Victory run collected vi.., p.1

Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3, page 1


Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

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Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3


  Title Page 1-2-3

  Copyright kd


  The Rules of Rock & Roll

  Part I

  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

  Part II

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Part III

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Chapter 128

  Chapter 129

  Chapter 130

  Chapter 131

  Chapter 132

  Chapter 133


  Get Devon's next TOP SECRET book! Gen


  Victory :



  The Story of Victory Payne

  Devon Hartford


  Copyright ©2014 Devon Hartford

  All song lyrics ©2014 Devon Hartford

  Cover Design Copyright ©2014 Devon Hartford

  Cover Photo Copyright ©2014 Myles Leask

  All rights reserved, worldwide. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, copied, or transmitted in any medium, whether electronic, internet, or otherwise, without the expressed permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, locations, and names occurring in this book are a product of the author’s imagination, or are the property of their respective owners and are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, or persons (living or dead), is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. All trademarks and trade names are used in a fictitious manner and are in no way endorsed by or an endorsement of their respective owners.

  Please support the arts by purchasing a copy of this ebook from an authorized online reseller in your country. Devon Hartford thanks you for your willingness to support the arts worldwide.

  KD v1.0

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  This book is dedicated to the real Victory Payne.

  Wherever you are, girl, I miss you more than you will ever know.

  There’s only one rule in Rock & Roll:



  RUN 1

  Chapter 1


  The world famous rock club, The Cobra Lounge, is located at the heart of the Sunset Strip in Hollywood, California. It rumbles around me as the opening band quakes the building with their hard rock sonic assault.

  I put on the finishing touches of my makeup in the green room mirror backstage.

  The green room walls are dotted with photos of all the famous bands who have played here. My bandmates surround me in the small no-frills room, waiting impatiently to go on stage.

  The throb of booming bass guitar and kick drums pound the walls. The bass is so intense that my bottle of mascara does a buzzing dance across the makeup table in time with the beat.

  Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

  There’s a quick knock on the green room door before it swings open. The music from the stage is suddenly twice as loud.

  The club’s stage manager leans inside the room. He’s an older guy with longish hair and gold pirate earrings. Vintage rocker. He barks at us over the sonic storm, “YOU GUYS ARE ON IN FIFTEEN MINUTES! GET READY TO ROCK!”

  My bandmates and I nod at him. We’re all smiles. This is our first time playing at “The Cobra.” It’s a really big deal to be here. Over the last forty years, most of the biggest bands in rock have played here.

  Bobby, my drummer, hollers at the stage manager, “WE’RE GONNA KNOCK THE FUCKIN’ WALLS DOWN, MAN!”

  Rex, my bass player, shouts, “HELLS YEAH!”

  The stage manager puts his hand to the headset mic in his ear, listens intently to whoever’s on the other end, then chatters a reply, “Copy that.” He turns back to me and says, “THE HOUSE IS PACKED WITH PEOPLE HERE TO SEE YOU GUYS! GET READY TO BLOW THEIR MINDS!” He pulls the door closed, muting the sound of the band on stage, and he’s gone.

  My band, Skin Trade, has built up quite a fan base in the L.A. music scene over the last two years. We have a growing following on Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter. We’re positioned to break big. We have so much momentum, it’s gonna happen soon. I know it.

  Rumor has it that a bunch of record producers and mus
ic execs are in the audience tonight. This is our chance to show them we can bring the house down. We’ve worked so hard to get here, I’m not even nervous thinking about it.

  I’m so ready for this.

  I return my focus to the old school makeup mirror in front of me. Big globe lightbulbs surround the glass. I put the final artful touches on my smokey eyes and glimmering black lipstick.

  When I finish, I slide my chair back and spin in front of the mirror. A leather clad rock & roll assassin smiles back at me.

  Long hair: primped.

  Dangerous dark makeup: perfect.

  Killer leather outfit: sexy as hell.

  I wear a short midriff golden studded black leather biker jacket, skin tight low-ride lace-up and studded black leather pants, black stripper heels covered in golden spikes, and a gold studded black leather bra.

  I did my best to put together an outfit that looks like it came from that girl genius who runs Toxic Vision clothing and makes all her outfits by hand. She and I have the exact same sense of heavy metal style.

