Sing Your Heart Out

by Crystal Kaswell

Miles presses his lips into my neck. "You're such a little nerd."

  "Jealous?"

  "Hey! I'm a rock star. Have some respect." He finds the top of my tights and tugs them down ever so gently. "Or else I'll force you to respect me."

  "We have five to go."

  "You can go while you come."

  "Okay, I don't want my parents to hear," I say. "They were very hospitable accepting a last-minute guest. And a depraved rock star no less."

  "Your parents love me more than you do."

  I kiss him on the forehead. "That's not possible."

  It's the day after Christmas, and Miles has been here, in my parents’ Newport Beach place, for a week. It was strained at first, but I had a heart-to-heart with Mom and Dad. We sat at the dining-room table until midnight, crying and laughing, and trading stories about Rosie and how much we missed her. Mom even put one of the family pictures back up.

  "Well, we both know you'll never manage to be quiet," he says.

  "So you'll have to live with blue balls."

  "No, I'll have to invent some kind of catastrophe so your parents are called to the hospital and we have the place to ourselves."

  "They're going out to dinner tonight," I say.

  "That's hours away."

  He slides his arms around my waist, pulling me onto his lap so my ass is pressed against his erection. Yes, it would feel amazing to fuck Miles again, but I'm a little preoccupied.

  "In due time," I say. "You're supposed to be supporting me."

  He grabs the mouse and navigates to the next page. UCSF. "You want me to do the honors?"

  "Yes, please."

  Click.

  Submitting...

  Thank you for submitting to UCSF!

  "Why are you leaving tomorrow?" I ask. "Does Sinful Serenade really need its singer that badly?"

  "Desperately." He runs his hands over my shoulders. "Why don't you come with me?"

  Next application. Stanford. Click. Submitting...Done.

  "I can't," I say. "I have school. And work."

  "You're off work until your semester starts. It's an international tour. Only two weeks. Ends the second day of school."

  Next application. UCLA. Click. Submitting...Done.

  "You want to take me to Tokyo and Osaka and Madrid and London?" I ask.

  "And Paris and Berlin and a few other cities I don't remember." He turns me around so we're face to face. "Come. We can hang out backstage every night and tour fantastic cities every day."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive." He rubs my shoulders. "I want you to come. And to tour with me."

  A million excuses pop into my brain, but none of them matter. Two weeks around the world with my hot rock-star boyfriend—I’d be a fool to say no.

  "Okay," I say.

  "That's it—okay?"

  "Hell to the yes! Better?"

  "Much."

  I turn back around so I'm facing the computer. One more application. The one I was dreading for a million years.

  UCI.

  I don't know where I'll be this time next year, but wherever I am, I won't be running from anything.

  Click. Submitting...Done.

  Miles sucks on my earlobe. "You know we have to celebrate."

  "When my parents leave."

  "Now." He pulls my tights to my knees. "And when your parents leave."

  I can live with that.

  Want more Sinful Serenade?

  Sign up for the Crystal Kaswell mailing list to get an exclusive alternate POV from cocky rock star Miles Webb's perspective. You'll also get news on new releases, exclusive teasers, and first word on sales.

  Turn the page for a special excerpt from Strum Your Heart Out, Drew and Kara's story, coming November 2015.

  Sinful Serenade Release Schedule:

  Sing Your Heart Out - Miles - Oct 2015

  Strum Your Heart Out - Drew - Nov 2015

  Rock Your Heart Out - Tom - Feb 2016

  Play Your Heart Out - Pete - May 2016

  STRUM YOUR HEART OUT

  Drew + Kara

  A buxom fan saunters in my direction. But she’s not interested in me. I am invisible to her.

  Her eyes are on Drew. She smiles. She shoves her hand in his face like I’m not here. “Oh my gosh. You must be Drew Denton. I’m such a big fan.”

  He shakes her hand, no signs of interest on his face. “I am.”

  She drags her fake red fingernails over Drew’s forearm and thrusts her chest at him. “I love Sinful Serenade,” she slurs. “You’re soooooo good with your hands.”

  The worst part about having a rock star guitarist for a best friend is hearing that line over and over and over.

  Drew’s lips curl into a smile. A smug expression creeps onto his face. “That’s what I’m told.”

  And there’s the second-worst part—-hearing him give that same flirty response to every fan who is too rude to acknowledge the girl sitting next to him. Is it that obvious we’re just friends or is she too desperate to care?

  “Do you think...Oh, gosh. Could you sign my, um...” She giggles. “My chest?”

