His Vinyl Vixen (Beach Avenue Babes Book 1) Read online

  His Vinyl Vixen

  A Beach Avenue Babes Romance

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2018 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: 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.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

  Dedicated to the memory of the ultimate punk rock star, Anthony Bourdain, who left this earth while I was writing this book and listening to one of his favorite bands, The Ramones. My silly little heart will always be a little bit broken over you, Tony.

  Contents

  His Vinyl Vixen

  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

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Abby’s next book …

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  His Vinyl Vixen

  Beach Avenue Babes, Part One

  By Abby Knox

  Zara Rhodes is freshly graduated from her East Coast Ivy League college and has returned home to California, just for one summer. She's going to help out at her mother’s struggling record store, and then split as soon as she finds her true calling. Having just turned 21, she should be sowing her wild oats. But she has no interest in making the same choices her mother did at that age. Which means, steering clear of men.

  Kai Stormcloud is a a hippie drifter with a checkered past. He's starting over with only the guitar in his hands and his wits. Maybe he'll busk his way up the California coast until he’s got enough money to send home to his aunt who raised him. Or, maybe follow his favorite jam band across the country for awhile. He doesn’t know or care what happens after that. But when he spots a spunky little record store clerk on his first day in Sea Grove, he changes his tune. She makes it clear she doesn’t trust his type, but Kai will do anything to win her over. Even get a real job.

  Chapter 1

  Zara

  If it were possible to roll one’s eyes in disgust before even opening them first thing in the morning, Zara Rhodes might achieve it with a flourish.

  The seagulls called. The California sun shone down on Beach Avenue. The street performers strummed guitars and slapped bongos. All of the serene things of a quaint beach community conspired to wake Zara up too early from her slumber in the small flat she shared with her mother, Dusty.

  Twenty-one years old and freshly graduated from college, Zara was not accustomed to waking up early. She was deeply entrenched in a season of life in which her body really, really enjoyed sleeping. A lot.

  But she couldn’t go back to sleep with the hippy-dippy music assaulting her. It was the sound of acoustic guitar out on the sidewalk, a sure sign that she was indeed home for the summer. The weather was getting hotter, and the buskers were starting early.

  Well, shit.

  Zara snapped the shade open with a testy flick of her wrist, as if taking out her anger on window coverings might give her any satisfaction before she had consumed any coffee. She looked down to the street and expected to find the old, familiar faces from last summer, with their threadbare Grateful Dead tee-shirts and Birkenstock sandals and graying, bleached-out beards.

  But this one was new. She couldn’t see his face because he was bent over while strumming a Martin N-20 acoustic guitar. Good taste in instruments, anyway, she thought. His hair was long and sandy, with random streaks of pure gold. He wore a pale woven Baja tunic that had seen better days. That 1990s relic of a garment probably reeked of pot, she thought.

  Zara sighed. She didn’t trust hippies.

  She glanced at the hip-swaying Elvis clock on the wall. May as well get started early on work. Mom’s books are probably in disarray. Zara dressed in her favorite plaid mini and fishnets. She had to look the part to sling records all day; yes, actual 12-inch vinyl records that were regularly bought up by retired, tanned baby boomers with too much money and time on their hands.

  As she slipped through the great room she flipped on the stereo, where Never Mind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols was already queued up. Zara padded into the kitchen, made coffee and poured it into her stainless mug. It had been a high school graduation gift on which she had immediately slapped on her favorite band stickers and scrawled it all over with anarchy symbols in permanent marker. Juvenile? Yes, but she thought it was a nice antidote for being a scholarship college student in possession of a $50 coffee mug.

  Once in the bathroom applying her “look”—assertive lines of black kohl eyeliner and red lips—she heard her mother’s footsteps come shuffling down the hall.

  “Buskers are awake. Guess I better go open the store and help them make some money,” Dusty said with a yawn and a smile.

  “Ma, why do you put up with those guys? They’re essentially panhandling for money right in front of your store. Which is, in case you forgot, a store that depends on you making actual money off the same people giving money to buskers.”

  Dusty cocked her head to one side and said, “Oh, Z, when are you gonna start calling me Dusty, like everyone else?”

  Zara returned to penciling on her severe black eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. “When hell freezes over.”

  Dusty smoothed a hand over Zara’s sleek dark locks. “You have such pretty hair.” While Zara had a degree in economics, Dusty had a degree in non-sequiturs. “Wanna let me put some Dutch milkmaid braids in it?”

  Zara moved on to her lips. She turned two tubes of lipstick upside down and read the names of the shades. ¡Olé! and Red Flag. She was definitely feeling more ¡Olé! today.