  Deadly sexy.

  Rex grins at me, “Your male groupies are gonna break their dicks off in their jeans when they see you walk on stage tonight.”

  The pouty curl of Rex’s lips and his fitness model body have gotten him laid more times than I can count. If he owns a shirt, I’ve never seen him wear one. His stage attire is shirtless with tight pants and motorcycle boots. With all his ink, the girls drool over Rex’s delicious bad boy bassist looks at every show.

  Bobby, our drummer, eyes me up and down and winks at me. He has the most gorgeous mane of long hair I’ve ever seen, male or female. With his stage makeup on, he’s the perfect blend of handsome and beautiful. He’s a total rock and roll lion. He blurts, “I’d fuck you.”

  My voice drips with sarcasm as I say, “Thanks, Bobby. But, do I have to take a number and wait for you to finish screwing your pride of four girlfriends first?”

  Bobby really does have four girlfriends. Amazingly, none of them know about each other. I don’t know how he does it. My guess would be his groupie girlfriends all suffer from starry eyed denial. The ladies always seem to have a thing for the wild drummer types.

  “For you,” Bobby grins, “I’ll make an exception. You can come to the front of the line.”

  I ignore his innuendo and chuckle, “Wow, that makes me feel special.”

  Rex snickers, “Want me to leave you guys alone for two minutes?”

  “Two minutes!” Bobby laughs. “I need two hours, bro. You know how horny I am before a show.”

  “I know, dude,” Rex frowns. “You’re always trying to fuck my leg like a dog,” he chuckles.

  Bobby makes a hound dog sound, “Aaah-ROOO!!!!”

  They bump fists and laugh.

  Men. I roll my eyes. I’d be surprised if Bobby could even get it up for me, considering how often he has sex.

  “Just give me a blowjob, Victory,” Bobby begs while drooling over my skin tight outfit.

  I smirk, “Ask Rex for one. I still need to warm up my hands.”

  Bobby grabs his crotch lustily, “You can warm your hands up on my shit.”

  I shake my head, “I need to play my scales on my guitar, dumbass.”

  “My shit’s as big as a guitar neck,” Bobby says confidently. “Got the big headstock and everything.”

  “You wish,” Rex chuckles.

  I pat Bobby on the shoulder affectionately, “I’m sure you’ll find yet another ignorant slut to hook up with tonight.”

  Bobby grins, “The ignorant ones are the best kind.”

  Boys will be boys.

  I’m used to the constant sexual tension of being the only girl in the band. And this is rock and roll, so it’s all about the sexual tension. It helps that Rex and Bobby are like my brothers. They would never cross that line. Besides, I already have a boyfriend, and I’m a one man kind of woman.

  From outside the green room, the opening band goes quiet and the crowd cheers. A minute later, the club P.A. starts playing canned music to keep the energy up. The tune is Back In Black by AC/DC. It’s mandatory tuneage at every hard rock show between bands, but the song still makes me smile. Angus Young makes his guitar growl like no one else.

  The energy and history of The Cobra buzzes around me. I can’t wait to become a part of it. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’ll only be a few minutes while the stage hands shift the band gear around.

  Then we take to the stage.

  I step past Bobby and grab my guitar case from where it leans against the wall. I unlatch it, pull out my white cream colored 1987 Fender Stratocaster, sling it over my shoulder, and plug into my Line 6 amp. My Strat is the same axe the late Jimi Hendrix played at Woodstock, and the same one played by the great Yngwie Malmsteen. Those guys are my top two guitar heroes.

  As my fingers fly up the strings, a spray of melodic notes flow out of my small Line 6 practice amp like rainbow raindrops. Not a light drizzle, but a downpour. I’ve been playing guitar for so long, I don’t really need to warm up anymore. But I do, because more than anything, I love playing electric guitar.

  It’s my addiction.

  My name is Victory Payne, and I’m 100% rocker chick.

  Rex watches me play and nods approvingly at my improvised soloing. His face eases into a hot sultry smile. “Shred that shit up, Victory.” He slings his bass over his muscled shoulder and lazily fingers the strings. He isn’t plugged into an amp, but I can hear the click and rattle of his bass strings join time with mine.

  I do a series of quick trills on my strings with my left hand, then start tapping the fretboard with my right, just like Eddie Van Halen, the godfather of two hand tapping.

