One summer, no regrets
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Love is a risk.
Roman has never been willing to take those odds, until now.
A beautiful stranger, overheard telling the desk clerk she’s on her honeymoon alone, arouses something in him. Something primal. Something protective. He finds himself doing and saying things he swore he never would in an effort to understand the pain in Aria’s sensual eyes.
His scars are so deep, they may never heal.
His need for control is ingrained.
His desire for her is unparalleled.
The challenge of winning her may be the biggest risk of all.
“Don’t think you can play me that easily, Ms. Savage. I’m the master, and you’re still learning the game.” He stands and slips his tie off folding it neatly. Then he leaves me there hot and bothered and disappointed beyond belief. How dare he!
What does he mean he’s the master? And what game is he referring to? I was just flirting hoping for a repeat of this morning out here on his patio, a little exhibitionism. I wasn’t playing at anything.
I wasn’t then, but I am now. He likes to control. I’ve witnessed it on multiple occasions. It’s time to take that away from him and see how he likes it.
I stand and strip off my tank top, step out of my skirt, and kick off my flip-flops. I round the table and push through the gate separating his patio from the sandy, sparsely inhabited beach. I’m still sporting a thong but absolutely nothing else. I don’t know if it’s a topless beach, and I don’t care.
I stretch my arms over my head scooping my hair into a fresh messy bun and wrap the rubber band from my wrist around it just as my feet touch the edge of the water.
“Aria!” Roman’s voice booms from behind me. I turn with a wicked smile and see him standing still in his suit pants and dress shirt holding up my top and skirt with fury in his eyes.
Bingo, now let’s see who’s the master and what game we’re playing. He catches my expression and lowers his gaze to my naked breasts. Right before my eyes, I watch him turn into a lunatic. Face red, veins bulging and pulsing from everywhere, he throws open the gate on the patio and storms through the sand in his thousand-dollar shoes and ten-thousand-dollar suit.
But I’m safe in the water, or at least I’m pretty sure I am. I wade out deeper feeling more secure but only for a moment. My eyes go wide when he storms into the ocean dressed from head to toe with the look of an enraged maniac on his face.
Nerves scramble my brain, and I laugh as I swim further away from him. My depth is of no concern to this man full of possessive insanity, in fact, it may be propelling him.
“Aria, come here this instant! This isn’t a nude beach. It’s not even a topless beach for Christ’s sake!” he yells before diving underwater in my direction. Oh my God, for the first time since I let spontaneity take over, I worry about the repercussions of my actions.
What will he do when he catches me? He will catch me of that I am sure. I can see crazy in his eyes. He’s angry, and I am wild. He is possessive, and I need to be free. He is controlling, and I am rebellious.
I dart to the right, but it’s too late. His hand closes around my ankle, and I take in a huge breath right before he pulls me under. I can’t see him, my eyes are closed because of the salty water, but his hands are around my waist hauling me to the surface.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, woman? Somebody could have seen you.”
I try to blink the water from my eyes since he has my arms pinned to my sides. “So?”
“So? You just finished telling me that you’re mine while we are here, and in case you haven’t noticed, we are still here!” he shouts, and I recoil. I’ve never been shouted at by a man, especially right in my face.
I roll my lips inward and hold my breath unsure of what to say or do next. It turns out I don’t have to say or do anything. He turns toward the shore and starts walking us in that direction pushing through the water with such force it leaves a wake behind us. I know, I looked!
He turns me in his arms so that my front is plastered to his hiding my breasts from onlookers’ eyes of which there are only two—an elderly man and his wife sunning in lounge chairs a couple of doors down. I wave at them, and the woman waves back smirking in solidarity.
Roman is overreacting. I’m naked, so what? Women all over the world sunbathe topless and nude. He’s acting like I committed a felony.
“Stop fraternizing with the neighbors,” he growls. How did he know I waved?
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Oh yeah? You’re not swimming naked anymore, are you?”
“Because you hauled me out of the water like a sack of potatoes!”
“A sack of potatoes has more sense than you right now.”
“I don’t think I like your tone.”
“I don’t like your defiance,” he says storming through the patio doors with his clothes dripping water all over the carpets. He doesn’t stop to put me down. Instead, he makes a bee-line for the bedroom. Goodie!
He tosses me on the bed, and I laugh. I can’t help it, he is being so absurd. “You’re a caveman, Roman Forrest. You know that, right?”
He closes the door to the bedroom.
“You act like I’m your wife.”
He shoves his hand through his silky black hair and unbuttons his wet shirt.
I pull a sheet over myself suddenly feeling exposed and nervous.
“You don’t own me, you know,” I say, but he says nothing and walks in his squishy shoes to the edge of the bed and yanks the sheet off the bed.
“Hey!”
“You wanted to be naked so bad, why the sudden modesty?” he snaps.
“Because it’s my body to do with as I please. I wanted to skinny dip out there, and now I want to cover myself in front of you. You’re acting like a loon.”
“I’m acting like a man who doesn’t want to share his woman with the whole fucking world!” He unzips his slacks and shoves them down along with his black boxer briefs. He kicks off his shoes and socks and crawls up the bed pushing me down to hover over me.
Unsure of how far to go, I lower my voice but stand my ground. “I’d hardly say that grandma and grandpa are the whole world, and since when am I your woman?”
“Since the first time I put my mouth on you,” he says and lowers himself down to take my mouth in a rough, demanding kiss. My toes curl, my belly flips, and I fight the urge to wrap my arms and legs around him for oh, maybe two seconds, tops.
Melody Eve is a Midwestern mother of five children and five fur babies. She is a contemporary romance author who loves writing sexy Alpha male heroes and smart, passionate heroines. Keep your eyes open for Melody’s new release, Him & I on Amazon in 2018.
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Beginnings by J.O Mantel is LIVE!
iTUNES | AMAZON US | AMAZON UK | AMAZON AU | AMAZON CA

