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To Hell and Back
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble -- EXCERPT: They didn’t drive far, parking on a cobblestone street next to the café, sitting on a street corner. The entire front wall of the café was made up of tall doors that were all turned open to take advantage of the pleasant spring weather. Ty sucked down his coffee. It tasted stronger than what he preferred, but as tired as he was, he considered that a good thing. “I imagine you have a lot of questions.” Maria sat at one of the tables closest to the sidewalk with people dressed in business suits and hospital scrubs walking by. She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, draping her arm over the back of it. “I’m told you work for the church?” He decided against gambling on whether it was the Catholic or Episcopal Church. “Heard that, did you?” She cracked an amused grin, as if she’d been privy to his conversation with Barry. “That’s only partially true. We’re funded by the Church of England, but we don’t answer to them.” Taking a chug of his coffee, Ty then asked, “And who is we?” “A fair question, and I’ll get to that soon enough.” She paused for her own sip of coffee. When she continued, she stared out at the street as cars rumbled across the cobblestones. “I’d like to talk about you a bit first. I notice you’ve started the transition.” “The what?” “Oh, you’re trying to find a way to make a living off that sword arm of yours that doesn’t require a nine-to-five job typing on a keyboard or some other nonsense. You’re going the usual route: giving lessons to wannabes drunk on fantasies of medieval knights or Star Wars. You know. The usual stuff.” She looked at him with a smirk that assured him she already knew the answer to her next question. “You enjoying all that?” He cleared his throat and sniffed. His sinuses were still killing him. “I’m paying my bills.” He shrugged, trying to mimic her nonchalance by turning his focus out onto the street and the passersby. Didn’t keep him from seeing her amused reaction to his answer, that she knew he was full of shit. Yeah, he’d taken to giving part-time lessons at a local fencing club that included saber fighting. Most of the job seemed more about punishing clients into the realization that they weren’t going to turn into Inigo Montoya overnight and that fighting with a sword required both finesse and brutality. Being good with a sword required a killer instinct. Forcing others with limited skills to realize they didn’t have that certain something was taking a toll on him. “Look, Mr. Faison.” She leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table. “For some people that’s enough, and that’s fine.” The way she said “fine” left little doubt it was anything but that. “But someone like you…” She shook her head. He tried to bluff, acting amused and disinterested, but his acting skills failed him again. “You think so?” The way her expression hardened, that single eye narrowing on him, forced his full focus on her. “I think you’re the kind of person who’s only ever whole when he’s got a sword in his hand and a real fight in front of him.” She leaned back in her chair again, with all the satisfaction of a wildcat dining on a fresh kill. The silence offered him a chance to respond, but she’d left him speechless. No one had ever peeled him down to his bones like this—not even his parents—not this fast or with such ease. After giving him his chance to answer and seeing he wasn’t able to, Maria sipped her coffee and then continued. “You’re twenty-six. You used to finish in the top three at most competitions you entered but you haven’t in more than a year. It’s not that your skills or body are fading, and it’s not because you’re distracted by the side work that pays the bills. No, it’s because even the competitions are starting to bore you. Those fights aren’t real anymore, because all that’s at stake there is pride.” “And what? You’re offering me a ‘real fight’? What is this? Some kind of underground sword fight club, where the loser dies, and the first rule is to not talk about it?” She shook her head, grinning at his attempt at wit. “This is no game or club. Underground? Somewhat. But what you’ll be doing will make a real difference in people’s lives. I’m offering you a chance to reclaim that fire that ignited the moment you first touched a sword. “I’m giving you a chance to find your heart.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Forrest House
