Voice to raise road to r.., p.1
Voice to Raise: Road to Rocktoberfest 2025, page 1
Voice to Raise
Road to Rocktoberfest 2025
Gabbi Grey
Malik
Until I turned twenty-five, I took the safe route, the good boy route. Played with the orchestra, kept my head down, didn't make waves. Now I can't stay silent any longer. I walked away from my violin, relearned the guitar, and started a rock band. With Razor Made, I can create the music I've always dreamed of, and we're good enough to win an invite to Rocktoberfest. But I also love my band for helping me raise my voice to support social justice. Now I just need to convince Spencer I can chase musical success and still be deeply committed to making a difference.
Spencer
I’ve been fighting for justice practically from the cradle, and I believe organizers should welcome everyone who wants to be involved. That said, when an upstart rock star looking for the limelight comes to join our fight, I’m skeptical. I want true believers, not people who are looking to leverage our cause into a viral hit. Malik might be gorgeous, and even a sweet guy under the tattoos and bad boy persona, but he’s chasing his dream of fame in Black Rock while I’m on the ground in Vancouver trying to make meaningful change. He doesn't have room in his life to be serious about music, serious about justice, and serious about me.
Voice to Raise: Rocktoberfest 2025 is an opposites-attract, age-gap, interracial, hurt/comfort gay romance novel about the power of activism, making a commitment, and how chasing one dream can open your heart to another
The boys are back in the multi-author Road to Rocktoberfest 2025 series. Each book can be read as a standalone, but why not read them all and see if some of your past favorites poke their heads in. Err…voices. Hot rock stars, stolen kisses, drywall repairs and the men who drive them over the edge. What more could you ask for? Kick back, load up your e-readers and enjoy the men of Rocktoberfest!
Copyright © 2025 Gabbi Grey
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
References to real people, events, organizations, establishments or locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
NO AI/NO BOT. We do not consent to any Artificial Intelligence (AI), generative AI, large language model, machine learning, chatbot, or other automated analysis, generative process, or replication program to reproduce, mimic, remix, summarize, or otherwise replicate any part of this creative work, via any means: print, graphic, sculpture, multimedia, audio, or other medium. We support the right of humans to control their artistic works.
No generative AI was used in the creation of this book.
Edits by ELF
Cover by Jo Clement
Dedication
Dave
Renae
Kaje
Wendy
ELF
Contents
1. Prologue
2. Chapter One
3. Chapter Two
4. Chapter Three
5. Chapter Four
6. Chapter Five
7. Chapter Six
8. Chapter Seven
9. Chapter Eight
10. Chapter Nine
11. Chapter Ten
12. Chapter Eleven
13. Chapter Twelve
14. Chapter Thirteen
15. Chapter Fourteen
16. Chapter Fifteen
17. Chapter Sixteen
18. Chapter Seventeen
19. Chapter Eighteen
20. Chapter Nineteen
21. Chapter Twenty
22. Chapter Twenty-One
23. Chapter Twenty-Two
24. Chapter Twenty-Three
25. Chapter Twenty-Four
26. Chapter Twenty-Five
27. Chapter Twenty-Six
28. Chapter Twenty-Seven
29. Chapter Twenty-Eight
30. Epilogue
31. Interested in knowing more about Gabbi?
Prologue
Malik
I’m finished.
I eased my violin into its case for what I was completely convinced was the last time.
Everyone in the orchestra was packing up, and a lump formed in my throat. I’d been one of the youngest violin players ever—and I was still young. According to Lionel, our conductor, I hadn’t even hit my stride. I wasn’t yet in my prime. He predicted great things for me.
I saw only drudgery. Doing the same thing over and over again. Certainly, the music would change. We even did some more-progressive pieces. But rarely experimental. Certainly not anything that truly challenged me. I’d been a prodigy and had learned the basics by the age of five. Done my first solo concert at ten. Joined the junior orchestra at twelve.
Now, at twenty-five, I felt all washed up. Disillusioned. Ready for something new.
Charles the cellist approached. “I’m looking forward to next season.”
I smiled, even as my chest squeezed. He’d always been so kind to me. “I, uh, won’t be here.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ve tendered my resignation. Tonight was my final concert.”
“Are you going elsewhere? I considered Stockholm once—all those blond men.” He sighed. “Alas, I’m a Canadian at heart. I was glad to leave Alberta, though. Vancouver is more my speed.”
His words resonated. Parts of Alberta—including where he’d come from—weren’t gay friendly. Vancouver, on the other hand, had a thriving gay community. When I’d turned nineteen, I’d started exploring the clubs. Had enjoyed a few hookups along the way.
Was still looking for the one.
“Vancouver is great.” My hometown. “But I’m not leaving for another position. I have to—” I swallowed. “I need more. This isn’t enough for me.”