Ashford Tanner.
Handsome, and with a burgeoning career in law, Ash has the world at his feet and his relentless drive and ambition are finally paying off.
But, dealing with an overbearing and demanding employer can be challenging, even for a man like Ash, especially when trying to juggle work and a relationship.
When a multi-million dollar case forces Ash and his boss to Paris for an indefinite stay, his entire life is turned upside down.
Gabriela Devereaux.
In Paris, Ash finally meets his match. Gabriela is the epitome of grace and femininity and he is instantly awed by her unparalleled beauty.
A tragic accident and an unexpected encounter will bring shockwaves to Ash and his new love.
Will he get a second chance at happiness?

Beginnings is a beginning to what I can only assume is a serial because it ends on a cliffhanger.
When up-and-coming lawyer Ash is pretty much forced to either go to Paris on business or be fired, his long-term girlfriend, Laura, makes the decision a lot easier for him when she dumps him. So Ash arrives in Paris unattached, and soon falls for Gabriella, the sexy waitress at the cafe he’s been frequenting. And in an instalove instant, they are head over heels in love with one another. But an unexpected run-in with someone from Ash’s past threatens to destroy the future they are planning together.

This was an okay story; it’s only about 10 chapters, so it’s a quick read. I thought some of the dialog was clunky, and some of the conversations between characters didn’t seem to flow naturally. Ash’s boss is really a demanding jerk, but I was intrigued by what was happening with him and thier Parisian colleague, Courtney. Overall, Beginnings is an okay read… but I don’t know if I’m interested enough to see how this cliffhanger is resolved.
I received an advanced copy and voluntarily left a review for Sunny Shelly Reads book blog.

MEET THE AUTHOR:
J.O Mantel was born and raised in Melbourne, Australia. As a child, J.O loved reading and his favourite authors included, Roald Dahl, Robin Klein, and Morris Gleitzman. J.O began writing in 2016 and released his first novel, First Crush in the Dark Falkon Series that same year. J.O lives a quiet life on a rural property in Melbourne’s Northern Suburbs.


Author: Emily Goodwin





Author: Adriana Locke
But, she’s back.
Seeing Cross wasn’t on Kallie’s to-do list. She didn’t think she could avoid
him forever but trying never hurt anyone. One minute she’s standing by herself
and the next she’s accosted by a rich, velvety scent that could only belong to
one man: Cross.
At face value, he’s divine. All rugged and confident with a smile that melts
her right where she’s standing. It doesn’t take long to find him to be
charming, witty, and the owner of a few legitimate businesses. Not at all like
the mischievous boy she left.
He laughs and her heart flutters. With a touch of his hand, she’s dizzy. She’s
fairly certain she’s going to die when he pulls her into an embrace and touches
his lips to her forehead.
It feels right. It feels so right.
But is it?
Free in Kindle Unlimited

She knows what she wants. But is he ready?
Breezy by Kelsie Rae will be here June 7!
Keep reading for an excerpt!!!

