I give her hand a quick squeeze. I already have secret plans to give her one of the rooms upstairs for her workspace. Neil’s in on the surprise and is going to get most of it set up while we’re gone.
“Don’t worry. I’ll leave you alone so you can study.”
We get to the bike, and she pivots around and faces me with a frown. “Hey. I’m moving across the country to be with you. You’d better not leave me alone.”
I slide my arm around her and pull her close, and her frown gives way to a smile as I lean down to kiss her. I wouldn’t be able to leave her alone if I tried. But she pulls away, placing her hand on my cheek and sighing.
“C’mon.” She detaches herself from me, walking over to the bike before we both burn to a crisp on the sidewalk. “We’re going to be late.”
I get back on the Honda and kick-start it, the rumble of the engine becoming a low growl. Wait for her to get on behind me, loving the feel of her arms sliding around my waist and her thighs pressing up against my legs. Neither of us are perfect, but we fit together perfectly in a lot of ways.
“Ouch,” she says into my ear. “You could have at least parked in the shade.”
“You’re welcome to sit on my lap if the seat’s too hot for you,” I tease, and I can’t see her face but know she’s rolling her eyes.
“Your sweet-talking skills still suck,” she says. “Good thing I love you.”
I laugh as I hit the throttle, and we’re off. It’s the best damned thing in the world. That she loves me.
We arrive early to the club, and there’s already a line to get in. But we walk right through, Alex dressed to the nines and on one of my arms, and Grace looking beautiful and elegant on the other. Walking both of them in makes me feel like a fucking rock star, but it’s not me on stage tonight. It’s Elle who put our names on the guest list at the door, and I couldn’t be more proud of her.
When we get inside, there’s a fair number of people crowding the space, and we grab a spot at a high table in the back of the bar. Grace sits down in one of the chairs right away, shooing Alex away when she expresses concern. She’s been slowly but surely recovering from her embolism, assuring everyone that she feels stronger every week. And she insisted on coming tonight, said she wouldn’t miss Elle singing for the world. Alex stands next to her mom, and as I go to the bar to get us drinks, I hear them talking about the classes Alex will be taking in the fall. I know living on different sides of the country will be hard for them, but I promised Alex we’d visit as often as we can.
It’s not like we have to be stuck in Vegas forever, anyway. I still haven’t decided on what I want to do in the long term, but Neil keeps trying to convince me to get my engineering degree. Talks it up almost every time I see him and says we could go in business together, again. I’m thinking about it, but I also want to keep my options open. And for now, I’m not in a huge rush to change careers. The security thing isn’t something that Maya just handed to me on a platter like I used to think. I have a good name for myself, and it’s a name I built myself.
Not just any name. Vincent isn’t only Elle’s middle name and her mom’s maiden name. It’s my mother’s maiden name, too. I can think about my mother a little more these days without it hurting so fucking bad, and I think a big part of that is because Grace has treated me like her own son ever since she got out of the hospital. Even before that.
I get back with our drinks right as Elle comes out on stage. She spots us standing in the back and waves like a maniac. We wave back, but Elle’s eyes close and she starts into her first song right away. Her voice is smooth and sultry, and she sounds damned good. This is her debut with her new band. She worked her ass off for a month to pull everything together, and I know she’s had to use a lot of her connections to get this initial gig.
Alex nestles up to me, and I run my fingers through her hair, lean down and breathe in her scent as Elle’s voice and the notes of the song play over us.
“I can’t believe I got the cool girl to fall in love with me,” I say into her ear.
“Who, me?” Alex turns to face me and gives me a smile that makes my temperature skyrocket.
I cup her face in my hand and kiss her, forgetting for the moment about all of the other people in the room. It’s just her and me, and her arms wind around my neck as her body presses into mine. My grip tightens on her waist and brings her even closer as she dances, as she moves against me in time to the slow rhythm of the song.
God, I love her. I can’t get enough of her, and I doubt I ever will.
