I Was a Famous Rock Star (Men of Midnight Dreams #1) by Alexandra Ainsworth

When Caleb wakes up in a glamorous LA clinic, he is a changed man. His once-scrawny body is toned, his now-white teeth gleam, and everyone looks at him in adoration. Caleb shouldn’t even be in the US–he’s English, and has never traveled farther than London.

Description:

Published: May 4th, 2015

What if the whole world knows who you are, but you wake up to find you have forgotten everything since high school?

When Caleb wakes up in a glamorous LA clinic, he is a changed man. His once-scrawny body is toned, his now-white teeth gleam, and everyone looks at him in adoration. Caleb shouldn’t even be in the US–he’s English, and has never traveled farther than London.

Somehow Caleb transformed from an eighteen-year old, sexually questioning, reclusive high school student who spent his free time composing and practicing music in his parents’ shabby council flat to become a world famous rock star with adoring fans and his own mansion overlooking the Pacific.

Caleb bravely tries to fit into his new life as he recovers from his amnesia. But who is the handsome assistant publicity manager who visits him in the hospital? Why does everyone think Caleb is straight? What has Caleb forgotten? And will he ever remember?

EXCERPT

Pop music fills the room. I wouldn't have expected the doctor to like this sort of music, certainly not enough to play it to a patient. The sound is typical boy band: harmonious, uplifting, contemporary—and completely distant from my tastes.

The band starts to dance. They swing their hips, and their legs move in perfect rhythm. The men have tousled hair and wear black jeans and casual t-shirts, as if to emphasize their masculinity despite the fact they are dancing.

The camera pans to a filled stadium, zooming in on pre-teen girls, university-aged women, and their mothers. The faces in the audience are expressive, passionate; whatever my opinion on the music is, this band is adored.

"Recognize anything?" The doctor's eyes gleam, and his fingers tap against the expansive desk in rhythm to the music. For the first time, he seems animated and content.

I scrunch my fists, tired of questions. Perhaps this band is famous, perhaps their music is played in every mall, but that doesn't mean I know who they are.

And I don't care.

"You think some mediocre music will trigger my memory of the last five years?" I bite my lip, and heat flames over my cheeks. I know better than to criticize someone's taste in music. "I'm sorry—I'm tired."

The doctor’s voice is serious. "This is your band, Caleb."

"Nonsense." I fold my arms against my chest. This music is nothing like the music I used to write and practice.

"You're famous. A household name." He grins. "You're the thoughtful, British one. Ezra Williams is the primary songwriter and vocalist, but you write some songs too. Maybe I should have put on one of your songs.

"I . . . But how?" I sputter and turn my head away.

I'm just from the Midlands. I've never been farther away than London, and that was only once. I've never even been to Wales, and regular trains go there. And now I'm living in California? Among Hollywood royalty?

I've never even performed in front of my school. How am I supposed to believe I'm performing in front of a whole stadium? That I do this regularly? To music I don't even like? And people don't mind? Pay to see it? Even—enjoy it?

"I don't dance." I've never danced. This can't be me.

"Look, here you are." The doctor points at one of the figures.

His skin is tanned, his body muscular, and his hair artfully tousled in a way I've never attempted. He's in the back, but yes, he’s definitely dancing.

It can’t be me.

Yet it's my voice. It certainly sounds like my voice, but that can't be me, sashaying up there with four other guys.

I can't be in a boy band.

I open my mouth to protest, but I've protested all day. The doctor freezes the frame, and I peer at the computer, leaning over the desk. The person looks somewhat like me. If I had blond highlights and was more handsome. Much more handsome. This man is well-groomed and doesn't need glasses. Though for that matter, no glasses are on my nose now. I lift my hand to where they should be.

"Laser surgery," Dr. Selatcher says as my hand brushes against the bridge of my nose.

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About the author:

Alexandra Ainsworth loves cloche hats, Earl Grey tea, and romance books. 

She wrote her first historical romance at age eight and gave it to her grandmother for her birthday. It had illustrations and involved a lot of fainting and a main character named Loretta. She's glad that her readers now are not subjected to her artwork. 

She sometimes wonders if the naked men in her books might be an inadvertent consequence of attending a women's college for four years.

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