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BLURB:
Breezy comes from a place without hurricanes, but that never stopped her from blowing in and causing chaos wherever she goes. She’s feisty, energetic, and unafraid of speaking her mind. She’s also a hot mess in need of a job.
Derrick’s used to dealing with all types of people. After all, he owns his own business. But when he meets Breezy, she impacts him harder than any storm ever could. Too bad even the gorgeous new girl in HR can’t make him break his one rule: no dating employees. Ever.
There’s just one problem. Breezy’s never been good at following directions, and her boss isn’t the only one with a serious office crush. Can the new girl convince him to throw caution to the wind?
CHECK OUT THIS EXCERPT!
“Come on, Hurricane. We have lots to discuss.”
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that today, Mr. McKinley. Any reason why?” I ask, popping out my hip and folding my arms over my chest.
“Hurricanes can be unpredictable, Breezy. They can be dangerous and are impossible to control. But they can also bring life to dying lands, giving essential water to an area that wouldn’t survive without it.”
Feeling absolutely confused, I can’t help but ask, “Have you been Googling random crap again?”
Derrick merely pushes the elevator button in answer, as I come stand beside him. He keeps glancing down at me, a secret smile firmly in place on his chiseled face.
Feeling like a fish out of water, I’m unsure how I should act right now. We left things in really murky territory, and for once, I’m letting him take the lead. His totally random pet name for me didn’t help clear anything up, either.
The elevator doors open, and we step inside. After Derrick selects the first floor button the doors slide shut, and he immediately pushes me up against the wall, his rough hands sliding into my silky tresses. Using his large frame, he advances on me until my back is firmly pressed against the mirrored walls. The reflections let me see all the different angles of our current position. I’m not going to lie, it’s a huge freaking turn on.
Before I have a chance to mutter a single syllable, Derrick’s mouth hungrily claims my own. This kiss is the exact opposite of our innocent peck in my parents’ kitchen. What had been a mere taste before is the opposite of how he’s kissing me now. Derrick devours me with his lips. Biting. Licking. Sucking. Consuming me from the outside in. I’m breathless by the time he pulls away and rests his forehead against my own. I breathe heavily as I attempt to catch my breath, my chest brushing against Derrick’s due to our close proximity. It’s as if he’s sucked all the oxygen from the tiny space, holding it hostage.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, laughing dryly.
“That was me finally growing a pair, as you so eloquently like to say.” He smirks, his blue eyes smoldering. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Sunday. I was in meetings all day yesterday and didn’t have a chance to catch up with you until today. As soon as I saw you, I couldn’t help myself.” The elevator dings, announcing our arrival on the first floor, bringing me crashing back to reality.
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About Kelsie
Kelsie prides herself on writing straight from her own heart, which is how she fell into sweet contemporary romance. She’s a sucker for a love story with all the feels. When she’s not chasing words for her next book, you will probably find her reading or, more likely, playing with her “monsters”.
She adores chocolate, photography, baking, chick flicks, and running. And now that she’s actively pursuing her writing dreams, she’s set her sights on someday finding the self-discipline to not eat an entire batch of cookies in one sitting.
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The perfect man for me is the one who broke my heart.
#thanksbutnothanks
Once bitten.
Twice shy.
Yeah, I wish.
I’m on a mission to find myself a nice, solid, respectable man. The only problem is nice, solid, and respectable comes in a meh package and is B-O-R-I-N-G as hell.
It’s been established. I have one type. Bad Boy. I tried the other flavors, I really did. But there’s nothing like the allure of a man who takes what he wants without apology.
As if my love life isn’t dramatic enough, Dean Bennett walks into my life again thinking he’s going to win me back with his charm and charisma. He might come in a different package, but under that expensive suit he’s still the same cocky, arrogant, pompous prick who only cares about numero uno.
I’m not that naïve young girl anymore so I have to ignore the fact that the way he looks at me practically sets my panties on fire.
Everyone deserves a second chance to right a wrong. The problem? He’s not just an ex-boyfriend…
He’s my ex-husband.

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Start the Series Today with Manic Monday!