We finally break apart, and Grace smiles at us and speaks over the song. “Go out there and dance, you two. Alexis, if you don’t take him out there, I will.”
Alex buries her face in my neck, and I laugh and tighten my arms around her before taking her out on the floor to dance. She’s so fucking incredible, she’s mine, and we have real plans to be together.
Life is unpredictable, and it never works out the way you think it’s supposed to. I wasn’t looking for Alex this summer but she found me and I found her, and whatever happens next, I know we’ll figure it out. Because what she and I are building together – it’s worth the risk.
I’ve lost people I once loved, but that doesn’t mean I have to make it through all by myself.
I’ve lost enough. It’s time for me to finally live.
THE END
Second Chances ~ Book One
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Helen Boswell loved to get lost in the pages of a story from the time she could sound out the words. Originally from upstate New York, Helen spent much of her early adult life tromping around in Buffalo, NYC, Toronto, and Las Vegas, those cities now serving as inspiration for the dark and gritty urban backdrops of her stories. An author of both contemporary romance and urban fantasy, Helen loves to read and write characters that come to life with their beauty, flaws, and all.
Helen dedicates her time to raising her family of two boys, teaching college students, and of course, writing.
Find out more about Helen at www.helenboswell.com
Upcoming Releases
YOU WON’T WANT TO MISS…
Ink Slapped by A.M. Jones
Coming May 31, 2014
The heart wants what the heart wants—a concept that free-spirited author T.M. Dabney, never understood until she laid eyes on her new cover model, Eli.
Eli Gregor, a struggling musician and mechanic, thinks he knows the true meaning of heartbreak—that is until he accepts a business venture with the alluring Taylor Dabney. With her help, he pieces his life back together when his dreams dangle within reach and once again everything falls apart. And his success comes with a price he doesn’t want to pay.
Caught between better judgment and desire, they find themselves at a crossroads—should they make the best decision for their careers or give in to their undeniable connection?
Chapter One — Taylor
It’s only the first day of searching, and I find him. Shock courses through me as I pause in the door. My character has unique coloring and a large build with shoulder-swept, chestnut hair. It feels like my brain sent a hologram of him right in front of me in a rundown, honky-tonk bar in downtown Nashville. Naturally, the rest of Jimmy’s Bar grows distant as I take him in. He’s currently setting up to play live music with a band and sing the blues or country or whatever Nashville is famous for.
Propping himself on a stool, he grabs his guitar and starts tuning it. The rough fingers turning the keys grab my attention as I walk closer to get a better look at him. This is an added bonus since my character plays a guitar. Hair falls forward like a curtain around his face and he runs a hand through it. The gesture is unfamiliar. My character doesn’t have this mannerism. I don’t realize how close I am until he glances at me from the corner of his eye and turns his head my way.
A curious look passes his face, “Have a request?”
Straightening my glasses and squaring my shoulders, I shake my head and turn away toward the b
ar. How the hell am I going to do this? Slowing my steps, I throw over my shoulder, “Wish You Were Here. Acoustic style.” Take that you good-looking, country-singing hunk of man. His band mates groan at my request. I shrug at him, figuring it’s not their style, but he only gives me a tight smile. Unease worms its way up my spine for a moment.
Flagging the bartender, I order a Black and Tan—something stout to calm my nerves quicker. The patrons are nothing but tourists. Anyone paying attention can always tell the difference between the locals and tourists. Most of the men wear cowboy hats. This isn’t Texas. The women sport cowgirl boots with tight jeans. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, and I answer without looking, “Yo.”
“Tay, Tay! Find one?” Savannah’s voice sounds excited and slurred.
“Actually, I have and I’m currently drowning myself in Guinness to work up the nerve.”
“Will he look good posing next to me? Not too good, I don’t need him making me look like a frump. What’s he like?”
Savannah’s the heroine to my hero. Although, she doesn’t know I just want him on the cover. I do want to take some pictures of them together for promotional items. I start with the basics. “He’s getting ready to play with the band. A microphone insures there’s singing involved.”
