Released: Devil's Blaze MC Book 3

by Jordan Marie

  My dick drained, I shake off the excess and slide him back in my pants and zip up as I turn around to face her.

  “You always take a whiz on other people’s private property?”

  “Only when my dick demands it. You want to lower your gun?”

  “Not especially, since you’re trespassing. Who are you?”

  “I’m living in the old hunting cabin on Whitler’s Mountain.”

  “You look like a mountain man. I didn’t know they sold that cabin.”

  I grunt, walking around her to go back to my bike. “You should leave the gun-handling up to your man. It’s dangerous to pull a weapon on a stranger; it could get you killed. You need to think about your baby.”

  “I don’t have a man.”

  “That watermelon in your stomach would seem to argue that point,” I tell her, my voice straining. I don’t talk that much and I hate the hoarse sound that comes out of my throat sometimes when I speak. It’s a reminder, and I don’t need any fucking reminders.

  I look over at the woman one last time. Her gun is down and she’s rubbing her hand over her stomach. When she looks back up at me, there’s a sadness in her eyes that grabs hold of my attention.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she says.

  I shrug and start up my bike. She spares me one last glance and then takes off walking. I watch her almost against my will as she heads back to the old shack I had just been looking at.

  Guess I just met Hayden Graham… Pistol’s sister.

  Thank you for reading. I hope you all love Skull and Beth's happy ending as much as I do.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from Daryl Banner's hot new contemporary romance, Read My Lips (A College Obsession Romance), followed by an excerpt from Grayson (This is Our Life Series, #1) by F.G. Adams!

  xoxo

  J

  A College Obsession Romance

  Daryl Banner

  Read My Lips

  A College Obsession Romance

  #1

  Copyright © 2016 by Daryl Banner

  Published by Frozenfyre Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be used or reproduced

  in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to being stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Artist : Kari Ayasha from Cover To Cover Designs

  Interior Design : Daryl Banner

  I went to college to find myself. I didn’t expect to find him.

  My whole life was a delicate, artful plan set in place by my delicate, artful family. From my mother, the famous actor of stage and film, to my world-renowned lighting designer father and insufferably perfect sister, I was doomed to a life in the Theatre spotlight.

  And so the Lebeau family name was tainted with average, unremarkable, untalented me.

  The moment I graduated high school, I enjoyed a few years of disappointing my parents. Thirty-three horrible auditions and two private academies later found me begging them for one last favor: a normal college experience.

  It was at this totally normal small-town Texas college that I met him, the muscular, tatted bad-boy who would quickly become my obsession.

  His eyes smoldered me with just one look.

  His touch awakened the woman inside me.

  His breath draw out the inspiration deep in my soul that I did not know was there.

  And through his lips, his perfect, plush, kissable lips, I would find my voice at last … the voice that would someday fill a New York City stage, the voice that would set me apart from my tragically perfect family, the voice that would finally break me free …

  If only he could hear a word of it.

  “I can’t hear you!”

  The noise that fills the courtyard of the Quad is deafening. Families bustle about carrying belongings to the dorms. A group of frat boys play Frisbee, their shirtless torsos sweaty and lean. A guy shouts orders from a window up above to his parents below, who can’t make out what he’s saying. A circle of girls chant some sorority thing over and over nearby. Two dudes who look like they haven’t bathed since Daylight Savings began stand on the rim of a fountain with guitars as they serenade the masses, their lyrics lost in the cacophony of shouting and laughter.

  And standing before all that mess is little excited me, a heavy bag hanging at my side, a massive case of luggage-on-wheels by my feet, and a phone pressed to my fast-reddening ear.

  “What? I can’t hear you!” I shout again. “Mother?”