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Grab the prequel, Clean Slate, FREE!
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About Piper Rayne:
Piper Rayne, or Piper and Rayne, whichever you prefer because we’re not one author, we’re two. Yep, you get two USA Today Bestselling authors for the price of one. Our goal is to bring you romance stories that have “Heartwarming Humor With a Side of Sizzle” (okay…you caught us, that’s our tagline). A little about us… We both have kindle’s full of one-clickable books. We’re both married to husbands who drive us to drink. We’re both chauffeurs to our kids. Most of all, we love hot heroes and quirky heroines that make us laugh, and we hope you do, too.

Connect with Piper Rayne:
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Mogul by Katy Evans
Publication Date: May 31, 2018
Genre: Contemporary Romance

A brand new contemporary romance from New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Katy Evans is AVAILABLE NOW!
He’s my most delicious secret.
The hot Suit I had a one-night stand with one evening.
I didn’t know anything about him, not even his name.
Only that we shared a taxi, and he was staying at the hotel where I worked.
We met in room 301. Where he commanded not only my body but my soul.
The next day he was gone and I only had a memory of him.
I could still taste his kisses, feel his demanding touch.
I searched for him for months. Daydreaming about him. Wondering if I’d ever find him.
Until the day I find myself staring face to face with his jeweled black eyes again.
He says lets keep it casual, and my heart knows that falling for this workaholic in a three-thousand-dollar suit is off the table.
Because he has a secret. One that’s a deal breaker for me.
My Suit has a name.
Ian Ford.
And this is our story.