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Cai cleared his throat. “You said I’m in America?” “Yeah.” “And if I was sent by a bloodspell, does that mean Remy and Raven are here?” “Well, of course.” Ander blinked as Cai closed his eyes and sighed. He wasn’t sure if it was relief or defeat. “You didn’t know,” he said. “No. Edwyn kept it a secret, even from me.” His fingers touched the blood-matted knot at the back of his head in tentative exploration. “I must have been out. I would never have let him send me otherwise. He was bleeding badly.” His hand tapped an area high and to the outside on his left leg. “Shot in the thigh.” Ander thought of all the major blood vessels there and breathed a plea to the Goddess that none were severed. “I didn’t think the Fellowship used bullets.” “We don’t. We were on a joint mission with intelligence agents. Someone started lobbing spells at us and our allies turned and shot each other. He was hit in the crossfire.” “A Judas spell?” Ander frowned. “I think so.” “Were you working with British intelligence?” Cai opened his mouth to answer, then flinched and rubbed both sides of his head. “Some of my memories are missing. It’s painful to think about.” “I think you might have a concussion.” “Maybe. But this feels more like it was blocked by a spell.” “By Edwyn?” “I don’t think he would have had time. Not surrounded by guns and magic.” His breath became uneven again, and he sat unsteadily on the bed. “The harder I try to think about it, the more it hurts.” “Don’t try right now.” Ander came closer and put his fingers under Cai’s jaw, forcing him to look up so he could peer into his eyes. Still no signs of a more serious head injury, but he wasn’t satisfied until he ran his fingers under Cai’s clotted hair to cradle the bruised lump beneath his palm, his senses open for new bleeding. He didn’t discover any. Cai stared at him as he pulled away, his face inches from Ander’s. They both became aware at the same time of how close he was standing, his hands gentle on the back of Cai’s head as if he were going to draw him into a kiss. Ander slowly stepped back. “I have to find a way to get back to…” Cai frowned. “To…damn it! They took that, too. I don’t know where we were.” He looked to Ander with a desolate gaze. “I don’t even know if Edwyn’s alive.” “You can’t ask the Fellowship?” He stiffened. “No, I can’t.” “I’d feel better if I could get you to a hospital.” “I’ll be fine. I think it’s clear I’m meant to protect you and the twins.” “Protect us from what?” He sat on the bed next to him. “What’s going on, Cai? Why wouldn’t Ed tell you where the kids were?” He didn’t answer, his gaze slipping sideways. Ander had not missed this infuriating silence. Kate had pushed Ander away with it, Edwyn maintained it, and Cai had used it to shut down questions when they were together. He’d left Wales and come home because the people he loved most in the world could barely talk to him unless he was inducted into the Fellowship. Fury rose in scarlet floods with Cai’s refusal to speak. Ander let it crest. “That’s fantastic. Of course you can’t say anything. Then tell me how to protect them and get the fuck out.” “You don’t—” “They’re all I have left of Kate! I need to know how to protect them!” “If you’re going to shout at me, then I will take that paracetamol now.” His voice was soft, defeated. A crease furrowed the skin between his brows, and the tight lines of his body spoke of more pain than a headache. Ander didn’t have to imagine the grief of not knowing if his brother was dead or alive. He knew only too well. “I’m sorry.” Ander exhaled, forcing himself to calm. “We aren’t done,” he said in a less strident tone. “You will tell me what’s going on. Fuck the Fellowship and your code of secrecy! Those kids are my priority now. They’ve already lost their mother, and now maybe their father. No more.” To his surprise, Cai nodded. “I promise I will tell you what I know.” Disconcerted by his unexpected victory, Ander reluctantly let his anger drain away. “Are you hungry? I’m making dinner.” “Starving. I can’t recall when I last ate anything.” “It’ll be ready in half an hour. Make sure you drink the rest of that water.” He turned to go. “Ander.” Cai’s expression was gentle as Ander looked back over his shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Find Me At The Disco
-- EXCERPT: Jennifer grabbed Liza’s arm. “Let’s go boogie!” “I don’t know. It’s kind of crowded.” Liza stood awkwardly, watching people bump into each other. “That’s the best though, people moving their bodies against you. No one cares if you can’t dance, you just move to the beat and have fun.” Before Liza could respond, a different song came on, Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love,” making people cheer and dance faster than before. “Oh my God! I love this song, come on!” Jennifer squealed. Liza let Jennifer pull her onto the dance floor. At first, she wasn’t really dancing. She kept getting shoved and pushed as she stood in front of Jennifer, who automatically moved to the beat. She tried to mimic her friend’s movements, but she felt unsure of herself as she struggled to get the right rhythm. Jennifer must have noticed Liza’s efforts, as she turned Liza around and placed her hands on her hips to help guide her. The song’s beat got easier for Liza to follow as she heard Donna Summer’s voice hum from the speakers. Liza relaxed as the alcohol coursed through her veins. She let her body move under