What to Read After FSOG: The Gemstone Collection (WTRAFSOG Book 3)

by Lauren Hawkeye

  I know I’m going to miss so many people, and I hate that. So many people have been a part of this amazing journey with me that I’d love to put on blast. I want to give a special thanks to my personal friends/family for the support and encouragement along the way. Abby Gregory, Bobbi-Jo Owens, Nicole Landmark, Kristin LeFort (and again, I’m sure I’m missing someone), thank you guys so much for having my back the whole way. Not once did you tell me I was stupid or that my book was dumb. Your interest and support helped push me to finish this, so thank you. J.L. Brooks-you rock and all your kind words have done wonders for me. Jenn B-I love you, that is all. Jaimi MacMomma-you’re brilliant. Thanks for the awesome videos! Jennifer W. & Sam S.-thanks so much for doing some proofreading while reading your ARC’s…I really appreciate that. I’d like to thank Holly M. for giving me the inspiration for the word ‘twat waffle’. I’m sure I could have found it in the Urban Dictionary, but it was better hearing it from her.

  I’d also like to give a special thanks to all the other indie authors who have paved the road to self-publishing now being an acceptable way to show our stories. I know I bow down to all of you who have pushed past the boundaries that have constricted the depth of people your amazing stories were allowed to touch. I honestly wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for all you awesome indie authors. You have proven that hard work does pay off and to never give up on your dreams. So thank you!

  Okay last but not least, I want to give made props to all the bloggers out there. I’m sure the indie world might survive without all of y’all, but it wouldn’t very well. You guys are amazing, and make it go round. You do so much for us, and sometimes (okay, maybe lots of times) aren’t appreciated enough as you should be. I’m so thankful for your mad skills of being so passionate about all authors in general and wanting to share your passion for others. I love you all.

  Seriously, if I forgot anyone, please don’t hate me.

  A big flipping thank you to Michelle Valentine for allowing my boys to go on tour with Noel and the boys from Black Falcon. Girl, everyone has been ecstatic once they’ve seen that. Anyone who hasn’t read it yet, you really need to read her Black Falcon Series.

  ~Rock The Heart, Rock The Band, and Rock My Bed. Don’t forget to check out her book Demon At My Door as well. This woman has some mad skill.

  Huge thanks to my editor at KMS Freelance Editing. Thanks for being so patient with me, and helping me keep my crazy deadline. I appreciate you busting your butt to help me. Can’t wait to work on No Going Back with you. Also, thanks to JT Formatting for getting MoFo ready for people to read and for squeezing me into her busy schedule when I upped my release date. I appreciate you guys so much!!

  Last but not least, I want to thank Toski and Sommer. You guys have blown my mind with your mad cover skills. Thank you guys so much for just being you. You gals are the most kindest, sweetest ladies ever and I’m so glad I’ve had the privilege of meeting and working with you guys on all my re-covers and covers to come. And special thanks to the couple on the cover—Kraig Shutters and Katlyn Nicole.

  Continue the Timing is Everything series with No Going Back

  About the Author

  Being born an “Army Brat”, Erika Ashby has been residing in Oklahoma the last 10 years finally putting an end to the nomad tendencies she had grown accustomed to. She’s a happily married woman who has 5 kids between her and her husband. She has an insane passion for music and embraces her Inner Groupie any chance she has. It wasn’t until the age of 29 that she realized she also had a hidden passion for reading; before then she claimed to have hated it. Six months after unlocking that deep desire she never knew she held, she turned the key to another chapter of her life which has become the desire to write. And the rest is still history in the making.

  Connect with Erika online!

  Website:

  http://www.authorerikaashby.com/

  Facebook:

  https://www.facebook.com/AuthorEAshby

  Twitter:

  https://twitter.com/ErikaAshby

  Author Page:

  Amazon

  The Devil’s Tattoo

  Nicole R. Taylor

  The Devil’s Tattoo by Nicole R. Taylor

  Copyright © 2013 Nicole R. Taylor

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

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

  All song titles, song lyrics, products and band names mentioned in this book are the property of the sole copyright owners.

  Cover Design: © Christa Holland – Paper and Sage Designs

  You can holler, you can wail

  You can swing, you can flail

  You can f**k like a broken sail

  But I’ll never give you up, If I ever give you up

  My heart will surely fail

  –Future Starts Slow, The Kills

  Chapter One

  Zoe

  “Zoe Granger! I knew I recognised those hot legs of yours.”

  I looked down at my black skinny jeans and combat boots and shrugged. That slick looking busker with the guitar there? That’s my best friend Dylan, but I call him Dee. Everyone does and I always have.

  “Sup Dee, making any cash today?”

  Pointing to the blue velvet interior of his guitar case, he wiggled his eyebrows. “There’s a couple of tenners in there, Zo Zo. The Milky Bars are on me tonight.”

  He threw an arm around me, tugging on my hair and planted a kiss on my cheek. I breathed in his familiar scent of leather and musk and pushed him off with a playful shove. I have long dark brown hair that hits my lower back and wearing it in a braid is better than brushing it most days when I roll out of bed at five am for work.