Read Mogul Today!
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About the Author:
Katy Evans is a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author. Her debut REAL shot to the top of the bestselling lists in 2013 and since then 9 of her titles have been New York Times bestsellers. Her books have been translated into nearly a dozen languages across the world.
Connect with the Author:
Email: katyevansauthor@gmail.com
Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorKatyEvans
Twitter @authorkatyevans
From the author who brought you A Thousand Boy Kisses comes the new emotional novel, A Wish For Us.
A story of music. A story of healing. A story of love conquering all.
Nineteen-year-old Cromwell Dean is the rising star of electronic dance music. Thousands of people adore him. But no one knows him. No one sees the color of his heart.
Until the girl in the purple dress. She sees through the walls he has built to the empty darkness within.
When Cromwell leaves behind the gray skies of England to study music in the South Carolina heat, the last thing he expects is to see her again. And he certainly doesn’t expect that she’ll stay in his head like a song on repeat.
Bonnie Farraday lives for music. She lets every note into her heart, and she doesn’t understand how someone as talented as Cromwell can avoid doing the same. He’s hiding from his past, and she knows it. She tries to stay away from him, but something keeps calling her back.
Bonnie is the burst of color in Cromwell’s darkness. He’s the beat that makes her heart skip.
But when a shadow falls over Bonnie, it’s up to Cromwell to be her light, in the only way he knows how. He must help her find the lost song in her fragile heart. He must keep her strong with a symphony only he can compose.
A symphony of hope.
A symphony of love.
A symphony of them.
Cromwell
Brighton, England
The club pulsed as the beat I was pouring into the crowd took over their bodies. Arms in the air, hips swaying, eyes wide and glazed as my music slammed into their ears, the rhythmic beats controlling their every move. The air was thick and sticky, clothes slick to people’s skins as they crammed into the full club to hear me.
I watched them light up with color. Watched them get lost to the sound. Watched them shed whoever they’d been that day—an office worker, a student, a copper, a call-center worker—what the hell ever. Right now, in this club, most probably high off their faces, they were slaves to my tunes. Right here, in this moment, my music was their life. It was all that mattered as their heads flew back and they chased the high, the near nirvana I gave them from my place on the podium.
I, however, felt nothing. Nothing but the numbness the booze beside me was gifting me.
Two arms slipped around my waist. Hot breath blew past my ear as full lips kissed my neck. Spinning my final beat, I grabbed the Jack Daniels beside me and took a shot straight from the bottle. I slammed the bottle down and moved back to my laptop to mix in the next tune. Hands with sharp fingernails ran through my hair, pulling on the black strands. I tapped on the keys, bringing the music down low, slowing the beat.
My breaths lengthened as the crowd waited, lungs frozen as I brought them to a slow sway, readying for the crescendo. The epic surge of beats and drums, the insanity of the mix that I would deliver. I looked up from my laptop and scanned the crowd, smirking at seeing them on the precipice, waiting . . . waiting . . . just waiting . . .
Now.
I slammed my hand down, holding my headphones to my left ear. A surge, a thundercloud of electronic dance music plowed into the crowd. Bursts of neon colors filled the air. Greens and blues and reds filled my eyes as they clung to each person like neon shields.
The hands around my waist tightened, but I ignored them, instead listening to the bottle of Jack as it called my name. I took another shot, my muscles starting to loosen. My hands danced over the laptop’s keys, over my mix boards.
I looked up, the crowd still in the palm of my hand.
They always were.
A girl in the center of the club drew my attention. Long brown hair pulled back off her face. Purple dress, high necked—she was dressed nothing like everyone else. The color surrounding her was different to the other clubbers—pale pink and lavender. Calmer. More serene. My eyebrows pulled down as I watched her. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t moving. She was still, and she looked to be completely alone as people crashed and pushed around her. Her head was tipped up, a look of concentration on her face.
I built up the pace, pushing the rhythm and the crowd as far as they could go. But the girl didn’t move. That wasn’t normal for me. I always had these clubbers wrapped around my finger. I controlled them, in every place I spun. In this arena, I was the puppet master. They were the dolls.
Another shot of Jack burned down my throat. And through another five songs, she stayed there, on the spot, just drinking in the beats like water. But her face never changed. No smile. No euphoric high. Just . . . eyes closed, that damn pinched look on her face.
And that pink and lavender still surrounding her like a shield.
“Cromwell,” the blonde who was all over me like a rash said into my ear. Her fingers lifted up my shirt and tucked into the waistband of my jeans. Her long nails dipped low. But I refused to tear my eyes away from the girl in the purple dress.
Her brown hair was starting to curl, sweat from being sandwiched by clubbers taking its effect. The blonde who was one step from wanking me off in full view of the club snapped my fly. I keyed in my next mix, then grabbed her hand and threw it away from me, snapping my fly closed. I groaned when her hands slid back into my hair. I looked at my mate who had spun before me. “Nick!” I pointed to my decks. “Watch this. And don’t mess it up.”
Nick frowned in confusion, then saw the girl behind me and smiled. He took my headphones from me and moved to make sure the playlist I’d set up played on cue. Steve, the club’s owner, always let a few girls backstage. I never asked for it, but I never turned them down either. Why would I refuse a hot bird who was up for anything?