Jennifer’s direction and stopped overthinking. Jennifer turned Liza back around to face her, moving their bodies closer. Jennifer reached into her pocket to show Liza a few pills in a small plastic bag. She still moved to the beat when she popped one in her mouth and then promptly kissed Liza, transfer-ring a piece of the pill from her tongue to Liza’s. When Jennifer pulled away, she smirked. After a few moments, Liza threw her head back as she felt the drug take hold. She saw the disco ball spinning above her, and the multicolored lights flashing around the club. Her vision blurred, coming in and out of focus like a kaleidoscope. Jennifer was behind her again bumping and grinding, leaving no room between them. Liza’s heart rate sped up, and she felt sweat drip down her neck. It was hot on the dance floor. Although she was breathing heavily, she continued to dance, letting the beat take over her movements. They danced for several more songs, each one faster than the last. Liza’s skin was slick from sweat. 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Improbable Road of Return
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo 
GIVEAWAY! -- #Book Blitz #The Skeleton Faerie by A.P.Mobley #Dark Fantasy #Mythology @Xpresso Book Tours18/12/2025
The Skeleton Faerie
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: When Gus and his teammates were a mere mile from the compound, the sun had almost finished setting, and the temperature had dropped significantly. A breeze grazed the back of his bare neck and arms, sending chills through his body. In every direction, all that was visible were trees, the only noises those of his and his companions’ boots and their animals’ hooves crunching against shriveled grass and fallen leaves. Occasionally, crows—some of them genetically altered, their feathers stained a pinkish color—flapped from branch to branch, their harsh caws piercing the quiet. Maybe it was because of the extensive amount of folklore he’d been reading, but these days, the dark played tricks on Gus’s eyes, making him see monsters when nothing was there. Nothing could be there, after all, as the stories he so loved weren’t real. And even if there was a chance that they were real (and he knew there wasn’t), his compound was on the western side of a mountain range called the Black Hills, located within the fallen United States of America—far, far away from the places those magical tales took place. Yet he still found himself imagining all manner of malevolent faeries prowling the woods at night. He saw them skulking in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. In masses of collapsed cottonwoods, he imagined there were redcaps hiding, plotting to slaughter any stray travelers passing by. In murders of crows, he imagined there were sluagh flying, scouring the forest floor for the next unlucky fellow whose soul they might devour. In fast-moving streams, he imagined there were kelpies biding their time, anticipating the moment a person came close enough to drown and eat. Thankfully, the logical side of his brain knew he had nothing to worry about—even as far as nonfictional threats went. The worst anyone on scavenge-duty had encountered in the last year was a couple of mountain lions and some rattlesnakes, and although he and his teammates had never run into anything like that, they knew how to take care of it as easily as the other people of the compound had: with bullets. No one left the compound without a loaded gun and extra ammo. Gus and his team were safe. The sun dipped below the horizon, and if it weren’t for the smog blanketing the sky (a lingering effect of the Nuclear War, which the elders said should clear up any decade now), the moon and stars might have lit up the night. The temperature fell even further, clouds of breath filling the air in front of Gus’s face and fogging up his glasses. “Guess we should have packed our coats,” Nancy remarked as she walked in front of Gus, guiding her pig along. She began to shiver. “I hate when the weather gets like this. Hot during the day, cold at night.” Twigs cracked to the left. Hand flying to his holster, Gus looked that way, his goat bleating, Nancy’s pig squealing. A flash of movement in the trees, there and gone in an instant. “What the . . . ?” Oliver tossed his bundle of birds over his shoulder and retrieved his flashlight, his teeth chattering. He and Adam stood several feet to Gus’s right. “Did you guys see that?” Adam drew his handgun. “Probably a mountain lion. We’re almost home, so just keep your eyes peeled and your weapons ready.” “Maybe speed it up a little too,” Gus added, and he and Nancy pulled out their handguns. The team continued toward the compound. Not five minutes had passed before more branches snapped behind them. Again, the goat bleated, and the pig squealed. Everyone swung around, preparing to shoot. Oliver shined his flashlight into the trees. The glow revealed a creature that made Gus’s skin prickle with goose bumps. 