“You need to fly.”
I cocked my head.
He shrugged. “I get it. I really do. For me, that was leaving my small town. Perhaps for you, it’s something different.”
“Yeah. I’ve, uh, been playing around with my old guitar. It’s acoustic, and that’s not really my jam anymore either. I’m thinking about an electric guitar. Maybe…I don’t know…rock’n’roll…?”
“Well, that’s definitely something completely different. I applaud your bravery. Will you—” He rubbed his forehead. “Will you have enough money?”
As he was well-aware, my parents weren’t around anymore. They died four years ago in an automobile crash. At least they’d lived long enough to see my success. In truth, they probably wouldn’t have supported my leaving a great job for something as insane as starting a rock band.
“I’ve landed a job as an assistant at the studio over in East Van. They’re big. Some of the biggest names in town record all their albums and rehearse there. The pay’s not great, but I own my house.” The thing had been paid off when my parents died. “I’m considering renting out the lane house, and I might get a tenant or two to share my place. I’ve got spare bedrooms. I’m thinking students.”
“Ensure you vet them carefully.” Charles frowned.
I smiled. “I will. I promise.”
His frown didn’t lessen. “I’m not going anywhere. I expect regular updates.”
“I promise that as well.” Charles had been like a second father to me—perhaps even more than my own.
My parents had been older when they had me, and I was an only child. Charles, booted by his biological parents when he was fourteen after having been caught with another boy and refusing to renounce being gay, had made his way to Vancouver. Since he was homeless and alone, social services had put him into foster care with the Wonnocks. They were a boisterous family with many siblings—some of blood and some of love—like Charles. Foster children who’d wound up being adopted as he had. Siblings of those kids. Just a riot of people. Many of those kids were now married, so there were almost as many grandchildren as there were children.
I was often invited to their gatherings. I thought I’d be able to disappear, but I could always count on someone speaking to me. The younger kids loved looking at my tattoos, so I always wore shirts without sleeves to show them off.
All the ink was acquired after my parents passed. They wouldn’t have approved.
Charles held his arms open.
I stepped into the embrace. I had about six inches on him—what with me being five-nine. He never complained about how short he was. In fact, he never complained about anything. He was just one of those people who smiled all the time. Truthfully, I wanted to be more like him.
He released me and whistled.
Everyone turned to him.
“You may not have heard that Malik is leaving the orchestra. We all wish him well in his future endeavors, right?”
Another thirty minutes passed before I was able to make my escape—everyone wanted to tell me how much they’d miss me.
I wavered on whether or not doing this was the right thing or not. Giving up stability—and the people who’d cared for me after I lost my parents—felt monumental.
And yet, the time had come.
“Any plans for Canada Day?” He glanced my way.
I shook my head. “I think I’ll still be coming to terms with my decision. But I’m working in the studio starting on July third. That’ll keep me busy.”
“Ah, yes.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Be good. Call and write often. We do drinks once a month.”
Neither of us were big drinkers, but I understood the sentiment.
Something shifted within me.
This was big.
Huge.
Life-changing.
I just didn’t know how things were going to play out. But damn it, I was going to become a rock star.
Chapter One
Spencer
“What do you mean, Malik Forestal chained himself to the Lion’s Gate Bridge?” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “Who the hell is Malik Forestal?”
Bonnie stared at me. “You’ve never heard of Malik Forestal? Razor Made?”
I stared right back. “Nope. But you had better enlighten me. We blocked the bridge for twenty minutes. We inconvenienced commuters.”
“Annoyed the shit out of them.”
“Well, that’s the point. If they want to drive gas-guzzling vehicles, they can be inconvenienced.”
My assistant shook her head. “Right, like them all idling while we held them up didn’t contribute to greenhouse gas emissions.”
I wrinkled my nose. “We got our point across—we don’t need another pipeline.”
“You realized Vancouver has a high percentage of drivers who, you know, drive electric vehicles? And our electricity is clean. We want to encourage this. Not make them sit in traffic as well.”
“We didn’t have a way to separate them.” At this hour of the morning, we had two lanes coming from the North Shore into Vancouver and one lane heading the other way. Heavy traffic that wasn’t moving fast—hence our ability to step before them and block the road.
To say we weren’t popular was an understatement—but we’d effectively made our point. “I know you weren’t in favor—”
She cleared her throat.
“Okay, at all supportive—”
She tipped her chin up.
“But we needed to do something. Did you see the press who swarmed?”
“I haven’t watched the footage yet. I only just found out about Malik.”
“What happened?”
“Blossom said the cops broke the chains and hauled him off to jail.”
Again, I pressed my hand to my forehead. I’d been busy dispersing the volunteers who’d helped with the blockade, then making my way back to the office on my bicycle. I’d ignored my phone chirping at me continuously.
