by B. B. Miller
“Kennedy cleared it with Ralph; you’re good to go,” April informs me as Kennedy marches us forward. “And I packed for you,” Maddie chimes in. “Your mom called me. Everything is already loaded on the plane. With that, plus what you have in your carry-on, you should be ready for anything.”
“Which is perfect, because anything is what could happen,” Kennedy finishes, giving me a wink. “Ladies, my heartfelt thanks. Come on, baby—your coach awaits.” My heart hammers in my chest at the suddenness of it all. I barely have time to thank them all before we’re climbing, with Kennedy helping me negotiate the metal steps in my high heels. Just before I let him pull me inside, I turn and wave back to my girls who are standing on the tarmac, grinning up at us and waving.
“Clock’s ticking.” Kennedy pulls me inside and my eyes widen again to see the luxurious interior. It’s all sleek design, high-tech gadgets, and pale wood. As many times as I’ve flown in first class, this is something else. He indicates a seat next to the window and, after I’ve sunk into the soft leather, quickly sits next to me and turns to take my hands in his. The intensity in his gaze is mesmerizing; I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Where are we going?” I ask breathlessly.
A slow smile spreads across his face. “It’s a surprise. And don’t worry,” he says quickly. “I gave Maddie some parameters, so whatever you have in your suitcase will work.”
“Work for what?” His enthusiasm and excitement is infectious, and now that I’m finally coming to terms with being “kidnapped,” my smile matches his.
“Somewhere tropical. Where we can be naked for days, if we want.” At my intake of breath, he chuckles. “Abby, you deserve a break. We deserve a break. A chance to get away from it all . . . no phones, no interviews, no board meetings. No responsibilities. It’s just us. It’s only for a few days, but I didn’t want to wait until we were done with the tour.” He looks at me tentatively. “I hope you’re okay with that.”
“Now you ask me?” I gesture to our plush surroundings with a laugh, and then smile reassuringly. “I’m more than okay, Kennedy. And I love that you wanted to do this. It’s amazing. Thank you.”
He smiles in relief and drags a hand through his hair. “Thank fuck. I hadn’t really thought about what I’d do if you were pissed about it.”
We laugh just as the flight attendant steps toward us to ensure that we’re buckled in for takeoff. After he wanders back toward the cockpit to take his own seat, I squeeze Kennedy’s hand, drawing his attention. “By the way, I want to move in with you,” I say matter-of-factly. His answering smile is like the sun coming up. He pulls our joined hands to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.
I’m vaguely aware of the pilot saying something over the intercom, but my attention is solely on the handsome face leaning in for another kiss.
“Ready, gorgeous?”
After all these years, now I know how it feels when someone helps your dreams come true. I take a deep breath and smile, my heart bursting. “Yes. Let’s go.”
The Redfall adventures continue. A sneak peek at “Dare to Dream,” book two of The Dream Series, coming soon. *Content subject to change.*
CHAPTER ONE
Matt
A DULL JACKHAMMER beats relentlessly in my head as I slowly become aware of frenzied movement beside the bed. I can’t even imagine trying to open my eyes. Just the thought is painful. Why did I let the Brit talk me into tequila? You would think I’d have learned by now.
You’re a stupid fuck . . . Too dumb to remember to come home on time.
I squeeze my eyes tighter, trying to drown out the memory of my poor excuse for a mother’s shrill voice. No amount of time seems to let me forget my childhood. That doesn’t mean I won’t stop trying.
“Shit . . .” It’s a whispered, under-the-breath curse from a panicked female voice, bringing me back to the torture of the morning. I turn my head slowly in the direction of the sound with a groan. A headache the likes of which I haven’t had in a while has taken up residence with no plans to vacate any time soon.
Greeted by an eerie silence broken only by the sound of the AC in the hotel room switching on, I struggle to put together the sketchy puzzle that is the night before.
The day with my band, Redfall and the classic concert we held in support of the What’s Your Dream foundation is something that will be etched in my memory forever. Parker Jensen, an eleven-year-old kid fighting leukemia, had his rock-and-roll dream fulfilled by spending a day with his idol, legendary rocker and our frontman, Kennedy Lane.
We came close to losing Kennedy to the demons he’s battled since an accident took his sister’s life a few years ago. But being involved in something like this changes you, makes you look at life in a different way. I don’t think Parker will ever know that he’s the one who did the saving.
