Bear Treble (Highland Brothers 4)

by Meredith Clarke

  Bear Treble

  Meredith Clarke

  Ally Summers

  Contents

  Copyright

  1. Dylan

  2. Layla

  3. Dylan

  4. Layla

  5. Dylan

  6. Layla

  7. Dylan

  8. Layla

  9. Dylan

  10. Layla

  11. Dylan

  12. Layla

  13. Dylan

  14. Layla

  15. Dylan

  16. Layla

  17. Dylan

  18. Layla

  19. Dylan

  20. Layla

  21. Dylan

  22. Layla

  23. Dylan

  24. Layla

  25. Dylan

  Delta Bear Preview

  Bear Treble

  Published By Ally Summers

  Copyright © 2015 Ally Summers

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or events are entirely the work of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Cover art by Cover Up Designs

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Dylan

  Dylan kicked one foot over the other and leaned back in his chair. The porch was usually his go-to spot for writing. He looked into the forest surrounding Highland House. It was beautiful here. Peaceful and still—just what he needed to write another song. Only, nothing was coming to him. Nothing had for weeks. He hoped the solitude and quiet would solve that.

  The pen was poised against his knee. His guitar was slung over his shoulder, but he didn’t even want to strum a G chord. He had tried all morning to string enough lyrics together to make sense, but so far he had failed. The page was blank.

  He watched the leaves flutter to the ground, gathering in soft piles around the trees. All the elements were perfect. Everything he needed was here. Except the music.

  He groaned, placing the guitar against the railing and threw his notepad on the wide deck boards.

  He raked one hand through his shaggy brown hair, and paced toward the edge of the wraparound porch. He needed this song. He needed six of them to be exact, but he had nothing to show for his refuge at the family home. He curled his hands into fists and marched into the house.

  His head jerked in the direction of his phone. Dylan reached for it on the kitchen counter. Shit. It was the record label.

  “Hello?”

  “Dylan, how’s it going? Do you have something to send us?” It was Billy.

  Dylan sighed. He needed more time. “I’ve got a few things. I just want them to be right.”

  “How much longer?”

  He tried to think how much time it would take for him to unleash the creativity that was blocked behind a massive wall. “Can you give me until the end of the weekend?”

  He heard a groan on the other end of the call. “Layla needs to get this album finished. She’s laid down half the tracks. You are holding us up, and we haven’t even heard the damn songs yet. We don’t know what they are, man.”

  “I know. I know, Billy.”

  “You might be the best songwriter out there, but…”

  Dylan didn’t want to hear the rest of the producer’s statement. “I’ll get the songs to you. You’ll love them. It will be her best album yet.”

  “I’m counting on that, Dylan. In the meantime, I’m dealing with holding Layla off on another writer.”

  “She can’t do that. We have a contract.”

  “But you haven’t produced any songs.”

  “Just tell her they’re coming. I’ll have them for you on Sunday.”

  “You don’t have any idea what I’m dealing with here. She doesn’t like to hear ‘no’. I’ve really stuck my neck out for you.”

  “I know you have.” He didn’t want to get into who was doing the favor for whom.

  Billy had called two months begging for fresh material for the singer. She wasn’t happy with anything he had pitched to her. She wanted something undeniably amazing.

  When he agreed to write for Layla Love the songs had been flowing freely. He had lost count of how many top ten hits he had. He could cross genres. He was in demand. He never thought writing for the rock and soul queen would drain him of the wave he was riding.

  He could feel it. The lyrics were there beneath the surface, but they wouldn’t come forward. He wasn’t going to explain his creative obstacles to Billy.

  “Tell her she’ll have her album Sunday. Ok?”

  Billy laughed. “Maybe I can convince her to go to a spa or something. She had a few days off between events.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Dylan ended the call and shoved the phone in his pocket.

  A slight growl rumbled through his chest. He closed his eyes, clenching his fists. No. He wouldn’t give into his bear. He wouldn’t let him roam the woods like an animal. He was an artist. He was a man. He didn’t give a shit what the shifter in him wanted.

  He pushed open the front door and settled on the porch again, leaning over to pick up the blank notepad. He had to write something no matter how terrible it was.

  2

  Layla

  “What do you mean he doesn’t have the songs?” Layla stood facing her producer.

  “He said by the weekend.” Billy tried to offer her a cup of coffee. She knew when she was being managed. “Sunday at the latest.”

  “I’m supposed to start a winter tour. I have to have this album finished before I go out on the road. What am I going to promote?” She shoved the cup away. “I thought Dylan Highland was supposed to be the best,” she fumed.

  “He is, Layla. He’s given you half the album.”

  “I want the other half.” Her green eyes flared. “Now.”