GIVEAWAY! --
Reclamation
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks -- EXCERPT: FLETCHER HAD BEEN ENJOYING the luxury of her sole day off work, reading The Scarlet Letter. Happily. Quietly. Until some unknowable thing, a strange tug in her chest, made her look up. She shut down her antiquated digireader with a tap of the cracked screen and watched from her bedroom window as a sleek, silver sedan pulled to a stop at the curb outside of her dilapidated row house. Agents. She couldn’t see them through the car’s blacked-out windows, but it was obvious. The simple fact that the vehicle had the shine of something new was enough to give the Agents away. Being from The Vault, or The Northern Territories, as Fletcher’s part of the country was known officially, she rarely saw any cars on the road at all; cars in such impeccable condition were all but complete anomalies. Why do they even bother plastering the Department of Reclamation’s seal on the doors? She wondered. That hideous seal. Words failed to capture how much Fletcher both loathed and feared it. The great red and black per bend crest, showcasing a scroll of parchment in one half and a tasseled mortarboard in the other, had always been reviled by citizens of The Vault. It meant that someone hadn’t paid their dues, and The Department of Reclamation had come to collect. The Department of Reclamation employed the Agents who did the strong-arming for The Federal Bureau of Education. While the BOE housed the bookkeepers, The Department of Reclamation’s Agents handled the unseemlier work… and their work was generally quite unseemly. The Governing Council of The Unified American Territories had long ago authorized Reclamation Agents to use brute force “in the event of necessity.” More often than not, visits from Agents did end in violence—if not on their first visit, when a potential Reclaimee received their Notification of Violation, then most definitely on their second visit, when the Agents returned to take the Reclaimee into custody. Reclaimees seldom initiated said violence, of course; Fletcher had heard that most cried or begged for just a few more moments with their loved ones. They would be flogged once or twice and give up or otherwise be knocked out with narcotics. Occasionally, a Reclaimee would try to escape. Those individuals had it much worse. Fletcher closed her eyes and, although it pained her to do it, allowed herself to envision the brutality Agents inflicted upon braver people: Arms twisted so violently that shoulders snapped out their sockets, fingers bent backward with such force that the metacarpals fractured, skulls cracked against living room floors. She shuddered as if her skin had been kissed by an icy wind. Reclamation Agents were no strangers to The Vault, considering it was the part of the country reserved for the impoverished, the destitute and the disillusioned—those who needed “excessive assistance” from the Government. Those like Fletcher. She would need at least ten more fingers to be able to count the number of times she had seen Agents in her neighborhood in the last week alone. Watching these two men march toward her home, she couldn’t help but wonder if they had come for her this time. “Fletcher,” her father’s voice boomed through the dimness of her room. “Can you come out here, please?” “I’ll be right there.” She peered into the tarnished mirror atop her bedside table. Using the remnants of daylight to aid her vision, she pulled her long blonde hair up into a ponytail. “Alright,” she sighed to herself, her sharp jawline clenching and her hazel eyes burning with angst. “If they are here for you, you’ll find out soon enough.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
Puck Me It’s Christmas!
