Book Feature with Deliza Rafferty, author of Rock and Roll

Romance Promo Central is happy to welcome Deliza Rafferty to the blog! She’s here to share some information about her book, Rock & Roll. If this sounds like something that you would be interested in reading, please find a buy link at the bottom of the post and pick up a copy!

 

book Feature with Deliza Rafferty, author of Rock & RollSinger/songwriter Savannah Rossi receives some disappointing career news (which also happens to involve her much despised ex) shortly before she is to go on stage with her band. Fortunately, she has just enough time before curtain for an attitude adjustment with a hot, nameless stranger who knows a thing or two about rhythm and tempo himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Deliza Rafferty is a new romance and erotica writer (“romantica,” as she likes to call it – spicier than true romance, but no hardcore BDSM) located in Hollywood. She’s written all sorts of stories and poems for personal enjoyment since she was a little girl, but has spent most of her career in the music business. She is venturing into sharing her musings publicly for the very first time and is excited that modern day technology allows her to do it at her leisure.

Rafferty introduces herself with her first short story, “Rock and Roll,” Volume I of the Savannah Rossi Chronicles, which is now available for free on Smashwords.com. In this series of short stories that will eventually lead up to a full length novel, Rafferty draws upon her knowledge of the music industry to tell the steamy adventures of her heroine, sexy and confident singer/songwriter Savannah Rossi. Volume II, entitled “Slow Jam,” is currently in progress.

Deliza can be found on:

Twitter

Rock & Roll can be purchased at:

Smashwords

 Excerpt:

She was particularly restless tonight.  She had expected that familiar surge of pre-show adrenaline to have made its presence known in her bloodstream by now.  Yet, as Savannah gazed into the mirror and slicked her generous bottom lip one last time with ruby red gloss she felt only pent up agitation. She smacked her lips loudly, taking note of how tired her kohl-rimmed, glitter-dusted eyes looked tonight.

Her manager had called earlier with bad news.  Her band Death By Red had been one of two local bands narrowed down from thousands to write the theme song for mega-producer Johnathan Brauer’s latest film epic starring Hollywood’s newest “it boy” Tristan Everwood.  In the end however Brauer had chosen what must surely be a three-and-a-half minute load of crap (as Savannah privately referred to their songs) by rival band Socket Wrench.  It certainly didn’t help that their guitar player was Savannah’s ex, who had not only taken her virginity years ago in the green room of The World Famous Roxy (how trite) but had smashed her heart into bits like one of Pete Townshend’s axes six months later when she caught him screwing the other backup singer on the very same couch.

The memory of that humiliating night combined with missing what would have been the biggest opportunity of her career thus far flushed her cheeks and curdled in her belly.  Freshly enraged and needing to do something about it, Savannah snapped herself up from the chair and whipped open the dressing room door.  There an extraordinarily huge, bald black man employed by the club as security filled the majority of the doorway.

The suddenness of the door opening didn’t even make him flinch.  He glanced over his shoulder at her with boredom and stated flatly, “Miss?”

“Rembrandt, where are the boys?” she inquired, referring to the other members of her band.

Her clipped tone caused Rembrandt to straighten his spine a little and turn to face her.  “In their room gettin’  ready to go on.”  He paused then added, “And by that I mean doin’ shots.”

Savannah was unfazed.  “How long till curtain?”

Rembrandt checked his giant Rolex.  “Well…opening band started about fifteen minutes ago…good half hour at least till they finish.”

“Good.  I want to go downstairs.”

“Need a drink?  I can always call a server up–“

“No, I want to check out the house.”

“Miss, I’m really not supposed to–“

Savannah gripped his beefy forearm and bore into him with huge, cat-like eyes that sparkled like peridots.  If not for the thigh-high stiletto boots she had on, she would have had to crane her neck to do so.  “Rembrandt, hear me,” she said steadily.  “I want.  To check out.  The house.”

As it dawned on him what she meant, he fought a knowing – and perhaps a little bit dirty – smile.  Savannah Rossi was a prodigiously talented singer/songwriter and hands down the most well known local artist in Los Angeles.  A complete do-it-yourselfer who shunned label interest, she had become an indie sweetheart and enjoyed a certain degree of local celebrity; hence the security detail.  She was also a lusty little slice of tiramisu and from what he’d heard, Rembrandt wouldn’t be the first security guard to escort her downstairs to “check out the house.”

He cleared his throat and feigned a straight face.  “Yes, Miss.”  He motioned her out of the dressing room and into the hallway.  Barely a foot away another huge man with what Savannah guessed to be Armenian features stood in front of another dressing room door.  “Taking Miss Rossi to check out the house,”  Rembrandt told him as they passed.

The guard merely nodded, giving nothing away, if in fact he knew anything at all.  He turned and rapped his enormous knuckles on the dressing room door and said through it, “Downstairs for a minute, guys.”  Muffled, slightly tipsy voices of acknowledgement were heard.  He fell into step behind Savannah, who followed Rembrandt.  She could not help but think how ridiculous all this to-do was.  What kind of overbearing attention must the big name artists get?