  My high-pitched notes dribble out of the Line 6 speakers like liquid candy.

  “Play it!” Bobby grunts as he machine guns a staccato rhythm on the countertop in front of him with his drumsticks. He taps his boots on the green room floor like his feet are on the kick drums, keeping perfect time with my impromptu solo. A thick mane of hair swirls around him as he bangs his head energetically. Pantene totally needs to give him a contract. Even in the dim light of the green room, his hair shines like spun silk.

  The three of us continue improvising a series of rocking riffs in perfect time.

  A gleeful smile creeps onto my face as we play. I have the best bandmates in the world. We’ve played together on and off for the better part of five years. The last two, we’ve been dedicated 24/7 to our band, Skin Trade. Of all the musicians I’ve ever played with, the connection Rex and Bobby share with me is the closest thing I’ve ever found to a telepathic link. We anticipate each other’s every move. Countless fans have told us we’re the tightest live band they’ve ever heard.

  I don’t know what I’d do without them. I can’t imagine being in any other band.

  Our impromptu jam ends on a crescendo and we’re all smiling from ear to ear at our shared creation.

  “Did someone tape that shit?” Bobby asks.

  “I’ll remember it,” I say, meaning it.

  Rex glances around at the photos on the green room walls and marvels, “Can you believe The Doors played here?”

  “And Guns N Roses,” Bobby adds.

  “Don’t forget Led Zeppelin,” I say.

  “And Avenged Sevenfold,” Rex grins.

  “And Metallica and Wild Child,” Bobby says.

  “I think King Diamond even played here,” Rex says. “Now we’re playing here. A year from now we’re gonna be headlining arenas across the country.”

  “You know it,” I smile proudly at both of them.

  We’ve worked our asses off getting this far. This is our night to shine in the spotlight. I can only imagine what’s going to happen when we hit the stage. It’s gonna be insane.

  The door to the green room opens and Scott Walker struts in. He is the lead singer and leader of our band.

  He’s also my boyfriend.

  Scott is the walking incarnation of rock & rol
l. Tall, lean, angelically handsome yet devilish and dangerous. Silver pants hug his slender legs and hang low on his hips, revealing the V of his flat stomach beneath the hem of his tight black T-shirt, which is emblazoned with bold white letters that say “FUCK.”. Tattered black combat boots complete the outfit. His short blond hair is spiked, and mirrored sunglasses cover his eyes.

  Scott is everything all fathers with daughters worry about. Scott was born with the natural ability to seduce all females. I know from experience. He doesn’t even try, and women gravitate to him. When he opens his mouth and sings, all female legs within earshot part willingly.

  On most nights, mine still do.

  But, after being Scott’s girlfriend for two years, I know there’s more to him than first impressions. With all that beauty and talent comes a mountain of heartbreaking work. Scott can be higher maintenance than a walking toddler with sticky fingers. But he’s worth it. At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.

  “Damn, Vic,” Scott says, “you look fine as hell tonight, babe.”

  I hate it when he calls me Vic. It sounds like a guy’s name. Telling him it bothers me never works. Scott does what Scott wants. I’ve learned to pick my battles with him.

  Scott squeezes my ass possessively, staking his territory. I’m nobody’s property, but I can pretend to be if it keeps the peace this close to show time. Yet another battle I’ve let Scott win. He can be very insecure.

  Scott turns to Rex and Bobby and says, “I bet you guys want a piece of this, don’t you?”

  He’s referring to me like I’m a half pound of ground beef. He’s not always like this. I swear.

  “She looks great,” Bobby says politely, staring at the floor.

  “Totally,” Rex says blandly, pretending to tune his bass.

  Scott has a temper and he likes to bait people to see if they’ll challenge him. Rex and Bobby know not to ruffle Scott’s feathers. When he’s around, they never say anything about my looks, good or bad.

  We’ve all learned to handle Scott. Considering Scott writes all the music and lyrics, and sings our songs, we don’t have much choice.

  Scott does what Scott wants.

  Scott slaps my ass and digs his fingers in hard. “You putting on weight, Vic?” He arches an eyebrow at me.

  That eyebrow makes other women melt.

  At the moment, I’m over it.

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