  Dee and I have been best friends since year seven. We were both about twelve then. The first year of high school we were both awkward outcasts and we just fit together. We ended up in different classes, but still managed to hang out every chance we got. Now, we’re both twenty-four and I can’t remember a week going by where I didn’t speak with him. I can’t even remember us having a fight that lasted more than an afternoon.

  The brisk mid-afternoon Melbourne swelled around us along with the sickly sweet smell of the natural cosmetics and soap shop Dee’s currently out front of. How he managed to sweet talk the girls in there to plug in his amp for free, I’ll never know. I’d bet anyone anything that they all have an epic crush on him.

  Dee busked here almost every day. He’s the die-hard musician type. Always on the lookout for his big break into stardom, but truthfully he earns a bucket load playing on the street. That’s the reality of being Dee. The awkward kid from high school grew up to be a smooth talking, handsome, tattooed man. When the hell did that happen?

  “You off work for today?” he asked, propping his guitar against the shop front.

  “Yeah,” I said and buried my hands in the pockets of my leather biker jacket. I worked in the mailroom of a building up on William Street, the business end of the city, sorting mail for a law firm. It wasn’t glamorous, but they didn’t care what I wore or that I had an arm full of tattoos as long as I did my job and exited by the side door. They learned quick smart that I put my head down and worked and for what must be the first time in history, they rewarded me with a slackened dress code.

  “Wanna play with me? I’ll take vocals,” he asked.

  “Hell, no.”

  The last year and a half had been hard. The only thing that kept me on the up and up was my guitar. I just couldn’t face the world anymore and the only one who stuck around was Dee. He gave me his beat up black Stratocaster to practice on, pro
mising that it would take my mind off all the bullshit that had happened and he was right on the money. I played every day, got blisters on my fingers, sat there for hours nutting out some silly chord progression that should have been simple until I got it. I moved onto harder things and worked those out on my own, too. And soon enough, life got a little easier as well. I still hid from the world in my own shell, but I didn’t dwell on those things as much.

  As I got better and better with the guitar, I decided to buy my own and give Dee’s back. I now had a matte black Epiphone Les Paul with a pedal collection to rival Jack White’s and Dee was jealous as hell. He still tried to get me to busk with him, but I still declined and it’s like a running joke now. Hey Zo, wanna play with me? Hell, no.

  Dee laughed and shook his head. “One day I’ll have you up there on a bloody stage, chicken.”

  “In your dreams, buddy.”

  He wiggled his eyebrows at me again. “I have the best dreams. Wanna hear one?”

  “Ugh.” I screwed up my face in disgust. “No thanks.”

  He bent down and started scraping the coins and notes from his case. “I’m cutting it early today. Are you going home?”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged. “Do you wanna go get a drink later?”

  “Sure. Anything to spend time with a hot woman.”

  No wonder the girls fall over themselves when he’s around with a mouth like that. “You’ll never get a girlfriend if you keep flirting with me like that. You know I’m a dead end.”

  “If I’m still single at forty, I’m proposing to you.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh as I went to retrieve the other end of the amp’s power cord. “Deal.”

  After Dee was done blowing kisses to the girls in the shop, we walked the three blocks down to Flinders Street to catch the train home. Dee with his guitar and case full of shrapnel and me with the amp. It’s only a small thing, so I don’t mind carrying it into the station.

  Dee lives in Prahran with dodgy roommates and I live across the highway in St Kilda in a one bedroom shoebox. We’re both within ten minutes of the same station and it makes getting home by cab a hell of a lot cheaper. And riding the train is more eventful with someone to share it with. I wasn’t the kind of person who made friends easily. I guess you could put it down to a few bad experiences. Trust is a hot commodity in the world of Zoe Granger, outcast extraordinaire.

  We sat on a seat on the open platform, waiting for the next Sandringham train as people walked past us. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was something we did all the time. I knocked off work and found Dee in the city and we shared the ride home. A group of girls walked past and giggled, eyeing him as they passed. The thing about Dee is that he looks like he’s in a band even if he’s only walking down the street with his slicked back quiff and sunglasses and all. He’s smooth as hell. Total ladies man. Sometimes I think I’m jealous of the attention he gets.

  I snorted and looked the opposite way and saw someone interesting coming down the escalators. My eyes didn’t focus at first, but my brain registered that this guy is worth a second look, but Dee elbowed me.

  “Train’s comin’.”

  I stood and watched the lights of the train approaching through the tunnel and the guy passed us on the platform. He’s a typical indie looking guy with a shock of long curly hair in his eyes. Eyes that looked at us indirectly. You know when you want to check someone out, but at least attempt to be a little covert about it? He’s trying at least. Me, I stared at him as he walked by. He looked very familiar and I wondered where I’d seen him before.

  Dee looked at him over his glasses. “You know him?”

  I shrugged. “Isn’t he in that band, The Stabs?”

  “Yeah. Bass player.” I could tell Dee was disinterested.

  At that moment the train pulled into the platform and we dragged the gear into the carriage.