A gasp and then, “A musician?” This is what I’d describe as a faraway or wistful voice in my novels.
“An exact replica of Jaxon, but he’s not your type.” I glance at his boots and a wrinkled T-shirt as if he just rolled out of bed. Not a style I’m used to seeing, so I say, “Or mine.” I’m not sure why I voice this. There’s nothing wrong with how he looks. Nothing at all. He might look as if he just stumbled from slumber, but it works for him. She groans through the phone.
“Wedding ring?”
I can’t believe I’m scoping out my potential cover model for my friend a one-night stand. “Not that I can see from here.” Just then he glances in the direction of my perch on the stool. I look away. “Shit, he’s looking.”
She laughs. “No doubt you stick out like a sore thumb. Who else is staring at you?”
Since she brought it to my attention, I peer around and half the patrons sneak glances when my face turns toward them. I sigh, “We need to keep this professional, Savannah. That means, no fucking my cover model.” I’m already flustered, so when the mournful, goose bump-inducing chords for ‘Wish You Were Here’ start up, I jump in surprise and drop my phone in my beer glass. “Shit!”
After fishing it out, I watch in dismay as beer leaks behind the touchscreen. A bag of rice lands in front of me. The bartender smirks, “You’d be surprised by how often this happens. Put it in there overnight, and it’ll be fine.”
I banish my phone to its tomb of rice in a snap. “Can you do me a favor? Take the gentlemen whatever he’s drinking, on me.” I point to the beefcake currently holding everyone’s attention with a voice that’s sure to remove a few pairs of panties tonight. “Tell him I have a business proposition to discuss with him.”
Sliding over my business card, I tap on it twice but the bartender doesn’t take it. He scratches his buzzed head. “I’m not a messenger. If you want to solicit him, you’ll have to do it on your own.”
My mouth drops open. “I’m not” But isn’t it exactly what I’m doing? Shame overtakes my senses. I’m so fucking shallow. The desperation I had for a cover model is left behind. The hours, days, and weeks of searching for the stock art image with the right guy in the right pose don’t matter anymore. The will for my hero to have his spotlight is gone. This book will just have to have the heroine on the cover. Again. I look at said potential hero and know he probably wouldn’t want this anyway. He sings his heart out through the microphone and flawlessly strums the chords to the song as if he plays this song every day. Clearly in his element, a peaceful contentedness shows on his face along with a smile, even though the smile doesn’t reach his tired eyes.
The stool squeaks as I turn back around and perch my cat-eye glasses on top of my head. The bartender becomes a blur while I rub my temples. “You’re right. I can’t do this anyway. I need another drink, then I’ll cash out.” Yes, another drink. This time I’ll seep in my sorrows.
The female bartender from the other end snatches my card off the bar. “Good lord, Joey. Prostitutes don’t carry business cards.”
Joey’s eyes travel along my tattooed-arm sleeves and then stop at the cleavage popping out of my corset. No doubt looking for a tattoo there, but he’ll be disappointed. A girl has to have a little class.
I shake my head, “No, he’s right. Well, not about being a hooker or whatever he thought, but about soliciting. I needed that guy to pose for a cover of my novel.”
Her eyebrows rise and after throwing a bar rag over her shoulder, she braces herself on the bar. “Wow. I got you. Eli’s sweet. He won’t mind if you ask.”
“Eli.” I try it out on my tongue, and decide it doesn’t fit my hero, Jaxon. When I look up, the female bartender is gone and Joey watches something behind me. I’m almost scared to look.
Glancing behind me, the band is paused as a few of the members fiddle and argue over a drum. The bartender hands Eli a shot glass and my card while whispering in his ear. They both look over at the same time. He holds up the shot in my direction. With nothing else to do, I lift my glass in acknowledgement and watch him toss the shot back.
After a few minutes, the band starts back up with a song I don’t recognize. It sounds a lot like whining about being lonely and drinking. I ignore it and wrestle with the idea of staying to talk to him. On the end of a decision, I down my Guinness and Bass concoction, grab the bag of rice, and leave like the true coward I am.