I swiped my Jack off my podium as the blonde smashed her lips to mine, pulling me back by my sleeveless Creamfields shirt. I wrenched my mouth from hers, replacing it with the Jack bottle. The blonde dragged me into a dark spot backstage. She dropped to her knees and started again on my fly. I closed my eyes as she went to work.
I sucked on the Jack as my head hit the wall behind me. I forced myself to feel something. I glanced down, watching blond hair bounce below me. But the numbness I lived with every damn day made me feel virtually nothing inside. Pressure built at the base of my spine. My thighs tightened, and then it was over.
The blonde got up. I could see the stars in her eyes as she looked at me. “Your eyes.” She reached out a finger to trace around my eye. “The strangest color. Such dark blue.”
They were. Coupled with my black hair, they always drew attention. That and the fact that I was one of the hottest new DJs in Europe, of course. Okay, maybe it was less to do with my eyes and more to do with my name, Cromwell Dean, gracing the headline spot on most of the biggest music festivals and clubs this summer.
I zipped up my fly and turned to see Nick spinning my next mix. I cringed when he failed to transition the beats like I would have. Navy blue was the backdrop to the smoke on the dancefloor.
I never hit navy blue.
I brushed past the girl with a “Thanks, love,” ignoring her hiss of “Prick” in response. I took my headphones off Nick’s head and put them on my own. A few taps of the keyboard later, the crowd was back in the palm of my hand.
Without conscious thought, my eyes found their way to the spot where the girl in the purple dress had stood.
But she’d gone. So had the pale pink and lavender.
I threw back another shot of Jack. Mixed another tune. Then zoned the fuck out.
*****
The sand was cold under my feet. It may well have been the start of summer here in the UK, but that didn’t mean the night wind didn’t freeze your balls off the minute you stepped outside. Clutching my bottle of booze and my cigarettes, I dropped down to the sand. I lit up and stared at the dark sky. My phone buzzed in my pocket . . . again. It’d been going off all night.
Pissed off that I actually had to move my arm, I pulled out my mobile. I had three missed calls from Professor Lewis. Two from my mum, and finally, a couple of texts.
Mum: Professor Lewis has been trying to get hold of you again. What are you going to do? Please just call me. I know you’re upset, but this is your future. You have a gift, son. Maybe it’s time for a fresh start this year. Don’t waste it because you’re angry at me.
Red-hot fury shot through me. I wanted to throw my phone in the damn sea and watch it sink to the bottom along with all this messed-up shit in my head, but I saw Professor Lewis had texted too.
Lewis: The offer still stands but I need an answer by next week. I have all I need for the transfer except your answer. You have an exceptional talent, Cromwell. Don’t waste it. I can help.
This time I did drop my phone beside me and sank back into the sand. I let the rush of nicotine fill my lungs and closed my eyes. As my eyelids shut, I heard quiet music playing somewhere nearby. Classical. Mozart.
My drunken mind immediately drifted off to when I was a little kid . . .
“What do you hear, Cromwell?” my father asked.
I closed my eyes and listened to the piece of music. Colors danced before my eyes. “Piano. Violins. Cellos . . .” I took a deep breath. “I can hear reds and greens and pinks.”
I opened my eyes and looked up at my father as he sat on my bed. He was staring down at me. There was a funny expression on his face. “You hear colors?” he said. But he didn’t sound surprised. My face set on fire. I ducked my head under my duvet. My father pulled it down from my eyes. He stroked my hair. “That’s good,” he said, his voice kind of deep. “That’s very good . . .”
My eyes snapped open. My hand started to ache. I looked at the bottle in my hand; my fingers were white as they gripped the neck. I sat up, my head spinning from the mass of whiskey in my body. My temples throbbed. I realized it wasn’t from the Jack, but from the music coming from further down the beach. I pushed my hair back from my face then looked to my right.
Someone was only a few feet away. I squinted into the lightening night, summer’s early rising sun making it possible to make out the features of whoever the hell it was. It was a girl. A girl wrapped in a blanket. Her phone sat beside her, a Mozart piano concerto drifting quietly from the speaker.
She must have felt me looking at her, because she turned her head. I frowned, wondering why I knew her face, but then—
“You’re the DJ,” she said.
Recognition dawned. It was the girl in the purple dress.
She clutched her blanket closer around her as I replayed her accent in my head. American. Bible Belt was my guess, by her thick twang.
She sounded like my mum.
A smile tugged at her lips as I stayed mute. I wasn’t much of a talker. Especially when my gut was full of Jack and I had zero interest in making small talk with some girl I didn’t know at four in the morning on a cold beach in Brighton.
“I’d heard of you,” she said. I stared back out over the sea. Ships sailed in the distance, their lights like tiny fireflies, bobbing up and down. I huffed a humorless laugh. Great. Another girl who wanted to screw the DJ.
“Good for you,” I muttered and took a drink of my Jack, feeling the addictive burn slide down my throat. I hoped she’d piss off, or at least stop trying to talk to me. My head couldn’t take any more noise.
“Not really,” she shot back. I looked over at her, eyebrows pulled down in confusion. She was looking out over the sea, her chin resting on her folded arms that lay over her bent knees. The blanket had fallen off her shoulders, revealing the purple dress I’d noticed from the podium. She turned to face me, cheek now on her arms. Heat zipped through me. She was pretty. “I’ve heard of you, Cromwell Dean.” She shrugged. “Decided to get a ticket to see you before I left for home tomorrow.”
I lit up another cigarette. Her nose wrinkled. She clearly didn’t like the smell.