  His eyes dart to said chest. It’s hard to blame him when her top is cut down to her belly button. No judgment. I’ve worn far sluttier things. Hell, my current getup could go toe-to-toe with this girl’s in a who is showing the most boob competition.

  A girl has to do what she can to get what she wants.

  Apparently, this girl wants Drew’s attention on her cans.

  It’s working. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open. He’s staring like he’s thinking about burying his face between her boobs.

  Not that it bothers me or anything. Not like I want him to look at me that way. Not anything like that.

  I adjust my bustier top for maximum cleavage potential and push myself up from my seat. Drew looks at me for a second then his attention goes right back to the fan girl.

  She drags those red fingernails up his biceps. “How do you stay so...fit on tour.”

  He smiles. “On the floor.”

  She gasps like she’s not at all familiar with the concept of push-ups. He smiles, all cocky and smug and totally cool.

  He never flirts like this.

  Never.

  It shouldn’t bother me. He’s my friend and he can flirt with anyone he wants.

  Doesn’t mean I have to watch it.

  I make my way to the dance floor. Through the horde of twenty-something beautiful people here for the scene and not the music.

  It’s a pulsating, throbbing, electronic thing. Perfect. I step onto the vinyl. Eyes closed. Arms over my head. I shift my hips back and forth. No fancy moves. Just instinct.

  The fan girl’s hyena laugh cuts through the room. I must be imagining things. There’s no way she’s louder than the music.

  Drew is still talking with the fan girl. Not so much flirting with her. But certainly staring at her cans.

  This tension builds in between my shoulder blades. It’s all wrong. My body is loose and free when I dance. Tension is not part of the equation. And Drew is my friend. He’s flirting with a floozy. So what? He’s a rock star. He probably flirts with lots of floozies.

  He probably fucks them too.

  My nostrils flare. I shake my head and press my eyelids together. No. I refuse to feel this right now. I refuse to feel anything except the music.

  I throw myself into dancing. The world melts away, one piece at a time. The rest of the club. The hyena laugh. Drew’s wide-eyed, lust-filled smile as the fan girl mauls him.

  It’s not even on my mind.

  I move closer to the speakers. They drown out every other thought inside my brain. I’m only a vessel for the music. My hips move of their own accord. My chest shifts. My arms sway.

  I’m free.

  And then there are hands on my hips. Strong hands. A guy’s hands. It’s a normal part of clubbing. Usually one I enjoy.

  But this feels off. I take a step forward to break free of the hands, so it’s nothin
g but me and the music. Better. That tension between my shoulder blades relaxes. I drift into bliss...

  The damn hands are back! I turn to face this guy. He’s tall. Broad. He looks like a TV actor—-handsome but not out-of-this-world-hot. Any other night, I’d welcome him as a dance partner.

  I throw my arms above my head and match his movements. He’s a good dancer—-perfectly in time with the rhythm. It’s not altogether awful.

  He takes a step towards me, so he’s pressed up against me. Those hands go to my hips again. No more bliss. I’m utterly on edge—-tense and strained in all the wrong places.

  “Excuse me.” I make my way to the bar. Some area free of guys with too few manners to ask permission.

  The guy follows me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No thank you.”

  “Come on. It will be fun.” He grabs my wrist. The left. Right above my silver watch.

  I pull my hand into my chest. Manners be damned, next time he does that, I’m slapping him.

  I offer my most polite smile and shake my head. “No thank you. I’m here with someone.”

  “Who?”

  Fine. I hate using this line, but it’s the only thing that works on guys like this. “My boyfriend.”

  The guy takes a long, hard look at me. At my cleavage, mostly. That awkward, awful tension builds between my shoulder blades again.

  What the hell? This is supposed to feel good. A hot guy is checking me out. A hot guy wants to press his body up against mine in time with the music.

  “Your boyfriend lets you go out like that?” he asks.

  “Believe it or not, I have this funny thing called freewill.” I step backwards. “And I don’t let guys tell me what to wear.”

  “Your boyfriend sounds like a pussy.”

  “I’ll let him know your feelings.” Okay. The bar thing isn’t working. Time for the nuclear option. I make my way to the women’s restroom.

  The guy follows. “I only want to talk.”

  “And I don’t.”

  I take a quick step, but, even with my heels, I’ve got short legs and this guy is all kinds of tall. He’s faster than I am.

  He grabs my wrist. The right. I shake it off. No slapping necessary. Yet.

  “You don’t have to be so rude,” he says.