Obviously, that’d been a mistake. Perhaps if I’d still been on the bridge, I might’ve resolved the situation without having to involve the police.
“Was this guy on our list?”
Bonnie shook her head. “Nope. Blossom says she invited him this morning, and he leapt at the chance. I just know about the album he released in the spring.”
I blinked. “Album?”
“Yeah, Razor Made’s first mainstream release. They’ve got a few videos up on YouTube. Millions of hits. They parlayed that into a studio album.”
“And how do you know all this?”
“Blossom.”
“Of course.” The woman was our social media guru. Very talented with all things internet. Sometimes, though, she needed to be reined in. I sighed. “Where is Malik now?”
“He’s at the cop shop. Blossom’s certain he’s going to be released without charges.”
I wanted to scoff at that, but a few of our other protests had gotten…a little out of hand. Which had resulted in a handful of arrests. A few stern warnings. But as of yet, no actual charges. Not that some of the members of This Land is Ours weren’t willing. I did my best to explain repeatedly that running afoul of the law was not the best way to get our message across. Sure, those arrests might get press coverage. Sometimes, though, bad news was just that—bad.
“Is there someone we should be calling?”
Bonnie squinted. “His parents died tragically about five years ago. I suppose I could try one of his bandmates. Like…” She rolled her eyes upward to stare at the popcorn ceiling of the room.
We were headquartered in an old house from the 1920s—a donation to our organization from a fervent environmentalist who never had kids but wanted to leave a legacy.
We hung a photo of Maude Ransom in the front foyer. Of her up an old-growth tree in 1999. When she was 71 years old. She’d lived another twenty-three years, only giving up the ghost in 2022. Chastity had been running This Land Is Ours back then and had gladly taken the house. Lovely woman, clearly over her head. She hadn’t understood the ramifications of that decision or what would be involved in keeping a house like this on the organization’s books. So when I arrived the next year, the timing was perfect. My legal background fit.
Chastity took off for the Amazon rainforests as soon as she dropped this hot potato into my lap—never to be heard from again.
I wished the authorities in Brazil well—grateful she was someone else’s problem. As I’d dug through the org’s books for the three years she’d been in charge, I’d found hundreds of errors in our accounting entries and with our tax filings. How we hadn’t triggered an audit by the Canada Revenue Agency was beyond me—but we hadn’t. It had taken me six solid months of working with an accountant to get everything resolved. During that time, much of our fundraising had been put on hold, and we hadn’t done many activities.
In an effort to regain momentum, I hired Bonnie, who recruited Blossom, and now we had a guy in jail.
My headache grew in intensity. “You think you can track down someone?”
Bonnie met my gaze. “Well, they’re all on the socials. I can get Blossom—”
“I’d really prefer you do it yourself. You’re here, after all. Blossom’s not.” Whether she would appear was a crapshoot. We weren’t paying her, so she kept her own hours. I was grateful that she mostly—mostly—took the direction I gave her.
“Well, Creed’s got a ton of followers—”
“Creed?”
She glanced up from her screen, her blue eyes wary at my tone. “I don’t think that’s his actual name. He doesn’t have a last name or anything.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” I waited impatiently as she typed out a message with her thumbs flying across her screen. I, on the other hand, pecked out messages with my right index finger. Predictive text was my best friend. Autocorrect was my archenemy.
“Okay, sent. We’ll just—”
Her phone buzzed.
“He’s responded. He wants to call.”
“Give him my number.”
“Okay, but he’s going to expect me.” Even as she said the words, she typed.
About twelve seconds later, my phone rang. “Spencer Wainright.”
“Uh, I thought I was gonna talk to Bonnie. My name’s Creed.”
“I’m Bonnie’s—”
She arched her eyebrow—daring me to announce myself as her boss.
I cleared my throat. “I’m a friend of Bonnie’s. We work at This Land Is Ours. Have you heard of us?”
“Sure. Malik talks about you guys all the time. TLIO this and TLIO that. I thought maybe he met a guy who hooked up with him and dragged him, but he said he just felt compelled to get involved.”
Met a guy who hooked up with him… Did that mean Malik was gay? Now was precisely not the time to think about that, but I tucked that nugget into the back of my mind. “Uh, we understand he was arrested after the, uh, incident on the Lion’s Gate Bridge.”
“No shit. He was filming himself when he chained himself. I hadn’t heard anything about being arrested.”
“Well, I believed it was prudent to inform someone. Apparently, he was the only person taken into custody.”
Bonnie nodded vigorously.
“Yeah, that’s Malik. Kind of amazing it hasn’t happened before now. I suppose I should go down and see if I can bail him out.”
“If he’s charged, he’ll have to go to court first. If he’s charged, you might need to secure a lawyer for him.”
He chuckled. “No worries—my mother will take care of all of that.”