-- EXCERPT: “Girl, they are throwing you off a glass cliff.” “I don’t want everyone to blame me when we get creamed.” I sink in my chair. My dad kneels in front of me and grabs my hand. “Exactly! So do the press conference, say you have another job offer, and this will all be over.” “No wonder they kept trading your ass around when you were a goalie!” Granny Murray makes a rude noise. “You’re a quitter and a narc.” Angie comes in with my phone that’s ringing and ringing. I don’t recognize the number, though it’s a Maplewood Falls area code. “It’s the press.” Angie waves the phone at me. “Tell them you won’t do interviews unless they pay you.” “Ooh! Yeah, then we can go shopping,” Maxine squeals. “Aunt Babs already bought you clothes, sweetie.” Mom smooths my hair down. “Don’t talk to the press,” my dad begs. “Nate,” my mom tells him, “let me make you some herbal tea.” “Food!” my little brothers wail. “For God’s sake,” my dad curses. I answer the phone. “Speaker,” Maxie whispers. “Put it on speaker.” “Hello?” My voice is hesitant. A loud, irritated male sigh echoes around the kitchen as everyone watches breathlessly. “Candy Cane?” I can practically hear Fletcher roll his eyes. “I mean, Coach Candy Cane.” I grimace. “About that…” “You better not be flaking out,” the deep voice warns. “You have the keys. We’re freezing our nuts off out here.” 
GIVEAWAY! --
The Champagne Crush
Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / iBooks / Kobo -- EXCERPT: Scene in the Champagne Region of France. Catherine rode up front with Frédéric. The short drive from Trianon to Hautvillers, a picturesque “high village,” took them up a narrow, winding road barely changed for centuries. Along the route, they passed well-preserved ancient buildings, some displaying forged-iron signs from a different era. Frédéric pulled up to the Abbey of Hautvillers. The small historic church overlooked fields of vineyards in the valley below. “For Champenois,” Frédéric said, “this is considered the birthplace of champagne. Other regions were experimenting with sparkling wine, but this was the place in France, in Champagne.” He led them to a patio where an ice bucket and three flutes sat on a small table. “Let’s take a moment to savor a good French champagne, while I tell the story.” He pulled a bottle of Moët’s Dom Pérignon out of the ice bucket and opened it. “It’s appropriate to drink this champagne, since Moët & Chandon named their prestige blend after Dom Pérignon.” He filled the flutes. “Let’s toast.” Frédéric began. In 1668, a young Benedictine monk, Pierre Pérignon, became cellarmaster of the Abbey at Hautvillers. Dom was a title given to certain Benedictine monks, so he was called Dom Pérignon. At the time, the abbey was making still wine. Hautvillers, in the Falaises de Champagne, has a cool northern climate. Pérignon noticed when the weather turned warm in spring some bottles of wine became effervescent. By accident, they had gone through a second fermentation, creating bubbly wine. Through trial and error, Pérignon determined that wine yeast went dormant in cold temperatures. In spring, the remaining leftover yeast initiated another fermentation, creating the bubbles. “We’re talking about a lot of bubbles,” Frédéric said. He explained the bottles couldn’t withstand the additional pressure. Many bottles shattered or the wood plugs popped out, causing spillage. Eventually, Dom Pérignon came up with a cork plug to hermetically seal the bottles, trapping the bubbles in. “There were still many broken bottles,” Frédéric laughed, “until they devised a way to make stronger bottles.” Future champagne producers learned how to create the millions of bubbles in each bottle by adding yeast to the blended still wine for the second fermentation. “A sip to celebrate this monk and his gift to the world.” Frédéric lifted his flute. Chris thoroughly enjoyed Frédéric’s description. Catherine seemed mesmerized and made a few notes. “Pérignon devoted his life to the abbey until he died in 1715,” Frédéric said. “And now, let’s pay our respects.” He led them into the small church to view Dom Pérignon’s tombstone. They walked back to the car in contemplative silence. Frédéric checked his phone. “We have time to drive by the church in Reims, if you’d like to see it.” “I’d love to,” Catherine said. “My parents were married at Notre-Dame de Paris, a similar Gothic cathedral.” Traffic was light. They arrived in Reims, the capital of Champagne, thirty minutes later. Frédéric pulled up to the plaza in front of the cathedral. He gestured to the edifice. “This church has an important