  Me and guys? Well, that was something that I didn’t go near anymore. And guys in bands? That was something I especially didn’t go near. I absently rubbed the scar on my arm through the sleeve of my jacket and settled into a free seat next to Dee. Yeah, I definitely didn’t need a guy.

  Dee and I frequented this bar off Chapel Street, mainly for the cheap drinks and especially not for the decor. It’s called Ted’s Shed and it looked exactly like its title. They served Mexican food and alcohol. The place wasn’t exactly upper class, but the people were friendly and it’s within our price range. Because of this, it’s always crammed with a lot of young locals. Students, artists, hipsters. The posters on the wall are either Hawaiian themed or some kind of tattoo art and every now and then there is a fake potted plant strategically placed to hide a pole or an ugly wall of corrugated iron. There are plastic hula girls on the bar and it’s decorated with fake flowers. This place is what you call ironic.

  When I’m feeling down, I come here and get a fluro colored cocktail. Eight bucks gets you a sugar hangover and a few hours of ignorant bliss. Dee sat with me at a lopsided table in the corner. He’s scowling at his bright pink drink like it’ll sprout wings and steal his manhood. Mine is orange and already starting to help.

  I stroked the scar on my arm hidden in amongst the Japanese dragon that’s tattooed there and I don’t realize I’m doing it until Dee narrowed his eyes at me. When I broke it, it was the beginning of the end and it’s never healed one hundred percent. I covered up something ugly with something beautiful.

  “Is your arm worrying you?” Dee asked, watching my fingers.

  “No,” I shook my head and let my hand fall away. It’s a nervous gesture I’d developed more than anything. My arm aches sometimes, but nothing bad.

  A group of girls across the bar laugh loudly and I looked over. Sometimes I think I’m dragging Dee down by being such a mess. I feel bad about it, but I know that without him, I’d be in a much worse place than I currently am. And right now, I’m just coasting and I guess that’s better than sinking.

  I looked over at the group of girls again as they put on their coats and I recognized Beth amongst them. I don’t know who the others were, but Beth I’d recognize anywhere. She’s the super alternative goth type, with long black hair and Bettie Page fringe. She looked like a pin up model even when she was in her gym gear.

  “Isn’t that…?” Dee began to ask and I elbowed him.

  I hoped she didn’t see us and went the other way. I can’t take her judgment tonight. I can’t take her judgment at all. Once, we used to be good friends before everything. When I was happy and I didn’t have the constant reminder of my pathetic life scarred on my arm. Before she took sides and believed a lie. Like I needed her around to remind me how blind I had been.

  They walked towards the door away from us and to my relief, didn’t look our way. Close call.

  I needed some serious cheering up then, so I downed the rest of my fluro orange cocktail and dragged Dee to the bar for something else. I either needed to get drunk to forget or find something else to dwell on. Starting with an electric blue Fruit Tingle sounded like a good idea to me, so I shouted Dee one, much to his horror. Girly drinks are not hard enough for him and two in one night was stretching his friendship.

  I let my eyes scan the bar, which has emptied out since the night was getting on. I’d never admit it to Dee or even myself, but I just wanted to look at a handsome guy. If he smiled at me, then I would feel less like the mutant I was. That was the aim anyway. Seeing that echo of a much happier past had shaken me up.

  The thing is when you’re single you can’t help but look twice at any decent looking guy anyway. Nice hair, nice eyes, crap shoes. The shoes are always a deal breaker. Beat up white runners turn me off. Much the same way that skivvies and scrunchies were never fashionable. So, when I saw this guy leaning against the far wall, I looked at his shoes first. He was wearing those tailored combat boots with the laces all undone, scuffed to hell. Sexy as. One hundred bonus points already. So naturally, I looked up to see what the rest was like.

 
; To my surprise, it was the guy I’d seen before at the station. The bass player in that band, The Stabs. I don’t recognize the people he’s with, but right now they don’t exist to me. I have time to look at him without anyone but Dee noticing. He has a faded Strokes t-shirt on and tight grey jeans, tattoos on one arm and the wildest curly hair I’d ever seen on a guy. And I knew some unkempt guys. All short at the back and sides and that shock of blonde curls falling into his eyes. I wanted to brush it away to see what color they were.

  “Zoe?”

  “Shit, Dee,” I cursed, looking away.

  “Who you checkin’ out?” He winked at me, saw where I was looking and whistled. “The Strokes, huh?” he said almost sarcastically. “Since when are you into indie guys?”

  “Since when does it matter?”

  “Since I knew you.”

  “You’ll know my fist in a minute.” When I looked back, the guy was gone and the bar was almost closing.

  “You’re so volatile,” Dee said, putting his empty glass on the bar.

  “You know who we have to thank for that,” I snapped and instantly regretted it.

  Dee frowned and linked his arm through mine. “C’mon, Zo. I’ll walk you home.”

  “Sure,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze and making a mental note to see if I could get a ticket to that Stabs gig I saw advertised.

  The first thing I did when I got home was go onto the Corner website and buy a ticket to the Stabs gig. The second thing I did was swallow my fear and get the tram up to Richmond the next day. The third thing I did was hand over my ticket and go inside.