Lie to Me (Rising Star Book 1)

by Lee Piper

  Sybil Bartel, not only are you a phenomenal author, but you taught me more about the writer’s craft over messenger than all of the workshops I’ve attended combined. Thank you for taking my horrendously shitty excerpts and helping me morph them into something I am truly proud of. Thank you for paying it forward. I promise to do the same. If this novel is successful, it’s because of you, and if it isn’t, it’s because I didn’t apply your suggestions properly.

  Amber Hodge, you are amazing. I’m not even kidding when I say I would be lost without you. Your comments are honest, hilarious, and on point. I love how you never let me get away with writing half-assed scenes. I love how you push me to become a better writer. Your enthusiasm for authors and the written word is so damn wonderful, it’s a blessing to work alongside you. Just a heads up, I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m chaining you to your desk so we can do this again.

  Cassandra Cox, editor extraordinaire. How you made it through this novel the first time around without your head exploding, I’ll never know. What’s your secret? Whiskey? Acupuncture? A dartboard with my face on it? Thank you for your eye for detail, for staying true to the voice of the narrative, and for making it sound a shit-ton better than it originally was. I am in awe of what you do.

  Hang Le, you are a goddess amongst mortals. Your cover designs are gorgeous, breath-taking, and better than I ever dreamed. I am so thankful to you for bringing my vision to life.

  Stacey Blake, I’ve never been so excited to see formatting in my life. You have made the inside of my book baby just as beautiful as the outside—thank you.

  To those who have been with me from the very beginning, Chantal, Rosie, Tarina, Lesley, and Mum, your belief in me renders me speechless. Thank you.

  Billie, you jumped in at the eleventh hour and I am so very, very glad you did. Thank you for asking the hard questions, thank you for your honesty. This book is all the better for it.

  There are many authors I look up to as role models: Kylie Scott, Ella Fields, Lucia Franco, Saffron A Kent, Tess Woods, Giana Darling, Charleigh Rose, Meghan March, Ginger Scott, and L.J. Shen, (to name a few). Ladies, you. Are. Inspirational. I stalked you shamelessly on social media before growing some lady balls and contacting you in one way or another. The reason for this was not only because your talent blew my mind, but also because you are humble, selfless, genuine, intelligent, and sincerely excited for the success of others. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.

  To my family and friends, the fact you can still look me in the eye after the smut I’ve written says everything about how brilliant you are.

  A huge shout-out to Adelaide band, Tabula Rasa. Thank you for letting me sit in on your band practice, for answering my gazillion questions, and then bursting my eardrums in the best way possible.

  Bloggers, I love you so hard. Sharing a passion for books and reading is the cornerstone of the writing biz. It is because of you more and more people are exposed to the amazing talent out there. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

  Readers, if it weren’t for you, none of this would be possible. You are the reason I put pen to paper, you are the reason my characters come to life. For every book bought, for every page turned, and for every sigh uttered, I thank you.

  Lee Piper is a lover of books. When not writing, she is either reading, at the beach, or eating her body weight in chocolate.

  Inspired by Kylie Scott’s Stage Dive series, Lee Piper wrote her debut novel in 2017. Rock My World became a bestseller within the first two weeks of publication and was a Raven Award finalist for Favorite Contemporary Romance and Favorite Cover. Her second novel, Rock My Body, was voted Best Book by LASR Readers and was a finalist in the 2017 Readers’ Choice Award.

  Lee Piper lives in Adelaide, South Australia, with her drummer husband, cheeky daughters, and neurotic dog.

  Turn the page to read an excerpt from As You Were, Book 2 in the Rising Star series!

  Excerpt from AS YOU WERE

  Book 2 in the Rising Star series

  Lee Piper

  Copyright © 2018

  Chapter One

  “Your E’s out,” Zeke barks.

  I take a deep breath, hold it, then exhale.

  “Willow, did you hear me? I said it’s out of tune.”

  “Yeah, I heard you.” I adjust the tuning pegs for the trillionth time.

  “Where the fuck are Drake and Reid? Should’ve been here an hour ago,” he grumbles.

  “On their way. They messaged me a few minutes ago.” They didn’t, and there’s every possibility Drake is still asleep, but I’m not telling Zeke Danton that.

  Zeke grunts, then goes back to running microphone leads from the PA to Reid’s drum kit. “We’ve only got two weeks to get this record done. They’re wasting my fucking time.”

  I glance at the country’s most prolific music producer. Since first meeting him an hour ago, concentrating has been almost impossible. Aren’t producers meant to be old? Aren’t they meant to be ugly? He’s lucky to be thirty and could give magazine cover models a run for their money.

  The man in question is crouched in front of Reid’s bass drum, his back to me. It’s a strong back, broad, muscular. The material of his plain black T-shirt is stretched so tight, his deltoids ripple beneath the fabric. I blink. Forcing my mind back to the task at hand, I hum a quick melody then play the accompanying tune.

  “Thought I told you to get your Fender restrung before we started pre-production.”

