دانلود رمان انگلیسی “جایی که وصیت‌نامه‌ای وجود دارد” – یک عاشقانه‌ی راک‌استار

I awoke in my own bed for the first time in four months and debated whether to roll over and go back to sleep, go downstairs and work out, or go see what Angie, my house manager, had stocked in the kitchen. We often take a break during long tours, and I intended to make the most of the seven weeks of downtime before we started the second half of the tour. The first half had been in Europe, and the second half would be in North America. The European portion had been a rousing success, thankfully, selling out the biggest venues in Europe’s largest metropolises, twenty-six cities in sixteen weeks, and there was every reason to believe the shows in the U.S. and Canada would be just as successful. All the experts had told me I was taking too big of a risk, going from Lord Byron who performed alone with random people behind me, to becoming the front man for Mythic Beast, and maybe I had, but it’d been totally worth it. I have a team now, a band who helps me create the songs and the visuals to go with them. We travel together, we play together. We’re a family. Or at least, we spend more time together than most families. I adore my bandmates, but we all needed some time apart. And I needed to get laid in the worst kind of way. Not just someone to fuck, because there’s plenty of that on the road, but someone to dominate. But Lord Byron has to be careful about that kind of thing. I could call the Rolling Thunder guys and order one of their prosub girls, but I was in the mood for a little gay twink, and the bikers don’t have those on the menu. I’d been around people twenty-four/seven for months, hardly any time alone at all, and now I was home and my bed was fucking empty. One way or another, that needed to be rectified. But first, I needed food. I slid some shorts on and made my way to the kitchen, where I saw a note on the fridge I hadn’t noticed at one in the morning when I’d arrived home. A reminder of what Angie had sent me via email, but I focused on the fact my car was ready to be picked up. I’d bought a 1967 Corvette Stingray convertible before we left on our tour, and I’d had it taken it to the RTMC’s classic car shop to have the upholstery redone, everything under the hood tuned up or replaced or whatever was necessary so it would be dependable, modern brakes and suspension, and Bluetooth installed in such a way it still looked original, but I could make and receive calls through the speaker system. They called it a resto-mod, updating an old car with modern shit, but I wanted the modern stuff mostly hidden. I looked at the clock and noted it was nearly three o’clock, which didn’t surprise me because I’d needed to catch up on sleep. Okay, so a shower and then go pick up my car, and I’d get food while I was out. I hadn’t driven in months, and I looked forward to having some fun in the Stingray. Security had brought me home the night before, checked the house, and left. No one knew I was home, and I wasn’t planning to go anywhere, so at my request, my home-based team wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the following day. I should be fine to drive to the biker’s classic car shop and back by myself, though.