You Give Love a Bad Name

by Marilyn Brant

  YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME

  (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 3)

  By

  MARILYN BRANT

  You Give Love a Bad Name

  (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 3)

  Copyright 2016 by Marilyn B. Weigel

  Twelfth Night Publishing

  Editor: Hamilton Editing

  Cover Designer: E.M. Tippetts Book Designs

  Ebook Edition

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9961178-4-5

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, businesses or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook License Notes:

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  Learn more about New York Times & USA Today bestselling author Marilyn Brant on her website: www.MarilynBrant.com and sign up here to receive her free newsletter for book releases & giveaways: www.marilynbrant.com/contact !

  Table of Contents

  About You Give Love a Bad Name

  Dedication & Thanks

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Note from the Author

  Other Books by Bestselling Author Marilyn Brant

  About the Author

  Story Excerpt

  About the Book

  YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME is Book 3 in Marilyn Brant’s Mirabelle Harbor series, but this story and all of the contemporary romances in this series can be enjoyed as stand-alone novels.

  “Nothing but love, 24/7” is the slogan of Mirabelle Harbor’s only radio station, 102.5 “LOVE” FM. On the verge of turning thirty-five, local DJ Blake Michaelsen is well-known for several reasons: his very sexy on-air voice, his omnipresent family, his eligible bachelor status, and his reputation as one of the most impulsive men in Chicago’s northern suburbs.

  High-school French teacher and lifelong romantic Vicky Bernier is not at all wild about people who exhibit reckless conduct. (Blake.) Or men who have gigantic egos. (Blake.) Or grownups who still act like teenagers. (Blake, again.) She deals with enough adolescent behavior during the school day. Unfortunately, she’s the staff advisor to the Homecoming Committee, and they’ve chosen him as their DJ for the big fall dance.

  What happens when a man whose job it is to play love songs for a living is forced to admit his deepest secret—that he doesn’t believe in true love—only to discover that the one woman who might capture his heart is the same woman who distrusts him the most?

  No matter what you call it, with love there’s an exception to every rule. YOU GIVE LOVE A BAD NAME, a Mirabelle Harbor story.

  **Note: All of the individual musicians and bands referenced in this novel are real, with the notable exception of Barry Connelly, who is completely fictional, as is his popular love song, “You’re the One.”**

  Dedication & Thanks

  For my family, my good friends, and my amazing readers & early reviewers—I adore you all so much!

  ~*~

  Special thanks to Stephanie Littlejohn and Gina Paulus for their wonderful insights on this story before its publication, and to Jennifer Welty for being so kind as to check my French spelling and grammar in advance. I truly appreciated the help! Any mistakes are, of course, my own.

  ~*~

  Finally, my heartfelt gratitude to all of those Eighties-era musicians whose songs still make me smile & dance around the house, even several decades later...

  Chapter One

  ~Blake~

  “It’s five minutes to the hour at 102.5 LOVE FM,” I said into the mic. “But before the clock strikes three and I turn you all over to the capable hands of Amelia Lockett, I’ve got one more song left to play.”

  I’d been dreading this. Procrastinating for two hours.

  Still, I clicked the song on, and as the opening strains of one of the world’s most nauseating tunes hit the airwaves, I said, “This goes out by request to Meggie from Jon—” Because Jon must be an unimaginative idiot. “Barry Connelly’s classic hit ‘You’re the One.’ Enjoy, young lovers.”

  I snapped off my microphone, grimaced, and assessed the condition of my booth. My coworker Amelia gave me a saucy smile paired with a mocking thumbs up from outside the booth’s window, then she turned back to finish her conversation with Doug, one of our bosses.

  As I pulled my keys and my cell phone out of the drawer and set up the automatic playlist that would provide a few minutes of transition time between my time slot and Amelia’s, all I could think was that—across our great northern Illinois listening area—folks were in their homes or driving in their cars or outside enjoying this bright early September day, and they were listening to this crap. Worst of all, it was my fault.

  Barry Connelly’s lyrics couldn’t have been stupider. And I was actively contributing to the dumbing down of American society just by agreeing to play his songs. Who could possible like this sentimental shit?

  “My love...you are like starlight in a moonless sky,” Barry crooned.

  “Your arms...wrap around me and the moments just fly.

  Your eyes...pierce into my soul and leave me undone.

  And your lips...ooooh, baby, ooooh, baby, you’re the one.”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  The chorus was so sappy I needed a freaking shower to wash off the stickiness.

  Finally, after about four years worth of “ooooh, babys,” it came to a merciful end.

  I clicked my mic back on, summoned every ounce of sincerity I could muster, and said, “That’s some...um, inspired songwriting, eh?” I’d been doing my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, but Doug must have heard it anyway because he shot me a warning look through the glass. I faked at grin at him and added, “Blake Michaelsen signing off for this afternoon. Have a wonderful Labor Day and remember, with 102.5, we’ve got ‘Nothing but love, 24/7,’ so stay tuned for more romantic hits.”