  The call cuts off. I stow my phone away in a pocket. Besides, the whole reason I’m here is to get away from my nauseatingly arty, weird, fame-whoring family. “Please,” I begged my mother two months ago when she was between photo shoots. “All I want is a normal college experience. I don’t want the expensive schools and the private lessons and the pretentious crap.” To that, she hiccupped, raised her martini glass, and sweetly replied, “Doll, the Theatre world is pretention.” It was my father who caved and said he knew a person down in Texas who could pull a string or two to get me into a school this late in the summer.

  And here I am—and excitedly so. This is it! I only have a battlefield of frat boys and Frisbees to wade through before I’m safe in the comfortable confines of my very own dorm room.

  “What do you mean I don’t get my very own dorm room?” I ask half an hour later when I’ve finally made it to the front of the line at the reception desk.

  The woman stares at me over the thick rims of her glasses. She’s clearly had a day.

  “I’m supposed to have my own place,” I explain, all too aware of the line of anxiously waiting people behind me. “A condo, some upperclassmen suite, or … or my own dorm room at the very least. I spoke with a Betsy … or Bettie? Bridget? And she said I would get my own room. I’m sure it’s just a mistake.”

  “Priority living arrangements are reserved for upperclassmen. Not for incoming freshmen.”

  “But I’m not an incoming freshman, Donna,” I explain, trying my best to lean over the counter so that I don’t have to shout. These people should have offices; the whole line can hear every word of our little chat, I’m sure. “I’m a transferring sophomore.”

  “It’s Diana. Are you new to Klangburg University? Then you’re a freshman in our eyes. Current students get priority. If you wanted solitude, you should have rented an apartment on Periwinkle Avenue.”

  “In this neighborhood??” I hiss back. My bag has become so heavy, I let it drop to the germ-infested floor. “Listen, I … I really don’t mean to cause a big scene, but—”

  “Of course you do. You’re an actress.” She slides a key and a slip of paper across the counter. “Theatre major, right? I could smell the drama and desperation a mile away. You’re in West Hall, room 202. Your roommate’s a Music major. Name, Samantha Hart. Go make yourself a best friend.”

  A Music major? Great. I’ll have to contend with a roommate who gives blowjobs to an oboe all day long. Is the AC in here broken? I pull my hair over a shoulder and off of my neck as beads of sweat populate my forehead. First lesson: Texas weather is Hell’s weather. “She sounds lovely. Listen, Diana, I—”

  “Oh! ‘Listen,’ you say. What a novel concept.” Diana the Desk Demon snorts. “You keep telling me to listen, but it’s you who doesn’t hear a damn thing I say. The rooms were assigned months ago. You even got your room assignment in the mail.”

  “I didn’t. I haven’t gotten any…” But even as I say the words, I picture my controlling mother pulling the mail from the box and not giving a care in the world about anything addressed to me. I bet it’s even my mom’s
email that’s in the school database, not mine, because she controls everything about my life. “I understand your desire to run away to a faraway ‘normal’ college,” mother told me this morning over cups of peppermint tea, just before I left for the airport. “You’re scared of New York, doll. You’re a guppy in a world full of sharks. Your sister—now she’s a shark.”

  If there’s anything worse than being called a guppy, it’s being compared to my insufferably perfect sister Celia—or Cece, as she insists on being called. She gets cast in leading roles. She’s as beautiful as a princess and annoyingly well-read. She always has handsome, adorable, sexy boyfriends at her side. It’s not that I’m jealous; I love my sister. But sometimes I wish I was the one who scored a leading role now and then. I wish I was the one with a hot guy hooked to my arm at some gala my parents drag me to.

  I’m not the one guys stare at. It’s always her.

  Surprisingly, my sister has nothing to do with my predicament. Maybe my roommate will turn out to be cool, or have parents who bring us home-cooked delicacies, sparing us the frights from the campus kitchens. What’s that thing normal college kids eat? Maybe we’ll have lots of Easy Mac and Ramen. On second thought, that sounds like a carb nightmare.

  “Thank you,” I murmur to my new best friend, Diana the Desk Demon, and take the key.

  “It’s been a pleasure,” she mutters back, sounding like it’s been anything but. “There’s a freshman mixer in the courtyard at seven. Good day.”