  Obviously, I do, ‘cause he’s not taking the hint. I turn so I’m facing the asshole. Anger flares in my gut. I manage to hold my tongue. There are merits to telling this guy what he can do with that grabby hand, but it seems silly to cause a scene. It’s easier to slip away with a careful excuse. No conflict necessary.

  “Excuse me, ladies room,” I say.

  He reaches for me again. Left wrist this time. Okay, that’s it. I pull my hand free and go to slap him.

  But someone stops me. His hand closes around my triceps. There’s something right about it. Something magical.

  It’s Drew. Drew’s hand is tight around my arm. Drew is touching me.

  He looks at the asshole guy. “Can I help you?”

  The guy looks at me with disbelief. “This your boyfriend?”

  I throw Drew a please play along look. “Yes. And we’re very busy tonight.”

  “Is this guy bothering you?” Drew asks.

  “It’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t look fine.” Drew’s eyes narrow. He stares down the guy. “You followed her across the dance floor.”

  He was watching me?

  “We were having a conversation,” the guy says.

  “You grabbed her. Do it again and it will be the last time you ever touch anyone or anything beautiful,” Drew says.

  The guy holds Drew’s stare. Trying out some kind of intimidation and failing miserably. I almost feel bad for him. Idiot has no clue what he’s in for.

  The guy takes a step back. He mutters under his breath. “She’s not even that hot.”

  “We both know that’s not true.” Drew slides his hand around my waist.

  But the guy is still staring at us.

  I turn to Drew. I slide my arm around his neck to sell the whole we’re clearly a couple thing.

  But the guy is still staring at me.

  Drew stares back at him. “Either you leave in the next thirty seconds or we take this outside.”

  It does nothing to scare the guy off.

  I grab Drew’s arm and squeeze as hard as I can. No way I’m going to be responsible for the kind of fight that will get all three of us kicked out of the club.

  Drew turns back to me. He takes my hand and places it on his shoulder. It’s like he’s promising this won’t get out of hand.

  His eyes find mine. He mouths you trust me?

  I nod. Yes. Of course.

  His palm pressed into my lower back, pushing my body into his. He leans closer. His eyes close.

  Mine do the same. Pure reflex. I rise to my tiptoes.

  His lips brush against mine. A quick kiss to start. Then it’s more. He sucks on my lower lip. He digs his other hand into my hair.

  My heart picks up until it’s going so fast I can’t keep track. I’m aware of every inch of my body. The light feeling in my chest and stomach. The strain of my calves. The flutter building between my legs.

  This is why I dance.

  Drew releases me. He steps back and looks as if to check that the coast is clear. His demeanor shifts. No longer my fake boyfriend. Just my best friend. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  His arm goes back to his side. His body moves away from mine. My heart is still racing. My chest is still light. I’m still acutely aware of every place that stretches or strains, of every flutter or rush or buzz of electricity.

  Drew kissed me.

  For show, but still.

  Drew kissed me and my entire body is still in overdrive.

  Drew. Kissed. Me.

  And, God I want him to kiss me again.

  Available November 2015

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading Sing Your Heart Out. I hope you loved Meg and Miles's story as much as I did.

  If you enjoyed the story, please help other readers find it by leaving an honest review on Amazon or Goodreads.

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  Want to talk books? Awesome! I love hearing from my readers. Contact me through Facebook or Twitter

  You can find more of my books here.

  Acknowledgements

  My first thanks goes to my husband, who not only tolerates but loves all my weird quirks (even my rants about grammar). Kevin, I couldn’t do it without you. And the second goes to my father for always encouraging me to follow my dreams and especially for taking me to the book store when I was supposed to me grounded.

  Skyla at Indigo Chick Designs, I cannot thank you enough for the beautiful covers you made for this series. They are so gorgeous it makes my brain hurt. My beta readers--there are too many to name--I appreciate your feedback more than you'll ever realize. To my editors Jo and Elizabeth, thank you so much for your prompt responses and your amazing edits.

  This book is so much inspired by my old friend, Karine, and our mutual obsession with dissecting lyrics and creating personas to go with them. We fell out of touch a long time ago, but wherever you are, I hope you are happy and healthy (and still listening to our old favorite band).

  As always, my biggest thanks goes to all the readers for taking a chance on a new book.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SING YOUR HEART OUT

  First edition. October 6, 2015.

  Copyright © 2015 Crystal Kaswell.

  Written by Crystal Kaswell.

  Cover by Indigo Chick Designs

  Crystal Kaswell, Sing Your Heart Out