  “Thank you. Hard pass on the milkmaid look,” she said with a smirk.

  Dusty shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She turned sideways in the mirror next to her daughter. Dusty had a pretty banging figure at 42. “Bra or no bra today?”

  “Ma.”

  “Oh come on, Z.”

  “Ma, nobody wants to see your nipples. Especially not on my birthday.”

  Dusty sucked in her belly. “You know, for an economics major, you understand very little about what sells vinyl records to a bunch of old rock music junkies. Nipples, baby. Nipples.”

  Zara blotted her lipstick and replied, “And now I’m scarred for life.” She snapped the cap back on the lipstick and dropped it into her makeup bag. “OK. I’m gonna go open the shop. See you down there, slut.”

  Anybody else’s mother would have been offended. Dusty was not anybody else’s mother. Dusty called after Zara, “That’s my girl! Oh, Happy 21st birthday, by the way!”

  Zara called over her shoulder
from the front door as she slipped into her Union Jack Doc Martens, “There’d better not be any cake; I’m off sugar!”

  Dusty followed her into the great room and replied, “You know, just because you’re in California doesn’t mean anybody wants to hear about your diet. Excuse me, ‘eating plan.’ Ooh, coffee. Thank you!” And then a moment later she added, “That’s was sarcasm. Everybody talks incessantly about their food plans these days, so you’ll fit right in here.”

  Dusty gave her daughter a peck on the cheek. “Love you so much, sweetheart. Thank you for coming back after graduation.”

  Zara muttered but could not help the smile creeping across her lips. “Love you too, bye!”

  She headed downstairs and thought, At least I don’t have a typical Southern California commute to work. The storefront of Vinyl Vixen was literally underneath the walkup flat.

  However, after Zara exited the staircase that led to the side street, she realized she did have to walk right past the two-tone blond busker and his guitar. She took a deep breath, resolved to avoid conversation with any new hippies at all costs, and marched around the corner to Beach Avenue. She tightened her grip on the set of keys laced through her fingers as precautionary little spikes of self-defense. Not that she would likely have to use her keys as a weapon on a mild-mannered guitar-playing beach bum in Sea Grove. But, one never knew. Best-case scenario, he would get the hint that she didn’t want a new friend.

  But, when she came around the corner, the busker wasn’t there. That’s odd, she thought. Well, in my experience, they never stick around for long.

  And then all of a sudden, a man’s deep voice came out of nowhere. “Walk of shame?”

  Zara spun around. “Excuse me?”

  The blond hippie dude was standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands and his guitar slung over his shoulder. He was taller than she had expected. And hotter. Way, way hotter. He had deep, soulful brown eyes and a built, sun-kissed chest that peeked through the opening in that god-awful woven tunic. He looked like a chill, California version of a Viking.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was a joke.”

  Zara shook her head and mumbled, “Every-damn-body’s got jokes today.”

  “Uhh…” the blond hippie man stammered. “I dunno what to say to that…”

  Zara raised an eyebrow. “I’m shocked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just rocket right past the Walk of Shame comment and go to work.”

  She turned away to unlock the front door, feeling deeply self-conscious knowing his eyes were on her back. He could not stop talking. Talking was not on the menu for Zara before she finished her coffee. Not even talking to super-hot musicians.

  “I…” he stammered. “I just meant that I saw you coming out of that apartment all dressed up and…never mind. This is for you.”

  Zara muscled the old wooden door open and peered at him. He was trying to hand off to her a paper cup of coffee from her favorite coffee spot, Voltaire’s. She did not take it right away. “I have coffee,” she said. She stood in the open doorway and gestured with her mug.

  He looked like he wasn’t sure himself what he was trying to do. “Oh, sorry. I’m Kai. I thought I would try to be a good neighbor and bring the manager of this fine historic music establishment a coffee, as a thank you for letting me busk here today.”

  Zara was confused. “I’m not a manager, I’m an associate. The owner will be down in a minute.”

  “But you do work here, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So this is for you. Thank you.” He held out the cup like he was a little boy holding up a perfect attendance certificate.

  Zara thought this made him oddly that much cuter but kept her face stone cold. “First of all, you can’t be here. Busking is bad for business. And second of all, what female in her right mind is going to take coffee from a total stranger? Ever heard of Rohypnol?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’ll understand if I say fuck off with your coffee.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Do I look like a mustache-twirling bad guy to you?”

  He didn’t even appear defensive after her remark, which intrigued Zara on the inside. On the outside, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “They never do.”

  He was grasping for something to reach her. “Seems we’re getting off on the wrong foot.” He put down the cup on the window sill. “Nice art,” he said. On the other side of the plate glass window was Dusty’s modern art palm tree sculpture made of little plastic adaptors for 45 records. He then held out his hand and said, “Let’s try again. I’m Kai.”