“So much for discretion,” she said under her breath.  Then she thought, “If I actually cared about it.”

They made their way down a set of stairs that were slightly precarious in her boots, which emptied out in front of the entrances to the kitchen and the bar.  Directly in front of them was the service door, swinging in and out with a grand swoosh for every server and busboy that came through.  The door led out into the club itself where through its greasy window an irritated, horny girl could watch a side view of the band currently playing onstage and could get a good look at the throng of fans crushing toward the lip of the stage.  Rembrandt stepped out of Savannah’s way so she could step up to the window.

With her arms crossed, surveying her kingdom through the filmy glass, she first noticed the bass player in the band, directly in front of her.  He seemed a few years younger than she, though that didn’t matter to her as long as he was legal.  Unlike the guitar player, he did not play with typical rock star-wannabe abandon, running all over the stage flailing his head around (an apparent requirement amongst lead guitarists, she mentally noted with a touch of bitterness).  Rather, he stood in one spot the majority of the time, upper torso subtly rocking to the rhythm, eyes closed, face scrunched up in what Savannah referred to as “bass face.”  He had seemingly blocked out everything but the music and immersed himself completely in it.  This guy had no gimmick; he was a jeans-and-tee shirt kind of guy, end of list.  From this angle she could see the curve of the small of his back leading to a rock solid ass swathed in faded Levi’s, the bulge of his left bicep sloping out of the short sleeve of his tee shirt, the pulsing river of veins making a pathway from his forearm to his powerful hands.  Oh, the things his fingers were doing to the neck of his beloved bass guitar.  Savannah wondered what those fingers could do to her body.  Would he make “bass face” while impaling her with the magical musical instrument between his legs?  She felt a familiar, feverish craving surge between her own legs at the thought.

Damn shame he was indisposed at the moment.  Another time…

Her feline gaze wandered over to the sea of bodies straining toward the stage.  Lots of girls dressed like two bit whores — and most likely underage — were practically throwing themselves at the lead singer.  Savannah snorted with amusement.  Do your mothers know where you are?

Likely not.  Her own mother never did.

Her eyes finally found a few members of the male persuasion.

No…too young.

Mmmmm…too skinny.

Sorry…too old, plus you’re embarrassing yourself in that Ed Hardy shirt, Mr. Midlife Crisis.

Oh, hell to the no…she’d definitely pass on I-Might-Strangle-You-And-Dump-Your-Body-In-The-Desert-When-We’re-Done Guy.

How about that cute one with the Buddy Holly glasses?  No… some nerds are delightfully charming with their fumbling sweetness but she didn’t have the patience to teach tonight.  Bring on the full grown men…

That means definitely not that one, because while he was painfully beautiful, his knit cap, matching scarf and skinny jeans were a dead giveaway that he wasn’t exactly there for the girls.

Maybe the freakishly tall dude with the shaved head and excessive piercings…?  Nah…he was a little too dark even for her foul mood.

Savannah was feeling a tinge of desperation when she finally saw…Him.

He appeared to be around six feet tall, maybe an inch shorter, with a head full of brunette waves a la Jim Morrison.  From this distance she couldn’t tell the exact color of his eyes, but the shape of that jaw line made her immediately salivate in anticipation of running her tongue slowly along its edge and down his neck.  He wore a fitted, muted green v-neck tee shirt and soft black leather pants, both of which caressed his body just snuggly enough to tease her imagination as to what lay beneath.  His toned arms had a sparse collection of colorful tattoos — just enough to show he appreciated the artistry without feeling the need to make any controversial statements.  His hands were easily resting in his pockets and his eyes were entirely focused on the stage as he slightly nodded his head to the music.  He was the perfect combination of masculine and pretty to satisfy her personal carnal tastes.  Savannah licked her lips and felt a jarring flash of heat flood her core.  If she wasn’t wet before, she most certainly was now.

Yes.  You’re the one. Come to your diva.

At that moment her Chosen seemed to know he was being watched.  He started looking around, first to the opposite side of her, then toward the service door, where eventually his dark eyes locked with hers through the window.  She acknowledged him with a slight cock of her head to the side and the whisper of a smile.  In a split second his entire countenance changed.  His hands came out of his pockets to rest at his side as he almost imperceptibly squared his shoulders and straightened his knees.  His eyes never left hers as his right fist slowly closed and opened; once and then twice.  She wasn’t entirely sure, but it appeared he nodded to her ever so slightly.

He had accepted her mating call without a word.

Rembrandt had noticed Savannah narrow her eyes and lick her naturally plump, glossy lips.  He followed her gaze out through the window and inquired, “Miss?”

She tapped a lacquered nail the color of eggplant gently on the window.  “Him.  Green v-neck, black leather pants, dark hair. Bring him to me.”  With one last smoldering glance through the window, she turned away from the door and toward the stairs.  Rembrandt took note of the man she had pointed out then nodded to the other guard in an indication to escort Savannah back to her dressing room.  Saying nothing, the guard nodded and followed after her as Rembrandt disappeared through the service door into the club.