  I switched on the transition playlist, slammed down my headset, and snatched my keys and my phone.

  “All yours, chickie,” I said to Amelia, who slugged my chest as we traded places.

  “Don’t call me that, you douchebag,” she said, and then affectionately flipped me off.

  I made a reciprocal rude gesture, just to make her laugh, and then blew her a kiss. “Hey, have a good afternoon.”

  “You, too, Blake.” She waved. “‘Til tomorrow.”

  Yeah.

  There were no holidays in broadcasting.

  Labor Day. My birthday. An unremarkable Monday. You name it, we worked it.

  The radio station,
however, was not the worst that was in store for me today. My sister Sharlene and my sister-in-law Olivia had colluded in their Machiavellian way to fill up every possible open afternoon with a family gathering of some sort, whether it was Labor Day, my birthday, or an unremarkable Monday.

  Turned out, today was all three.

  Doug tossed me the keys to the white van as I exited the booth, along with a wary glance, like I might just be dangerous if confronted. He wasn’t half wrong.

  “The equipment is already packed in there, and the GPS is set. You just need to drop the stuff off for J.J. before four.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured my boss. “But I have to go straight to a family event right after that, so is it okay if I return the van this evening?”

  “As long as you don’t crash it,” Doug said with a laugh, although I could tell he wasn’t entirely joking. He’d probably read that I’d had a few fender benders in the past couple of years. They put everything in that damn Mirabelle Harbor Gazette.

  “I’ll bring it back undented and in one piece,” I promised. But I had to admit, once I was in the driver’s seat and had the ignition on, the rev of the engine made me want to floor it. How fast would this white whale go on the open road?

  I swung by my apartment, just a block away from the station, to pick up Winston. I’d gotten him from the shelter only about two weeks ago—a one-year-old Havanese/Cocker Spaniel/Poodle/who-knows-what-else mix with insecurity issues. But we understood each other, and he already felt like the best roommate I’d ever had.

  I scooped him up and took him to the van. Immediately he started sniffing the portable speakers in the back. He raised one stubby caramel-colored leg to mark his territory.

  “Dude, they’re Bose speakers. Don’t pee on them.” I laughed and he paddled toward me.

  Hyper ball of fur, but funny as hell.

  “J.J. would be ticked if he couldn’t use them tonight,” I informed my dog. “Not to mention the rest of the sound system for his gig.” I pointed at the boxy equipment that we sent out for on-location events, like the private retirement party J.J. Jones was hosting for his neighbor this evening.

  Winston cocked his head to one side, looking back longingly at the speakers. He barked.

  “Tempting, I know, but why don’t you join me up here instead?” I patted the passenger’s seat and he jumped up on it. Got comfortable. Winston liked going for drives. It relaxed or soothed him or something.

  And what could I say? I liked having him with me for the same reason.

  On the round trip up to the suburb of Libertyville and back, I told him about my day. It didn’t feel like I was talking to myself when Winston listened so attentively and barked at reasonable intervals in response.

  “Can you believe that jackass?” I asked him as I gave the idiot in the blood-red Camaro the finger. “You saw him cut me off, right?”

  Winston barked.

  “I thought so,” I said, once again tempted to floor the gas pedal and see how fast I could get this tank moving on Route 45 South. But the jackass sped through a very yellow light, and I wasn’t dumb enough to follow him. At least not this time.

  Instead, I just pounded on the steering wheel and glared hard at the Camaro’s tires, willing them to run over a random nail. Would serve the bastard right.

  Winston hopped off the passenger’s seat while we were stopped and put his head into my lap, expecting to have his ears rubbed. And the second I touched his curly fur, I felt a little better. I didn’t even order him to return to his seat when the light turned green again and we approached the Mirabelle Harbor city limits.

  “So, what d’ya think, little guy? Should we drive around a while more, kill another half hour, or head directly to the party?”

  Winston glanced up at me with huge brown eyes and made this plaintive, throaty sound—part growl, part moan. He wanted to stay right where we were and continue to get petted.

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I assured him, “but we both know there’s no way my sister will let me get out of this. The good news is that you’ll have a big yard to run around in for a few hours. And there will be squirrels.”

  Winston’s ears perked up. Pretty sure he recognized that word.

  This latest Michaelsen family gathering was being held at my elder brother Derek’s place, which he shared with his wife Olivia and my three young nephews. It also happened to be the house where my siblings and I all grew up. A beautiful brick home on Lake Michigan, originally built by my grandparents in the late 1930s. It had been in our family for three generations now. When our parents died a few years back, Sharlene, Chance, Chandler, and I were in unanimous agreement that the house needed to stay in the family, so we made it easy for Derek and Olivia to buy us out. Hopefully one of their sons—James, Riley, or Peter—would be the next owner.

