being livelier. The city was awash in delight and sensation, as I watched. Almost numb. Almost sad. The fog that had been saturating my mind for the past seven years had to go. I needed my life back.

  On paper, my world was fine. But that paper was becoming worn and crumpled.

  Knowing how rough other people's lives were made me feel guilty for not being more thankful. My little apartment was great. My best friend Carrie was supportive, hilarious, and always there for me. My job was actually quite amazing, and it made me feel truly fulfilled when my boss wasn’t talking down to me.

  Many people would never understand the satisfaction of making systems run, but I secretly felt like the engineer who was driving the train sometimes. Being the IT person at a small radio station was close enough to the music industry to feel some of the excitement, but never in the middle of it all.

  Glancing at the manuals I’d just unpacked, I realized they were getting old. Grabbing my phone, I dictated a note to myself to send to my office that I should update all of the technical manuals on my main drive.

  My phone beeped in agreement. Staring out my apartment window, then back up my phone, I burst into laughter, thankfully breaking my lousy mood. How could I fancy myself a competent IT person when I hadn't backed up my phone in over two weeks?

  Plugging it into the laptop on my coffee table, I skimmed through quickly to see if anything could be deleted. I hadn't updated any apps or music in a while. My email was all backed up at the office. My personal email was barely used at all.

  Quickly scrolling through my photos, I deleted a bunch from last week. Sometimes it was easier to take a snapshot then write down the settings on certain gear.

  Closing the folder, my thumb drifted to my oldest photo album. There were only three photos, all of my high school boyfriend. Through my father’s frantic phase of moving wherever the better job was, I’d taken digital copies of physical photos so that I could hide them online, and transfer them when I was finally allowed to have my own phone again.

  Every time I upgraded phones, that folder came with me. I forbid myself to open it more than once a month. There was absolutely no sense dwelling in the past. And there was certainly no way I'd ever run into him again.

  He must have forgotten all about me by now anyway. Well, perhaps not completely. I assume that men always remember their first kiss. Perhaps not with the same intense sentimentality as women. He was probably surrounded by women now, having the time of his life wherever he was.

  I needed to focus on my carefully curated grown-up world. Leaving the past in the past was one way to ensure a better future. I was pretty sure I read that somewhere. Before I set my phone to back up, I sent Carrie a quick text. Last weekend I helped her completely reorganize her massive closet, so I felt alright about asking for a favor.

  Me: Hey, I need cheering up. Lost in the mental swampland again. Kitten pics?

  Carrie: Hold on…

  A photo of her new calico appeared a moment later. The little fuzz monster was rolling on her back, grabbing at the phone with such an attitude that I actually wished I could channel that much sass. My immediate grin helped to temper my brain fog.

  Carrie: If you need a phone call, can it wait half an hour? Finals of Love Rockers is on!

  Me: Sure, thanks.

  Carrie: Hey – put on the show right now. Maybe the excitement will energize you.

  Me: Thanks, I’ll check it out.

  Sometimes a bit of cheesy entertainment was a great way to cheer a girl up. Turning the TV on, I vaguely recalled that Love Rockers was the show that everyone at the station had been raving about for the past few weeks. It was a competition of singer-songwriters who focused on love songs.

  Although I enjoyed a wide variety of music, and it did sound like an interesting show, I’d heard one contestant's name in passing that made my shoulders clench. The one word that would always bring a prickle to my eyes and throat. It was a common enough name that I shouldn’t be having that reaction anymore. But sometimes I was a bit sensitive.

  I'd only watched a few of those competition shows though, and since everyone was raving about this one so much, I might as well give it a shot. Not wanting to bother binging from the begi
nning, I just turned it on in the middle of an episode.

  There was a huge stage with a band set up, and celebrity judges sitting to the side on bizarre throne type structures. A hostess with glossy blonde hair and a skintight red sequined dress grinned at the camera.

  “Wasn't Miranda fabulous, everyone? If you want her to be our ultimate Love Rocker, write down her code now! At the end of the show, the lines will be open for just ten minutes for you to text and vote for your favorite."

  I tried not to roll my eyes at the screen while I set my phone to back up.

  The show cut to a pre-recorded bit about the value of singers who were also songwriters. They said that many people could be trained to sing, but it was a special sort of person who had the gift of capturing the essence of love in a song.

  I guess they had a point. Imagination and creativity were sort of a gift, but then there was the technical structure of the song itself. I knew how important it was to know the rules before you could break them. Then there was the entire psychology of the rising key, sudden tempo changes, and conveying energy with rhythm and flow. It was both an art and a science. Some people had the knack, and others didn't.