  I’m not a freshman! But I keep the words to myself and lift my bag once again, heading for the door. The second I’m outside, three shirtless boys nearly topple me in their effort to claim a rogue Frisbee, which I end up catching midair to prevent it from giving me an unintended nose job. I hand the disc to the nearest one, trying not to stare at his lean, sweaty torso. Pulling my luggage along, I cut through the noise to the West Hall, a slate-grey building in the shape of an L that forms one of the four corners of the Quad and seems to be the liveliest of them all. Its heavy door bursts open the moment I approach, releasing four loud freshmen and a worried set of parents. I wonder if they’re taking bets on which of their children will contract dorm room herpes first.

  I step inside only to mourn an onslaught of stairs before me. Enlisting the strength and dexterity from my basic combat training in New York (or rather, stage combat training), I choreograph and execute a one-woman routine of dragging my suitcase up five steps, sliding it across the narrow landing, then up eleven more. Entering the second floor, I squeeze past a crowd of guys guffawing at a spilled box of soda cans two paces from my room, 202. They’re daring each other to open a can when I make it to my door, ready to reveal my college dorm room to my eager eyes.

  The door swings open, exposing two beds, two dressers, and two desks. The smell is hundred-year-old musk and even older mildew. The bare walls, pocked with scratches and holes, are the color of a rash my sister got once that she made me swear never to tell anyone about. How adorable. The bathroom appears to be a small chamber of doom that connects to the neighboring dorm, suite-style.

  I smile. No one in the world would recognize it as one, but it’s there. My college experience is going to have to include sharing a bathroom with three other girls I’ve never met. In a bleak room that’s just short of padded walls.

  I fight a rare urge to call my mother and demand that she give me a bigger allowance and allow me the mercy of getting an apartment like any other twenty-two year old adult. Then, I gently remind myself that this is what I wanted. No privilege. No personal chefs. No driver who takes me around town. No ritz and glitz. No fancy cocktails. Just a fixed allowance and meal plan like every other student.

  For once, a normal life among normal people doing normal, college-y things.

  I have a sudden craving for this gourmet lobster bisque that only my mother’s chef Julian makes.

  Focus, Dessie! Piece by piece, I unpack my suitcase and hang each article of clothing in the tiny closet, which is a quarter the size of mine at home, leaving one half of it empty for my mystery roommate. Then, I sit on the bed I’ve made, which creaks happily under my weight, and listen to the noise in the hallway of families moving their kids into their dorms, the sound of laughter and banter and shuffling furniture and boxes reaching my ears and vibrating the walls.

  My parents told me to call them when I was all moved in. I prefer that they presume I’m lost or dead. So caught up in mother’s performance in London next month, I doubt they’ll even give me a thought until well into my father’s fourth glass of chardonnay when he finally looks up from his lighting design charts to ask, “Did we hear from Dessie yet?”

  It’s already almost seven, so I push myself off the bed and pray there’s more than just freshmen at this courtyard mixer. When I open my door, I’m greeted with the sight of the room across the hall, its door propped open. Scarves of varying shades of purple adorn the ceiling in bilious clouds of silk, giving the room the look of a 16th century gypsy’s tent. A lamp burns orange on the desk within my view, which is littered in shimmering glass trinkets that pick up the light. It is night and day from the starkness of my room to the glamour of hers. Beads line the closet door, and they rattle when the room’s occupant moves through them carrying a thin book pinched open in one hand and a bottle of lemon vitamin water in the other.

  She turns, spotting me. “Hi,” all eighty-nothing pounds of her says lamely, her bushy afro dancing with her every step as her needle eyes focus on me. She stands at her doorway. “You’re living in 202?”

  “It seems to be my tragic situation,” I admit. She’s reading a play, I realize with a closer look. She’s a fellow Theatre major. Befriend her, damn it! I give a subtle nod to her décor. “I like what you’ve done with your—”

  “I have a lot of reading to do, if you don’t mind.” She gives me a curt nod, then taps the rim of her playbook with the closed end of her vitamin water.