  As we pulled into the long driveway, I saw that my youngest brother’s Jeep was already there. No doubt Chance’s girlfriend Nia was with him. The two of them were joined at the hip these days.

  His twin, Chandler, had been roaming around the country since Mom died and was currently in Georgia (or so I was told). He wouldn’t be here.

  And I didn’t see Shar’s car, which, since my sister was unerringly punctual, meant she probably walked over from her friend Julia Crane’s place. My sister was house-sitting this weekend while Julia and her daughter were out of town, and their home was only a few blocks away.

  In other words, Winston and I were the last to arrive. As usual.

  I walked—and Winston trotted—around to the backyard. Most of our picnics were held on the back patio, unless the weather turned sour.

  Shar saw me first. “Surprise,” she said dryly, and pointed to a large chocolate birthday cake on the outside table.

  I rolled my eyes at her.

  “We know you hate surprises,” my sister retorted, “so we just made you a cake, which I’m sure you expected. So, it’s not really a surprise.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I did expect a cake and was grateful there seemed to be nothing else out of the ordinary. One year, Chandler thought it would be a good idea to hire a private exotic dancer as my birthday present. That was a surprise. While I found the whole thing kind of hilarious, actually (especially Shar and Olivia’s shock when the dancer started twirling around the living room in little more than a few sheer veils), my girlfriend at the time was less than amused. We broke up two days later.

  “Happy Birthday, man!” Derek said, walking over to greet me and shaking my hand. “Thirty-five. You’re getting old.”

  “Fuck you,” I said cheerfully. “And it’s not for another hour and fifty-three minutes.” Not that I was counting or anything.

  He laughed. “Close enough.”

  Derek was three years older than me and getting dangerously close to forty. But then, considering he had a wife of almost twelve years and three children, he had a lot to show for it.

  “Can I get you a beer?” my big brother asked.

  “I might have to hurt you if you don’t.”

  He laughed again and reached down and ruffled the fur on Winston’s head. “I’ve got some tasty scraps for you, boy.”

  Winston wagged his tail and set off on a beeline for the nephews, who were playing some kind of Frisbee-tag game with Chance and Nia in the middle of the yard. My kid brother and his girlfriend waved at me, but they were preoccupied with the little rugrats. Chance, who was twenty-eight and a professional personal trainer, had made it his mission to make sure James, Riley, and Peter got their daily recommended level of physical fitness minutes. He was kinda fanatical about it.

  My sister-in-law ushered me over. “Have some chips and salsa while Derek finishes the grilling,” Olivia said. “And fill us in on what’s been going on.”

  Derek handed me a cold bottle of beer, which tasted like heaven after the stress of the workday, and Olivia and Shar settled back in their lawn chairs and waited for me to entertain them.

  I launched into a few stor
ies about my coworkers at the radio station—Olivia always loved that—and then added a few Winston tales, which made Shar smile. By the time my birthday burgers were ready, I’d had another couple of beers and was feeling almost relaxed. I always thought it fitting that I’d been born in the middle of Happy Hour.

  “Come here, boy,” Derek called to my dog, waving some ground beef and a strip of bacon at him. He bounded toward us like a shot.

  As Winston gobbled up the meat treats, my brother laughed. “Different breed I know, but this little guy’s eagerness reminds me of Zeus. Remember how much he loved his food?”

  Yeah, I remembered.

  I nodded.

  Derek chuckled. “You ever think about him? Looking back, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were his favorite.”

  I didn’t begrudge my brother for living in our family home, gorgeous and spacious as it was. For me, it would have been torture. The place was a minefield of memories, many of them happy, but a hell of a lot that were heartbreaking, too.

  “I still think about Zeus. Still miss him,” I admitted, although I didn’t confirm that I was our golden retriever’s favorite, even though I knew I was.

  Since grade school, I’d cried exactly three times. At the funerals of each of my parents and when we had to put Zeus to sleep. I’d just turned fourteen when it happened, and it felt like I’d lost a sibling that day.

  My brother called over Chance, Nia, and the boys. “Time to eat, everyone!”

  The crew rushed to the patio, and I got several more birthday wishes, hugs, and back slaps.

  Little Peter, who was five and had just started kindergarten, wrapped his wiry arms around me and squeezed. “Happy Burffhday, Uncle Blake.”

  “Thanks,” I said. The kid had a little trouble with his “th”s, but he was so damned cute. Not that I wanted to be a parent or anything. I shuddered just thinking of the responsibility.

  As we fixed our burgers and dug into the potato salad, fruit, corn on the cob, and a bunch of savory Greek pastries that Nia had brought in (her family owned the Greek restaurant and bakery in town), the Michaelsen women regaled us with the latest Mirabelle Harbor gossip.