Tough luck. She could move. Last time I checked, England was a free country. She went quiet.
I caught her looking at me. Her brown eyes were narrowed, like she was scrutinizing me. Reading something in me that I didn’t want anyone to see.
No one ever looked at me closely. I never gave them the chance. I thrived on the podium at clubs because it kept everyone far away, down on the dancefloor where no one ever saw the real me. The way she was looking at me now made nervous shivers break out over my skin.
I didn’t need this kind of crap.
“Already had my dick sucked tonight, love. Not looking for a second round.”
She blinked, and even in the rising sun, I could see her cheeks redden.
“Your music has no soul,” she blurted. My cigarette paused halfway to my mouth. Something managed to stab through my stomach at her words. I shoved it back down until I felt my usual sensation of numbness.
I sucked on my cigarette. “Yeah? Well, them’s the breaks.”
“I’d heard you were some messiah or something on that podium. But all your music comprised was synthetic beats and forced repetitive bursts of unoriginal tempo.”
I laughed and shook my head. The girl met my eyes head-on. “It’s called electronic dance music. Not a fifty-piece orchestra.” I held out my arms. “You’ve heard of me. Said so yourself. You know what tunes I spin. What were you expecting? Mozart?” I glared at her phone, which was still playing that damn concerto.
I sat back, surprised at myself. I hadn’t talked that much to anyone in . . . I didn’t know how long. I took in a drag, breathing out the smoke that was trapped in my chest. “And turn that thing off, will you? Who the hell goes to hear a dance DJ spin, then comes to a beach to listen to classical music?”
The girl frowned but turned off the music. I lay back on the cold sand, closing my eyes. I heard the soft waves lapping the shore. My head filled with pale green. I heard the girl moving. I prayed she was leaving. But I felt her drop beside me. My world darkened as the whiskey and the usual lack of sleep started to pull me under.
“What do you feel when you mix your music?” she asked. How the hell she thought her little interview was a good idea right now was beyond me.
Yet, surprisingly, I found myself answering her question. “I don’t feel.” I cracked one eye open when she didn’t say anything. She was looking down at me. She had the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair pulled off her face in a ponytail. Full lips and smooth skin.
“Then that’s the problem.” She smiled, but the smile looked nothing but sad. Pitying. “The best music must be felt. By the creator. By the listener. Every part of it from creation to ear must be wrapped in nothing but feelings.” Some weird expression crossed over her face, but hell if I knew what it meant.
Her words were a blade to my chest. I hadn’t expected her harsh comment. And I hadn’t expected the blunt trauma that she seemed to deliver right to my heart. Like she’d taken a butcher’s knife and sliced her way through my soul.
My body itched to get up and run. To pluck out her assessment of my music from my memory. But instead I forced a laugh, and spat, “Go back home, little Dorothy. Back to where music means something. Where it’s felt.”
“Dorothy was from Kansas.” She glanced away. “I’m not.”
“Then go back to wherever the hell you’re from,” I snapped. Crossing my arms over my chest, I hunkered down into the sand and shut my eyes, trying to block out the cold wind that was picking up and slapping my skin, and her words that were still stabbing at my heart.
I never let anything get to me like this. Not anymore. I just needed some sleep. I didn’t want to go back to my mum’s house here in Brighton, and my flat in London was too far away. So hopefully the cops wouldn’t find me here and kick me off the beach.
With my eyes closed, I said, “Thanks for the midnight critique, but as the fastest-rising DJ in Europe, with the best clubs in the world begging for me to spin at their decks—all at nineteen—I think I’ll ignore your extensive notes and just keep on living my sweet as fuck life.”
The girl sighed, but she didn’t say anything else.
The next thing I knew, the sun was burning its light into my eyes. I flinched when I opened them. The screech of swarming seagulls slammed into my head. I sat up, seeing an empty beach and the sun high in the sky. I ran my hands down my face and groaned at the hangover that was kicking in. My stomach growled, desperate for a full English breakfast with copious cups of black tea.
As I stood, something fell from my lap. A blanket lay on the sand at my feet. The blanket I’d seen beside the American girl in the purple dress.
The one she’d been wrapped in last night.
I picked it up, a light fragrance drifted into my nose. Sweet. Addictive. I glanced around me. The girl was gone.
She’d left her blanket. No. She’d covered me with it. “Your music has no soul.” A hard clenching feeling pulled in my stomach at the memory of her words. So I chased it away like I did anything that made me feel. Caging it deep inside.
Then I took my arse home.
Tillie Cole hails from a small town in the North-East of England. She grew up on a farm with her English mother, Scottish father and older sister and a multitude of rescue animals. As soon as she could, Tillie left her rural roots for the bright lights of the big city.
After graduating from Newcastle University with a BA Hons in Religious Studies, Tillie followed her Professional Rugby player husband around the world for a decade, becoming a teacher in between and thoroughly enjoyed teaching High School students Social Studies before putting pen to paper, and finishing her first novel.
Tillie has now settled in Austin, Texas, where she is finally able to sit down and write, throwing herself into fantasy worlds and the fabulous minds of her characters.
Tillie is both an independent and traditionally published author, and writes many genres including: Contemporary Romance, Dark Romance, Young Adult and New Adult novels.
When she is not writing, Tillie enjoys nothing more than curling up on her couch watching movies, drinking far too much coffee, while convincing herself that she really doesn’t need that extra square of chocolate.