  My fingers pause on the instrument. I take another deep, steadying breath. “The tuner did restring it. He promised me my guitar was fine when I picked it up from the shop yesterday.”

  Zeke snorts.

  I sigh.

  “Play the chord progression again. I want to hear a complete song.”

  Nodding, I turn the tuning pegs ever so slightly to the right. Again. Then, because I need a moment, my eyelids flutter shut as I imagine the ocean. It’s a technique Mom taught me as a child. An image of gentle cerulean waves rolling into the shore then retreating fills my mind. I imagine all of the negative energy in the studio being dragged out with the tide, gone forever.

  A weight lifts.

  With my eyes still closed, I grip the guitar pick between my thumb and forefinger, throw up a quick prayer to Eutychia, goddess of luck, and play.

  The clean tone bursts through the speakers. All at once succumbing to the pleasure which is my Fender Telecaster, I lose myself in the sound. My fingers slide up and down the fretboard while the guitar pick coaxes a myriad of notes from the instrument. It’s crisp, sharp, on point.

  Perfect.

  “No.”

  I stop. High-pitched feedback echoes through the studio. My voice is tight. “Is something wrong?”

  “Your E’s still out.”

  Glancing at the digital tuner nestled between the pedals of my effects board, I scrunch my nose. “How can it be out if the light is green? Green means my guitar’s in tune.”

  He snorts again. “Tuner’s a guide. Use your ears.”

  Growling, I shake my head. Loose auburn curls fall about my face and bangs tumble into my eyes. Puffing a quick exhalation, the hair flies into the air before settling on either side of my face. Once again, I twist the tuning pegs a quarter of an inch to the right. Then, closing my eyes, I murmur, “Please, please, please, please.”

  My guitar pick teases the strings softly, gently, a lover’s caress. The sound is different this time. It’s cleaner, more melodic and sweet—a direct contrast to the man intent on riding my ass. Before long, intricate riffs form. They layer one on top of another, creating a beautiful symphony amplified by the studio’s acoustics.

  “Told you.”

  Zeke’s gravelly voice cuts through the music. My fingers pause, the final notes fading through the PA until nothing but static fills the silence.

  Realization dawns.

  “Wow.” My eyes flick from my instrument to where he’s crouched by my feet, unraveling yet another mic lead.r />
  He says nothing. His gaze, like always, is fixed on the equipment.

  “You were right. The slightest change made all the difference.” I marvel at the back of his head. “Thank you, the tone never sounded so sweet.”

  He grunts.

  He freaking grunts.

  “You’re not a people person, are you?”

  Silence.

  “Zeke?”

  Nothing.

  Oh hell no.

  Planting fisted hands on my hips, I glare at his dark, closely-cropped hair. If it wasn’t for the guitar swaying from the movement, I would look total badass. “It’s rude to ignore people, you know. And it’s really rude not to look them in the eye when they’re speaking.”

  He stills. Zeke turns. His movement is slow, deliberate. I swallow, resisting the urge to stumble back. His gaze purposely travels the length of my bare legs. They’re perfectly ordinary, with ankles and knees and everything in between. But under his scrutiny, they become something more, something desirable. My calves never felt so smooth, my thighs never so lean. I shiver. His stare flits over my denim cut-offs, partially obscured by my Fender, and rests a moment too long on my exposed stomach. It then takes in the loose, cropped T-shirt and caresses the outline of my breasts. They’re made even more obvious by the guitar strap resting between them, and it takes everything I have not to arch my back.

  Zeke’s jaw tightens.

  My thighs clench.

  Since my shirt hangs haphazardly off one shoulder, his stare zeros in on the dusting of freckles near my collarbone. Goose bumps break out on my skin. Taking his sweet-ass time, Zeke’s gaze then roams my neck, lips, cheeks, hair, and finally, finally, his eyes meet mine.

  Whoa.

  Sun-kissed bronze. I’ve never seen anything like it. His eyes are golden caramel mixed with flecks of amber and tawny. There’s no doubt about it—if I don’t say something soon, I’m going to jump him.

  “See?” Breathless. Crap. “Knew you could do it.”

  With more grace than he has a right to, Zeke stands. My head tips back to take him all in. He’s tall—maybe six-two, six-three?—and built like a mountain. The man is close, so close I inhale his scent—pine needles after heavy rain. I take in a lungful, wanting to secret away this part of him before he shatters the illusion of perfection by speaking.

  Zeke’s eyes drop to my lips.

  I swallow.

  He swallows.

  “Zeke, sugar?”

  His head whips to the right. Standing in the doorway is a tall, curvaceous bombshell. From the glistening cobalt hair cascading over tan shoulders, to the hourglass figure enhanced by a white wrap-dress, she is everything I’m not. Her flawless makeup is artfully applied, and if I hazard a guess, she’s either in her late twenties or early thirties. She wears it well. So well, it takes everything I have not to groan out loud. Is she lost?

