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One More Night (The Night Is Young #1)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ali Parker

Book Information:

My life is my job. It’s all I need.

Or so I thought.

Everyone around me assumes I’m arrogant and cold-hearted, but it’s a persona.

One that keeps me safe in LA.

I might be at the top, but looking around, it’s lonely as hell.

Not that I’d ever utter those words out loud. Not a chance.

And women come and go like the wind.

None of them are looking for real love.

Until her. A new PR agent that I wasn’t expecting to like at all.

But she shakes me to the core of my being, wakes me up, and forces me to feel things I thought were long gone.

I only have one rule–never get involved with anyone in the business.

Now I just need to convince her of that.

Books in Series:

The Night Is Young Series by Ali Parker

Books by Author:

Ali Parker Books

Chapter 1


The Pacific Ocean winked at me in the distance, its deep blue waters calm under the orange glow of sunset. The view from up here was one I never thought I’d ever get to see. Now, I owned it. Free and clear.

Fuck yeah.

“Here’s to living the dream, babe.” I toasted whatsername. It might be Marilyn. Or Madison. Possibly Madeline? It was something with an “M,” definitely.

She raised her flute, filled with champagne that cost over a thousand bucks a bottle, to my tumbler of scotch, giggling as the crystal clinked.

“You sure are,” she said, casting her light blue eyes across my bar and entertainment area. Both were huge. Modern and open, white, sharp-angled, and built for debauchery with bottles lining every shelf behind the bar. Complete with couches, loungers, and a fire pit. And that view.

Unlike so many of my peers, I hadn’t opted for a house with sky-high walls and impenetrable boundaries. I had enough to keep me safe, and that was it.


I didn’t care about candid shots of naked chicks in my infinity pool, or paparazzi outside when I headed to the studio in the mornings.

I’d busted my ass to get recognized. Why try to hide now?

I wasn’t stupid. I knew the day would come when I got the fuck over seeing my picture online, or some headline or other screaming about my antics the night before.

But that day wasn’t today. I was living the high life, and I intended on enjoying every fucking minute of it.

“What is it you do?” I asked, feigning interest in the professional groupie sitting at the other end of my built-in, imported-marble bar.

“This and that,” she answered, sipping on her champagne as she fixed me with a flirtatious smile. “I’d love to be a singer, just like you.”

“Yeah?” I flashed her my trademark smirk, the one that had been labeled by magazines and blogs alike as having the power to make your panties walk away by themselves. I couldn’t even make that shit up.

“Yes, I’m putting money away to fund some studio time soon,” she crooned.

Oh, honey. That wasn’t going to work. Not if she wasn’t getting out there at the same time. No one was going to buy a single dropped by a self-funded nobody, and while she could send it out, if there was nowhere to hear her live, they weren’t going to bite on a record deal.

“That’s great.” I told her, because I wasn’t an agent, manager, or PR person. “We’re actually in the studio right now.”

“I heard,” she said, sweeping her dark hair over her shoulder. “Third album in two years.”

Officially, yes. The third since Destitute had finally broken out of the local Los Angeles scene to global stardom two years ago. But those years before, the ones we’d spent on couches and carpets before that happened, nobody seemed to remember those.

Instead of saying all that shit, though, I smiled and refilled her champagne flute and my scotch. “It’s been a busy couple of years.”

That wasn’t a lie. What nobody told me about finally taking off was that I’d better be fucking ready for a crazy ass schedule and learn to love packing, flying, and hotel beds.

“I can imagine,” she said.

No, she really couldn’t.

Between the press junkets, shows, parties, rehearsals, sound checks, recording, writing, and juggling all of the above and so much fucking more, our schedules were insane.

And none of us would have it any other way. I knew that I wouldn’t, anyway. Too many years of missing the bus by just one song, one take, had prepared me as much as humanly possible. I was the lead singer of Destitute, and a lot of people assumed that meant nothing more than learning lyrics and moaning them out loud, but I lived, breathed, and slept music.

“How’s the album going?” she asked, twirling a strand of long, dark hair, that would soon be wrapped around my fist as I gave it to her from behind, between her fingers.

Her blue eyes were fixed on mine, but they weren’t innocent or lively. If anything, they were the exact opposite. I knew that look, but I wasn’t succumbing to it. She wanted more than my cock. She wanted my life, my mic, my connections. My help.

“It’s great, actually,” I told her. I knew that I was bragging, but I didn’t give two shits. “We’re laying down new tracks almost every day.”

“I heard you had a tour coming up?” Those eyes didn’t release mine, but I was up for the challenge. Always.

“We do. Worldwide this time.” So far, our tours had been to mainly in North and South America and Europe. We’d played isolated shows in Asia, Africa, and Australia, but our upcoming tour was going to be a beast.

“Wow,” she purred. “I admire that.”

“It’s hard work, but it pays off big time.” This talking thing was getting old real fast. Madison was what I liked to call a “sure thing.” An arrogant and perhaps chauvinistic term, yes. But it didn’t make it any less true.