So, the day and the concert, I’ll always remember. The rest of the night, though? A bit of a hazy mystery. I remember Sean Murphy, our borderline insane drummer, dragging a group of us out to celebrate. It started in the limo with a few members of the charity foundation’s team, including the delectable, but equally infuriating Tess Baker. Long, black hair, curves that drive me insane, sarcastic mouth on her I’d like to put to better use. There’s no denying we get under each other’s skin. A more frustrating woman I have yet to meet. She seems to know every single button to push to get a reaction out of me.
The limo cruised the steep streets of San Fran as we indulged in expensive champagne before Sean demanded that we stop outside a gentleman’s club. Cue the ensuing battle of wills with Tess where she accused us of setting the woman’s movement back a few decades.
Snippets of the alcohol-induced rant flash back to me.
“We love women, all of them, don’t we, grasshopper?” Sean is always so helpful.
“Come in and see it for yourself before you pass your high and mighty judgment.” And Tess did. Marched her sweet ass right up to the doors and demanded entry from the linebacker-sized bouncers. I wonder if there’s anything she’ll back down from.
Being famous comes with a few perks that I’ll never complain about, and one of them is getting in anywhere, anytime, no questions asked. So our little entourage, already half shit-faced, spilled into the high-end club so that Tess could she for herself that the women weren’t being forced to do anything they didn’t want to.
This particular club is one Sean and I have been to a few times. They cater to the elite, to the rich, to the ones who need and demand confidentiality. It’s five-star meals and the most expensive liquor money can buy. It’s top industry DJs, a high quality burlesque show, and uber-exclusive lounge areas.
I think Tess was expecting sticky floors and drunken frat boys catcalling women who were chained up. What she did see rendered her speechless, and what a fucking sight that was. It may be the one and only time in the couple of days I’ve known her to be at a loss for words.
Safely tucked into one of the white leather VIP booths is about the time we broke into the Tres Quatro Cinco. Sean opened up a tab to pay for a few bottles of the expensive tequila and rounds of whatever poison anyone wanted. Everything after that point is a blur; a nasty, pinpricking, and painful blur.
Bits and pieces are here and there; hushed, wicked words whispered close to Tess’s ear, the touch of her hand against my thigh, her twirling beneath a lamppost under a cable car sign. But the blanks between are greater than the rest of the foggy picture.
I have no idea how we made it back to the Fairmont. I run a shaky hand over my face, hearing more rustling from beside the bed.
“Where is it?” Her husky voice, filled with urgency, teases my consciousness.
My mouth is dry, feeling like it’s full of cotton, and preventing me from actually attempting to speak. Something definitely happened last night. There are flashes of her practically pouncing on me in the elevator, drunken, uncoordinated limbs grabbing at my shirt, the pair of us stumbling into the hotel room.
I can smell her
on my fingers, still taste her on my tongue, and feel her hand clumsily reaching into my jeans.
“So stupid . . .” It’s the last thing I hear.
To Mandy—The whole reason we started this was for you. You continue to inspire us, to support us, and to be just as *passionate* as we are. You are an amazing friend, and we couldn’t imagine doing this without you.
Much love to the Facebook Dream Team. A daily source of visual inspiration that never fails to rock our world.
To Jada, thank you for your gift of bringing our rocker to life! You’re incredible, and we love seeing each and every beautiful work you create.
To Lauren, thank you for your patience and your guidance. We’d like to promise not to be wordy in the future, but we all know that would be a lie.
To Christine, thank you for making this beautiful.
To our pre-readers—Mandy, Lynsey, Patty, Corinne, and Tami. Thank you for taking the time to read and re-read. Your enthusiasm and support keeps us going!
Many thanks to the wonderful authors who gave us support in the early days of the writing and publishing process. We’d be lost without S.L. Scott, Melanie Moreland, and Harper Bentley. Ladies, we love and support you.
A world of thanks to the fandom—the bloggers, Twitterloves, Facebook friends, and review sites that found this story back in the early days. You are an amazing group that has inspired countless stories including this one. Thanks for sticking with us, and we hope you enjoy this journey as much as we did.
To our families, thank you doesn’t seem enough. Your love and support while we tackled this adventure is quite simply legendary.
Lastly, to you, the reader. Thank you for being curious, thank you for reading, and rock on, friends. Rock on.
ABOUT SIX YEARS AGO, a Canadian vegetarian and an American carnivore bonded over a shared love of shoes, wine, and good storytelling.
Leslie Carson lives in Ottawa, with her busy family and seems to spend more time at the hockey rink than outside of it.
From her home near Portland, B.B. Miller spends her days with family and friends in search of the perfect pear martini.
Together, they enjoy visiting random vineyards and writing about the romantic adventures of good and bad boys.
They would love to hear from you. Facebook