  Then I remember the intimate way she greeted Zeke. My insides constrict.

  “Oh.” Red manicured nails clutch a voluptuous chest. “Am I interrupting?” With a smile that’s two parts conniving and one part candid, the woman saunters toward me, her bejewelled hand outstretched. “I’m Selena, Zeke’s wife. And you are…?”

  Stunned.

  Zeke’s voice is hard. “She’s no one.”

  Ouch.

  I glare at Zeke. Married Zeke. Married Zeke who eye-fucked me not thirty seconds ago. Asshole.

  Selena’s teeth are a blinding white. “Zeke, honey, that’s unkind. Look at the poor girl, you’ve made her angry.”

  He doesn’t look at me, thankfully. There’s every chance I’d stab him in the pupil with my guitar pick if he did. Sexy eyes be damned.

  “You’re not my wife. And anything you have to say to me can be done through my lawyer. Now get out.”

  I step back.

  Her long fingers wrap around Zeke’s bicep. It’s strange—they look so tiny against the broad muscle bulging from beneath his T-shirt. “Until you sign the divorce papers, I’m your wife in every way that counts, sugar.”

  He shakes her off. “I’m not signing shit until you change the terms.”

  It’s beyond awkward standing in the middle of a conversation clearly not meant for me. “I’m just gonna…” Placing my guitar on its stand, I point at the door.

  “No, stay. Please.”

  I glance at Selena. There is every chance my eyebrows are lost in the abyss of my bangs.

  She gestures to my instrument. “You’re recording with Zeke, right?”

  Reluctantly, I nod. “My band is, yeah.”

  She turns to her husband, batting thick eyelashes. “Isn’t he a talented music producer? One of the best, don’t you think?”

  “Um.” I take another step back. This is beyond weird.

  Zeke’s jaw tightens.

  Not wanting to appear ungrateful for the opportunity, I nod. “He’s got a real ear for music.”

  “That he does.” Selena smiles. However, when she faces me, her eyes narrow. “But a word of advice, don’t get close to him.”

  “Selena,” Zeke warns.

  “He’ll only drag you down too.”

  I have no idea what to say. Luckily, Selena doesn’t appear to expect a response. Instead, she tips her head to one side, inspecting me. “And you’re cute. Young, but cute. I’d hate for you to be disappointed too.”

  “Get the fuck out before I throw you out.”

  Selena’s smirk is devilish when she turns to Zeke. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, sweetie?” She steps between Zeke and me, her floral perfume disorientating. “I remember how you used to love throwing me around.” She rubs her large breasts against his chest. The pulse at the base of his neck jumps, and even though the sight is sickening, for the life of me, I can’t look away. “Gets me hot just thinking about it.”

  “Out. Now.”

  Selena leans forward, whispering loudly in Zeke’s ear, “I’ve left the paperwork on your mixing console.” With a nip to his earlobe, she steps back, winks, and struts from the studio.

  Wow.

  “That was…” I blink, shaking my head. “Zeke, I—”

  He rounds on me. “Why aren’t you playing guitar? I told you I wanted to hear a complete song. Don’t fucking waste my time.”

  I reel back as though struck.

  Enough. How many times has he treated me like shit in the last hour? Three? Four times? Four times too many. Just as I’m about to tell Zeke Danton where he can shove his crazy-assed wife and hurtful reactionary comments, I remember everything I have to lose if I do.

  A million-dollar contract.

  A debut album.

  A national tour.

  Mom.

  Goddammit.

  My hands clench and unclench at my sides. Turning my back on him, I once again close my eyes, needing time to collect myself. This time, I imagine being enveloped in positive energy. Gradually, a bright white light full of bristling sparks cocoons me in an aura of optimism. My body grows warm, heated from the crackling charge. Then, when I’m overflowing with pulsing vitality, I stop.

  Inhale.

  “Hurry up.”

  Exhale.

  “I don’t have all fucking day.”

  Inhale.

  “Quit standing there and move.”

  Exhale.

  Opening my eyes, I turn to my instrument, disregarding the man-mountain glowering nearby. After placing the guitar strap over one shoulder, I take the pick from where I slipped it beneath the strings for safekeeping and put it between my teeth.

  Zeke watches me, his beautiful face twisted in irritation.

  Staring at him, I retrieve the pick from my mouth, lift my right hand in the air, and pause. Raising a pointed eyebrow, I swoop my arm down.

  Boom.

  A barrage of sound erupts from the speakers. My fingers fly over the frets while the pick in my right hand becomes a blur. Faster and faster I play, the clean chords growing sharper, clearer with each stroke.

  Zeke blinks. Once
, twice, three times. It’s enough for a small smile to tug the corners of my mouth as I switch my focus to the instrument coming alive in my hands.

  This. This is why I play. For the freedom, the joy, the sheer pleasure of blowing people’s minds.

  So I shred.

  Like a goddamn rock star.

  Want to learn more about Willow and Zeke’s story? Join my reader group, Lee’s Pipers!