historical significance in France. Starting in the thirteenth century, it was chosen for the coronation of French kings”—he paused—“for six hundred years.” “That’s a long time,” Chris said. “One of the most famous coronations was the crowning of Charles the Seventh in 1429, attended by Joan of Arc. Jeanne d’Arc, in French,” he added. “Unfortunately, not long after, she was captured by the English and put to death for helping French fighters during the Hundred Years’ War.” “Sad story,” Catherine said. She stepped out of the car and took a few photos of the facade. When she got back in, Frédéric drove a few miles to their destination. It was clear the main business of Reims was champagne. Markers indicating numerous champagne houses, including Taittinger and Veuve Clicquot, popped up along the route. Right before the approach to Les Crayères, they passed a sign for Pommery Champagne. Frédéric pulled into a parking spot. “We’re here.” He got out of the car to see them off. “Thank you, Frédéric, for making us feel so welcome,” Chris said. “You’ve been a great host and guide.” Chris shook his hand, and Catherine and Frédéric shared air kisses on both cheeks. “You’ll have to visit us in New York sometime,” Catherine said. “It’s my dream to go to the US,” Frédéric said. “En tout cas, I will see you in Bordeaux in June.” “Yes, in two months,” Chris said. As they walked up to the entrance, Chris stifled the urge to hold Catherine’s hand. She gave him his tie and pulled out a multicolored scarf that she wrapped around her neck. Chris admired the breathtaking classic French château set in the midst of lush parkland. Yves texted he was running late, so they opted to wait in the bar. After perusing the carte of champagnes by the glass, Chris chose Pommery. Appropriate, since the château was built by that family. A brochure on the table relayed the history. Les Crayères was built for Louise Pommery, the Duchess of Polignac, in 1904. Decades later, it became a twenty-room château for guests, boasting a gourmet restaurant and luxurious rooms overlooking manicured gardens. One reviewer called it “a Versailles in miniature . . . the stuff of honeymoons and weekend-away liaisons.” Their flutes were served cold, the way he liked it. They tapped glasses before taking their first sips, very much in sync, like a couple. Chris was starting to sag after a busy day preceded by an early run, but Catherine seemed like the Energizer bunny; that is, if said rabbit wore a short slim dress showcasing killer legs, which he now knew could run like the wind. Catherine set her glass down. “This is good champagne. Smart choice for the setting. The Pommerys built a lovely château.” “This place is pretty spectacular,” he agreed, then couldn’t resist adding, “I know who I want to bring here for the two-night stay I won in the auction.” -- Excerpt from The Champagne Crush by Caroline O’Connell, 
GIVEAWAY! --
Elf on the Edge
-- EXCERPT: “Wait, where are you going? I thought we were having sex,” I wail as he opens up the window and swings one leg out. “Excuse me?” He swivels back inside and pulls off the black mask. “Why in the hell would I have sex with you?” “Are you kidding me right now? Are you fucking—because you’re a fucking prostitute.” I’m sobbing now. “And I paid you a fuck-ton of money to pretend to be my boyfriend and to have sex with me.” His mouth drops open. It would be funny if all my money weren’t gone. “Gumdrop.” He jumps back into the room, the soft shoes silent on the carpet. “You did what?” “You’re a high-end escort, but you really don’t live up to the promise.” I sniffle. I’m fishing for more mini bottles. Talbot slams the fridge door. “You really have drunk too much.” He cups my face. “Gumdrop. You paid me to assassinate your ex, Austen Langley. Remember?” “Assassinate? Like kill, kill? Or just like, you’re going to glitter-bomb him?” I squeak. “Yeah, ‘Grandma gets run over by a reindeer’ level of dead.” My knees collapse, and I plop down on the floor like Christmas cookie dough. “I did a… you’re a… I hired an…” “Assassin?” He unzips the black bag and pulls out the biggest gun. Like, comically large. Movie-villain large. Plus three knives and what might be a torture device along with zip ties and duct tape. My stomach twists. “I prefer hitman,” he says, cheerful, like we’re chatting over wine and charcuterie. “Assassin sounds a little bougie. I just kill people and make it look like an accident.” “I’ve made a huge mistake,” I groan. “For Austen,” he rambles, obviously pleased with himself, “it’s going to look like he partied too hard and paid the price.” “Then, but