Landslide by Jenn Cooksey
Coming Summer, 2014
Chapter 1
“Son of Man”
~Cole~
“You really should quit, Cole.”
I drag in a breath, inhaling deeply as I do. “Yeah, because I can really afford to quit,” I mutter, exhaling through my nose and staring at the spiral of smoke trailing up from the burnt-orange cherry of my cigarette. I flick the ashes off the end and bring it back to my mouth to repeat the process.
“Not your job, dude. That… Smoking.”
Exhaling again, I huff out a short laugh and peer through the night and the thin curtain of smoke to see Holden shaking his head at me. I can’t even count how many times he’s told me to quit smoking and here I am thinking he’s talking about my job. Well, this job. I have three—no, four now. Why do I have four jobs at the ripe old age of nineteen, you ask? Because my dad’s a prick, that’s why.
My mom was a stripper who my dad knocked up at her going away party while he was working as a bouncer at the strip club. She never told him she was pregnant and I guess about three or four weeks after I was born, she’d shown up to the club with all my crap, set me in my carseat on the bar in front of the bartender with a note addressed to my dad pinned to my blanket that read, I can’t do this anymore. This isn’t what I wanted for my life, so congratulations, you’re a father. All his shit is in the bag and I’m out of here. Don’t look for me. Ever. P.S. I’ve been calling him Cole and you’ll see that’s what’s on his birth certificate, but you can rename him if you want. Not like he’ll know the difference. The bartender I guess told my dad that she just turned around and walked out. She hadn’t signed the note and neither of us ever heard from her again. Hell, I don’t even know what her real name is, but her stage name had been Candi, with a heart in place of the dot on the i. Original and classy, right?
After having a DNA test to determine that I am in fact his son, I’ve spent all of my nineteen and a half years of life being raised by a hardass who started pounding it into my head before I could even talk that life isn’t easy and there are no freebies or handouts. Not only that, but anyone who ever tries to give you something for nothing is an untrustworthy liar just looking to screw you in some way or another. That being the case and our household motto, I was expected to wash my
own clothes, work around the house, do all the yard work, learn how to work on cars because “every man should know how to take care of his car if he’s lucky enough to have one,” and I wasn’t to be a freeloader in general. Thus the minute I turned thirteen and was old enough to open a bank account in my name, my dad told me to find a job and started charging me to live under his roof. At first it was just for meals, but when I got older and could drive, he started charging me rent and made me pay my share of the household utilities, and I found myself swapping out my sporadic babysitting gigs and neighborhood lawn mowing jobs for a pizza delivery position in addition to adding days to my paper route. Of course that was after my dad fronted the money for me to buy my jalopy of a dream car—a 1967 Chevy Impala. It was the only time he’d ever offered to help me out in my entire life and even then, I had to pay him back for the loan plus interest.
Regardless of whether I had a car though, being a minor and having a driver’s license requires insurance and that was another bill I was suddenly responsible for paying. So, I picked up another job at one of the movie theaters in town. A little while after that, I was falling asleep in class so I gave up the paper route, but I decided I wanted a computer and a cell phone like everyone else in the free world so I got hired on as a bus boy in the restaurant at the golf course, which turned into a double position with me taking the early morning weekend shifts setting tee times and working the register at the pro shop. I don’t bus tables there anymore, though, because I got promoted into the kitchen doing meal prep and learning how to be a cook, but I still work the pro shop every Saturday and Sunday morning. When the pizza place I was delivering for went bankrupt and shut down about four months ago, I got myself a job with a mom and pop construction company building things like gazebos and add-ons to people’s houses. The money is pretty decent and although the work is hard as fuck, I like the time outside and using my hands. The hours are unreliable though so I figured I’d add Wal-Mart to my schedule just so I can try to save enough money to get out of my dad’s house and this hellhole of a town.
Losing Enough Page 33