  “The man is in high demand. He’s easily written twenty songs this year, plus the six you have. He’ll come through. I know him. He won’t let you down.”

  She turned her gaze on the producer. “And if he does? What then? I’ll only have half the songs.”

  Billy shook his head. “Won’t happen. The man’s an artist, but he’s also a professional. He won’t default on the contract. I guarantee it.”

  “All right. A few more days, but that’s it.” She walked toward the door. Her bodyguard was waiting on the other side.

  “Why don’t you go that new spa in Palm Springs? I could have Anna call the jet for you and make all the reservations. Sounds like a good way to revv up for the album.”

  She glared at him. “I’m not taking off with the album in the middle of production.”

  “Don’t worry, Layla. You’ll have it. You’ll be back in the studio Monday ready to go with the rest of the tracks.”

  She hesitated by the door. “I’m looking forward to hearing what he comes up with. Where is he by the way?”

  Billy shrugged his shoulders. “I think up at his family cabin. You know he’s one of the Highlands don’t you?”

  She had made the connection when she first heard Dylan’s name. Every popular artist knew his name. He had as many Grammy Awards as she had pairs of boots—and that was a lot.

  “He’s Hudson Highland’s
cousin, right?”

  “Mmmhmm. Talented family.” The producer nodded. “We’ve been friends for years.”

  “Thanks, Billy. I’ll see you Monday with the new songs?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She closed the door behind her and smiled at her bodyguard.

  “Would you like me to pull the car around, Miss Love?” he asked.

  “Sure.” She twisted her full lips together. She suddenly had an idea. There might be a way to get that album faster than Billy’s timetable.

  When Hal pulled up in front of the label with her SUV, she slid into the backseat. “Can you take me by my place?”

  “Of course.” He merged onto the road.

  She did a quick online search on her phone for the Highland family cabin. Although, there wasn’t an address online, she had a way of getting her hands on it. She called the head of her security.

  Dylan Highland was about to find out how songs were made.

  3

  Dylan

  He pulled the cup of coffee to his lips. It was almost dark and the woods hummed with the sounds of nightfall. His ears perked at every snap of a twig or bird flapping its wings. No matter what he did, he couldn’t turn them off. He couldn’t silence his bear senses. He couldn’t dial down the hearing or the sense of smell. And lately, his bear was becoming more demanding.

  He wanted to run free. He wanted his fur to feel the night air. He wanted to climb a tree, and run through the Highland woods. Dylan refused to give in to him. Every time the sensations tried to claw him from the inside out, he chained his bear, yanking hard against the impulses.

  The rest of his family had embraced their animal nature. The Highland Clan was strong and powerful in this part of the country. The rest of the world thought they were an unusually talented family of artists and writers, but had no clue underneath the art they were shifters living double lives.

  Dylan wanted to be different. He wanted to live as a normal man. Not some kind of beast, beckoned by primal nature. He snarled at the thought of shifting, but scolded himself as soon as he felt his bear cling to the sounds he made.

  He rested the coffee mug on the railing, and looked at the words on the page. He knew it was complete shit. He’d never met Layla Love, but he knew she wasn’t about to sing this.

  He ripped the page, crumpling it in his large hands until it was a wadded ball. “Damn it,” he muttered.

  He was running out of time. Billy wanted six songs by the end of the weekend. And if he was really delivering what he should, he’d give the producer eight to ten. There was no doubt Layla would want to choose her own out of the batch. Six would be selling her short.

  He pressed the tip of the pen against the first line on the pad. The ink seeped into the paper, making a blot that stained through to the next page.

  He scribbled a few lines then picked up his guitar. It was small against his barrel of a chest. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the notes floating in front of his eyes, but his ears twitched.

  He could hear the crunch of gravel and the familiar sound of an engine peeling through the winding Highland drive.

  “What the hell?”

  He laid the guitar down, careful not to let it hit the porch. He stood to greet the car tearing down the dirt driveway.

  The car stopped short of the front steps. A man climbed from the driver side of the SUV and walked to the back. Dylan watched as a high heel touched the ground followed by another.

  “Thank you, Hal.”

  The driver closed the door, revealing the mysterious occupant was none other than Layla Love.

  Dylan peered at her as she walked slowly toward the stairs. Her heels kept getting stuck in the rocks.

  “Are you the infamous Dylan Highland?” She smiled, taking a step closer. “I know we’ve never met, but I feel like we have. I’m Layla.”

  As her first pointy shoe touched the bottom step, Dylan felt the sharp intake of air almost strangle him. It ran through his limbs, gripping him from the inside, yanking at his lungs, grasping his heart, hammering against his veins.

  He reached for the banister, desperate to calm his bear. Desperate to fight the reaction he was having to Layla.