the—” I point to the gun, trying not to hyperventilate. “This?” he gives it a kiss. “Just a little insurance policy in case things go south. But I have a pretty good plan in place. No one will think he’s been murdered. Everyone saw him downing drink after drink. All the women are off in the hot tub. All his NHL friends are super drunk.” Talbot shows me his phone. There’s Brielle on the livestream doing a stripper dance, all for the eyes of my fake boyfriend. Shoot, my fake fake boyfriend, because… Because a cold-blooded killer is standing in my suite, grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks. I start scooching back on the carpet. Now that I see it, I can’t unsee it. The dead eyes, the total lack of empathy in his face, the glee as he describes how he’s going to kill Austen, my Austen, my one true love.
GIVEAWAY! --
Bad Crush on a Rockstar
-- EXCERPT: “Knock, knock,” Lexie croons through the curtain, her knuckles rapping at the edge of my bunk. “We’re just about there, if you need to pack up.” “Thanks.” I slide the curtain to one side and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge as I rub my eyes. I peer through the large bay window at the Chicago skyline shimmering in the sun as we roll along the freeway. Artie and our backup driver took shifts all night and all through the day to get us here. We usually sleep on the bus when we’re on tour, but since we’re here for several days, the label offered to put us up in a hotel. Anthony opted to stay at his family’s penthouse this week because it’s nearby and empty right now, but the rest of us were happy to accept. We all grew up here, so we could’ve crashed with family or friends, but using the hotel as a home base simplifies things. It gives us some space and privacy to decompress, and it also helps avoid some of the social demands of being back in town. I’m looking forward to having a little privacy and sleeping in a normal-size bed for a change. I’m still organizing my bunk area as the bus turns down Michigan Avenue. I pick out some clothes for the week and stuff them into my large duffle bag. We pull up in front of the hotel, and I sling my duffle over my shoulder. “You kids have a good time, now, all right?” Artie calls back to us. “Be safe.” “Will do. Thanks for the ride, Artie, and have a great rest of the week!” I lug my bag down the aisle and push open the side door. A gust of cold air rushes inside, whipping the door panel from my grip and slamming it against the exterior of the bus. “Whoa.” I step outside, holding an arm out to brace the door as the other two exit. “Good old Chicago,” Lexie jokes. I glance up toward the hotel. The Drake in downtown Chicago is a sight to behold. We’ve stayed here once before, but it still takes my breath away. This place is fancy. Sleek, clean lines of gleaming beige stone. This kind of extravagance is always a shock to my system. The bellhop places our luggage on a cart, and the doorman holds the door for us, then we cross the smooth carpeted floor to the elegant front desk. “Three reservations for Garrett Music Industries,” Jonah says to the man behind the counter, then he winks at Lexie. I glance over to catch her reaction, but she’s staring straight ahead like nothing happened. Something’s up with those two. But they’re always playing games and finding ways to compete with each other, so who knows what this is about. My luggage shows up at the room just as I do, and I stretch out on the bed to relax for a minute before hopping in the shower. The water’s hot and the pressure’s fantastic—about a thousand times better than on the bus. I let it run over my shoulders, easing the tension in my back. My mind is already shifting to Brooke. Seeing her tonight. Because here’s the thing. I love Brooke. Not in a romantic way—at least, it’s never been that way between us. No, I love Brooke in an honest, good, and true kind of way. The way it feels when you realize you would do anything for a person. That you would always be there for them, no matter what. Brooke’s done that for me too, right from the start. She noticed I was struggling with school and offered to help. When she found out I wanted to start playing bass, she came up with a plan for me to earn enough money doing odd jobs so I could buy one off a friend. From that very first day my family moved into their house, she was finding thoughtful things to do and making lighthearted jokes to keep the mood up. And it helped. It didn’t feel so awkward being there, living in their home and taking up their space. She had this sweet, round face full of freckles and thick glasses that made her brown eyes look enormous—almost big enough to match her outsized personality. She was adorable. But then she grew up. It was hard not to notice, because once she started to develop, it happened fast. I remember Jonah and I were walking through the halls on the first day of senior year, and I was looking around for any cute new faces on campus. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I spotted a girl with a pair of the most beautiful breasts I’d ever seen in my life. I leaned toward Jonah, whispering, “Check it out, nine o’clock,” and angling a thumb at the hottie with the body that just wouldn’t quit. “What the fuck, man?” Jonah scowled, his expression suddenly menacing. “Shut the fuck up!” Imagine my horror when the hot little number turned to face me and I realized I was checking out Jonah’s little sister. “Holy shit. I didn’t even recognize her with…uh…without her glasses on.” It was too late. The damage was done. Brooke was only fourteen, for God’s sake. I felt like a monster, but she smiled so big and came over to hug both of us. It was all I could do not to stare straight at those incredible breasts and wonder what the hell happened over the summer. Jonah was chilly around me for days after, and I felt like a total ass. I’d never had a friend like Jonah, and I hated that I’d done something to damage our relationship. I had to apologize multiple times, but eventually he seemed to forgive me. “Seriously, man. Hands off my sister,” he warned, and I nodded. “For sure, man. I swear to God, I would never lay a hand on her.” I made him that promise, and I meant it. But toward the middle of senior year, things got…complicated. Brooke and I had been spending a lot of time together at the library while she helped me study for midterms, and one afternoon she had on this short green dress that showed more of her cleavage than I was accustomed to dealing with. Still, I managed to keep my eyes off her chest and up toward her pretty face, for the most part. She was reading me an excerpt from George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, but I couldn’t concentrate. There was this shiny gloss she had on, and it made that bottom lip look so juicy and delicious that I couldn’t stop staring at it. Just watching her beautiful mouth as she read was sending this tingle up and down my spine. My jeans felt tight, and I realized she was giving me a serious hard-on. I cut our study session short and tried to adjust myself without anyone noticing. I booked it out of there so fast she must have wondered what the hell happened. I kicked myself all the way home, because what the fuck was I doing having sexual feelings for Brooke? She was my best friend’s little sister. I felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on me, putting such a wonderful young person inside that smoking hot body. And she Just. Kept. Getting. Hotter. Of course, by the time she was old enough for me to act on my feelings—assuming I would even go there, given she’s a good friend and Jonah’s sister and all, which I wouldn’t—it was clear Brooke was destined for better things than a guy like me. While I was off working odd jobs in construction and trying to get a band started, Brooke was completing the Visual Design program at Carnegie Mellon University on a full merit scholarship. I never should have responded to her seductive tease on the phone today. She’s always playing around like that, flirting with me, and normally I keep it in check. But I got caught up in the moment, and when she took that sultry tone with me, I went with it. I played along with her sexy little game, because—let’s face it—Brooke is hot as hell, and it feels good to be wanted by her. It feels way too good. Which is exactly why I cannot be flirting with her. I don’t ever want to ruin the close friendship we have. Plus, she’s had a crush on me since middle school, and she’s naïve about love. She doesn’t realize I’m the last fucking thing she needs, so I can’t be toying with her emotions like that—getting her hopes up that something might happen between us when I know damn well it would never work. She dreams of having kids someday, the sooner the better. She’s looking for something serious. Long-term. But I don’t have the kind of career that can support a family, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to repeat my dad’s mistakes—bringing children into an unstable financial situation. No, if I keep this flirting shit up she’s gonna end up getting hurt, and I’ll only have myself to blame. 
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