  Kai. Total surfer name.

  Zara smirked and hesitated before shaking that tanned, sinewy, musically talented hand. “Listen, Kai. Thank you for the coffee,” she said, letting him take her hand. His fingers were warm but rougher than they ought to be at his age. “I don’t think you’re trying to roofie me. But busking is bad for business. It’s glorified loitering.”

  “Well, Dusty said I could stay,” he said with a smirk.

  “Did she now?”

  “Yep. I spoke to her last week. I guess that was before you arrived home from college.”

  What else had Dusty said to this total stranger about her? Zara studied his face. He was in his mid-30s, and definitely her mother’s type. Dusty had always had a soft spot for hippies. Zara was suspicious. Her mom had been a bad picker. Exhibit A: Zara’s own biological father, Walter. Inwardly, Zara shuddered and pushed the thought of that man out of her head.

  She would have to watch out for this one. He had a kind face with a smile that reached his eyes, but that could be deceiving. Nice cheekbones and a nearly perfect aquiline nose of a marble Roman statue, but with added character. He’d clearly broken it a time or two. There’s definitely a story there. The shaggy hair looked as if it had spent too much time in the surf. Total California babe, through and through. Not my type, said her left brain. But you can’t deny that something-something, said her right brain.

  “Fine,” she said. “Just for today. And just so you know, if I decide I want you gone, you’re gone. Dusty trusts my business decisions. And I don’t trust hippies.”

  He looked amused. “I’m not a hippie.”

  She worked hard to contain a laugh. “Puka shell necklace, frayed hemp cargo shorts, woven tunic from 1993, Teva sandals, Buddhist bead bracelet. Keep telling yourself that.”

  “I’m not what you think. I’m just a guy with a guitar who likes to be close to the beach…and in close proximity to pretty, smart, punky-goth girls.”

  Zara felt a hot flush at that comment. Or it could have simply been the weather. Memorial Day temperatures were going to be hotter than usual this year. “Whatever, dude. Just don’t bug the customers, OK?”

  Kai saluted, causing Zara to roll her eyes again before grabbing the free coffee off the sill and heading to work.

  Inside the store, she kept one eye on Kai through the window and one eye on selecting the soundtrack for her work day.

  Rolling Stones? No. Beatles? No. Misfits? Maybe, maybe not. Michael Jackson? No.

  Something in her brain told Zara to lean more toward Americana. What the hell…Grateful Dead it is.

  Chapter 2

  Kai

  It was Kai’s first time in this coffee joint on Beach Avenue. As he waited in line, he noticed some cool framed quotes on the walls:

  “Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.”

  “Let us read, and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.”

  Kai decided he was going to like this place.

  He had arrived in town last week. It seemed like a cool locale to practice his music while earning a few bucks to send back home to his aunt.

  Dusty had been very agreeable when he’d approached her about busking in front of her store, and had even hinted at having him help provide entertainment for a fundraiser for the local women’s shelter.

  “If you’re any good,” she’d said,
with a no-nonsense expression.

  Kai had known right away she was not a woman to be trifled with. And so he had decided to let her in on a little secret about his past. He hadn’t come to California on a whim, but to try to put his past behind him. When the conversation ended, he was more or less a low-key security guard.

  Just talking about these things made his mind flash back to the horrific scene last year. Black pavement, wet with rain. Blue lights flashing. Blood. Hot gun metal. Shock. A woman crying.

  And so, Kai decided to kiss Dusty’s ass a little by bringing her coffee as a thank-you gift. He liked Dusty, in that she reminded him of Aunt Jo, who’d raised him.

  The notion of sucking up to Dusty that morning took a hasty back seat when Kai suddenly caught sight of the younger, scarier, more goth-punk version of Dusty that appeared out of nowhere.

  That “walk of shame” comment was the wrong thing to say. He had blurted it out, trying to be funny, but immediately recognized it as totally inappropriate.

  The way she spun around, it was as if he was being struck by lightning. She was college-age, wore knee-high Doc Marten boots that looked like she would kick the shit out of a dude as soon as talk to him. Fishnets under a plaid mini-skirt. Sexy black mesh top over a black concert tank top. Dark hair that gleamed rebelliously in the California sun. Lipstick the color of a fire engine and eyes that were not so much “come hither” as they communicated “fuck you.” Eyebrow ring, nose ring. She carried a travel mug covered in anarchy symbols and ’80s band stickers. This, he totally appreciated, having been raised by John Hughes and Molly Ringwald while he latchkeyed his way through childhood.