  He swallowed hard. “I know who you are. What are you doing out here?” It sounded like the words were strangled in the back of his throat.

  “I came to get my songs.” She puckered her lips together.

  She was drawing closer, and his blood was thickening under his skin. His pulse raced with an eagerness he’d never felt.

  “They aren’t ready.” It was all he could manage to say. He was trying to fasten the chains to his bear. Trying to stop what was coursing through his system, but he knew it was too late.

  His bear was awake. Awake like he had never been before. He was on fire, raging to touch her, to hold her, to kiss those pouty lips. He squeezed his hands by his side, forcing them to stay still.

  This was fucking Layla Love. The number one rock and soul princess in the world. The woman had more fans than anyone else on the planet.

  And she was his mate.

  4

  Layla

  She’d never met Dylan, but she didn’t expect him to be so tall. Actually, she didn’t expect him to be hot and sexy either. Most songwriters she worked with were lanky guys who were too many days overdue for a shower. She tried not to stare at his physique, but under the porch light all she could see was the sharp lines of his jaw and a definite pulse in his neck.

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.” She sashayed up the stairs until she was next to him on the landing. “I’ve come to help. I want to speed things along.”

  “Y-you can’t do that. I’ll get you the songs.”

  “That’s what Billy said. And I know you two are friends, but I can’t put my entire career in Billy’s hands.” She paused. “Or yours.”

  She felt Dylan’s eyes on her as she strolled toward the guitar. “Billy is a great producer. You should listen to him. He knows what he is talking about.”

  She saw the notebook resting on the railing next to a cup of coffee. “Is this one of the songs?” There were two lines scrawled across the top next to an apparent ink stain.

  He walked toward her, snatching the notebook from her hands. “They aren’t ready for you to read.” He took a solid breath. “You didn’t need to drive out here, Layla. I promised you the songs and you’ll get them. I work better without distractions.”

  She placed her hand on her chest. “Are you calling me a distraction?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I write your check. I write everyone’s checks,” she huffed. “I’m going to be singing these so-called lyrics you’re guarding. I have a right to be a part of this process.”

  Hal was waiting by her car, and she still hadn’t decided what to do with him. He was good at pretending to ignore her conversations. He had certainly overheard his share of her personal exchanges. Hal probably knew more about her than anyone.

  “Are you pulling the boss card on me?” Dylan’s eyes suddenly looked dark and fierce. “Because you’re not my boss. I don’t have a boss. I choose who I write for.”

  “You signed a contract and I want my songs.” She was close to pressing her finger into his chest. It was tempting if only to feel how solid it might be.

  “You’ll get them,” he snarled.

  His shoulders were broad. She could see how the tops of his biceps bulged against his T-shirt. Dylan Highland was possibly an ass, but damn he was built like a football player.

  “Then I’ll stay until they’re done.” She called over the porch. “Hal, unload my bags please.”

  “What? Stay here? I didn’t invite you in.” Dylan’s eyes protested as much as his words.

  “The house looks enormous. Are you telling me you don’t have room for me?”

  He took a step backward. “Look, Layla. I can’t finish these songs if you’re hovering around, waiting for them. Have your driver take you back to Seattle. I’ll
get them to you Saturday. How about that? A day earlier than I told Billy.”

  She smiled at Hal as he dropped her bags by the front door. “Thanks, Hal.”

  He nodded at her, waiting for his next set of instructions. “Would you like for me to inspect the premises, Miss Love?”

  “I think I’ll be fine.”

  “No you will not.” Dylan spoke through clenched teeth.

  She ignored him and looked directly at Hal. “I’ll call you when I’m ready to get back to the city.”

  “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?” The bodyguard leaned toward her ear. “There’s no security out here.”

  “I think Mr. Highland can handle security for the weekend. Besides, no one knows where I am. And there certainly isn’t anyone out here.” She had noticed how civilization seemed to vanish as they drove out of the city and neared the family estate.

  Dylan held his breath, his face almost turning red. “He’s right. There’s no security out here for you. It’s better if you go back with him.”

  “I’m staying.” She tilted her head toward him. “I’ll leave as soon as we have the right songs for the album. I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?”

  He exhaled through his teeth. “Fine. You can stay. But as soon as we’re done, you’re headed back.”

  Layla folded her arms across her chest. “Perfect.”

  5

  Dylan

  He stood there staring down at her bags on the porch. He was sure they were made from Italian leather—he could smell the rich hide. The taillights faded around the corner as Hal drove the SUV back to Seattle. Layla had walked inside, oblivious to the sheer pain surging through him.

  The pages on his notebook fluttered on the porch, reminding him unfinished songs were only the beginning of his problems. His bear was ready to rip through him.