  “As Bees In Honey Drown?” I note, catching the title off of the cover. “I played Alexa in Brendan Iron’s production in New York last spring.”

  “New York, you say?” A light flashes in her eyes. “You don’t look like a freshman. Are you a transfer? New York? Where in New York?”

  Now I’m suddenly worth her time. It’s amazing, the power of a simple name-drop. I discreetly leave out the fact that it was less of a production in New York and more of a botched audition. “I’m a transfer from Rigby & Claudio’s Acting, Dan—”

  “Acting, Dancing, and Musical Academy,” she finishes for me. The whites of her eyes are ablaze, making her already dark skin look like a rich sea of rosewood. “And you transferred? What brought you from there to … to here?”

  A fierce vision comes forth of my former director, Claudio Vergas himself, as he hollers at my indignant face, flecks of his morning coffee dusting the stage floor between us. It was the first time he’d ever lost his temper enough to throw his favorite mug. I can still hear the porcelain as it shattered against the lip of the stage. I didn’t even flinch. I lifted my chin and called him a stiff-necked, pretentious, know-it-all panty-wad. It was not my best moment.

  “Artistic differences,” I answer vaguely.

  “New York,” she moans, all her childhood dreams of being in the limelight painted across her glassy eyes. “I’m Victoria,” my new best friend says, shoving the script under an arm and extending her hand. “Victoria Li. Third year Theatre major. Don’t call me Vicki. I have violent reactions to being called Vicki. I’ll cut a bitch. But not you. Unless you call me Vicki.”

  My phone in one hand, I accept her handshake with my free one. It’s cold as ice. “I’m Dessie.”

  “Great name. I love Desiree Peters. Her portrayal of Elphaba on the last national tour of Wicked had me in tears. I have her autograph on my soundtrack. I stood by the stage door afterwards for forty-eight minutes in ten degree weather to get it.”

  “It’s not short for Desiree,” I clarify. “It’s short for … for Desdemona.”
<
br />   Victoria stares at me. “As in Othello’s Desdemona?”

  Hurray for having Theatre parents. “That would be the one. Anyway, it’s almost seven already, so I was going to head to the mixer. Are you going?”

  “It’s not until eight,” she tells me, leaning on her doorframe and taking a little nip of her lemon water. She’s suddenly so much friendlier than she was a second ago. “How’d you hear about it?”

  “I was told it’s at seven. Well, according to Diane the Desk Demon,” I add with a roll of my eyes.

  “No, no. Eight o’clock at the theater.”

  I lift a brow. “There’s a Theatre one?”

  “You thought I meant the fishbowl? No, honey. You’re coming with me,” she states. “You’re new here, and you don’t want to get lost on this big ol’ campus after dark, end up on fraternity row, and get robbed. Not a lovely way to spend your first evening here.”

  “P-People get robbed at night?”

  “This campus is the pillow on the bed between two bitchy ex-lovers: the rich neighborhood full of snobs to the north, and the have-nots and gunshots to the south. Campus security is a joke, but it exists. Safety in numbers, okay? We’ll leave in thirty. Where’s your roommate?” she asks suddenly, craning her neck to get a look.

  “Not here yet, I guess.” What the hell kind of crime-ridden so-called normal college did my father send me to down here in Texas? “School starts the day after tomorrow, so she might come in tonight, or—”

  “Or not at all,” she points out. “Sometimes, there’s a last minute transfer or change of plans. My friend Lena had a room all to herself last semester.”

  “Don’t get my hopes up.”

  My phone buzzes. I look down to see my mother’s headshot staring up at me, all glamorous and ready to blink at the flashing cameras. I slap the screen to my chest, unwilling to chance whether or not Victoria knows who she is. I’m not ready for a firestorm to be caused by anyone figuring out whose daughter I am.