by SE Hall
Cyndi & Vanessa ~ For every single thing, every single day; we couldn’t function without you, and that’s the damn truth. Love you both so much!
Street Teams ~ For your continuous support and pimping, it’s because of you all people learn about and buy our books, and for putting a smile on our faces each day, a reminder of why we do what we do!
Our Families ~ For loving us, even when we’re crazy, sleep-deprived, monsters; you’re the reason we do this.
Erin Noelle is a Texas native, where she lives with her husband and two young daughters. While earning her degree in History at the University of Houston, she rediscovered her love for reading that was first instilled by her grandmother when she was a young child. A lover of happily-ever-afters, both historical and current, Erin is an avid reader of all romance novels. In 2013, she published the Book Boyfriend Series, which included books Metamorphosis, Ambrosia, Euphoria, and Timeless, and thus far in 2014, has published When the Sun Goes Down, a contemporary romance novel, and Transparent, a romantic suspense novel. Her books have been a part of the USA Today Bestselling list and the Amazon and Barnes & Noble overall Top 100.
You can follow her on:
Facebook @ www.facebook.com/erin.noelle.98,
Her blog @ www.erinnoelleauthor.com, and
On Twitter @authorenoelle.
S.E. Hall is the author of the Amazon Best Selling Evolve Series, Emerge, Embrace, Entangled (novella) and Entice as well as the best-selling stand-alone NA Romance, Pretty Instinct. She also has co-written with two of her dearest friends and authors as well – Stirred Up and Packaged, both erotic quickies with Angela Graham and Conspire, a romance suspense with Erin Noelle. She is honored to be a part of the USA Today and NYT Best Selling Devour box set. S.E., which stands for Stephanie Elaine, resides in Arkansas with her husband of 18 years and 3 beautiful daughters of the home, and one married daughter who graced her with two beautiful grandchildren. When not in the stands watching her ladies play softball, she enjoys reading and writing and the occasional trip to the casino. She’s also clutch at Baggo, when it’s warm outside, and definitely the woman to pick on your side for some Flip Cup!
Fanpages
https://www.facebook.com/S.E.HallAuthorEmerge
https://twitter.com/Emergeauthor
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7087549.S_E_Hall?from_search=true
www.mysehallauthor.com
http://www.amazon.com/S.E.-Hall/e/B00D0AB9TI
Goodreads links
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18136448-emerge
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18106007-embrace
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18669536-entangled
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18776942-entice
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/21933947-pretty-instinct
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22024337-stirred-up
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22436493-packaged
https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22852330-conspire
Buy links
Emerge —http://amzn.com/B00CTYIWGO
Embrace —http://amzn.com/B00FGFY86G
Entangled —http://amzn.com/B00GF6BVXI
Entice —http://amzn.com/B00IA6QWP8
Stirred Up Box Set – http://amzn.com/B00JYZGK56
Pretty Instinct – http://amzn.com/B00KCE1ISM
Packaged – http://amzn.com/B00M0RE7CS
Pinterest Playlists -
Emerge —
http://www.pinterest.com/emergeauthor/emerge-playlist/
Embrace —
http://www.pinterest.com/emergeauthor/embrace-playlist/
Entangled —
http://www.pinterest.com/emergeauthor/entangled-playlist/
Entice —
http://www.pinterest.com/emergeauthor/entice-playlist/
Pretty Instinct —
http://www.pinterest.com/emergeauthor/pretty-instinct-playlist/
Spotify Links —
Emerge —
https://play.spotify.com/user/evolveauthor/playlist/6wIYmUEd60rhGlDJgosSuL
Embrace —
https://play.spotify.com/user/evolveauthor/playlist/4Lq77r4o433sx82DGTGLLa
Entangled —
https://play.spotify.com/user/evolveauthor/playlist/1G4pmB210XYB0i8MGJmtod
Entice —
https://play.spotify.com/user/evolveauthor/playlist/6gNv6hHaLdpUWqqRzqnfef
Pretty Instinct —
http://play.spotify.com/user/evolveauthor/playlist/7cOMMeCMoav4zAxoCnsNpB
Each and every day I fear when he comes home from work. Never knowing what to expect, I hope for the best and prepare for the worst, and I have no choice but to take whatever comes. I belong to a man who claims he loves me, but as each day passes, I realize he loves to control me. He calls me his American Princess, but revels in treating me like his slave. My name is Bryleigh Carter Oliveira and this is my story.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a high-powered assault rifle in my lap, my legs shake violently at the thought of what I’m about to do. I continue to remind myself there is no other way. Fleeing is not an option; running away would be a suicide mission, with a little added torture thrown in. Though I’ve never been on the receiving end of his style of physical persecution, I’ve witnessed it more times than I ever care to think about. No, this is what I must do, if I have any chance at all to escape.
The sound of the garage door opening alerts me he’s home. My heart thumps wildly inside my chest and my palms are slick with sweat. Facing the door he will walk through in mere moments, I lift the oversized weapon – one of many kept in our closet – and point it straight ahead.
The door swings open and he stands there staring at me. Confusion sweeps over his face briefly, but understanding quickly follows. He holds his hands up above his head in surrender, not taking another step towards me.
“Eu sempre te amarei, minha Princesa Americana,” he says in Portuguese, his native tongue, using the softest voice I’ve ever heard come from his mouth. “Mesmo depois de morrer.”
I’d told myself not to let him speak, to shoot at first sight, but instead of making me feel guilty or second-guessing my decision, his words – claiming he’ll always love me, even in death —cut through me like the knife he used to stab that poor girl this morning. They slice like a sharp blade straight through my gut, only I am not carrying his child.
“I’ll always fucking hate you,” I whisper, not even sure he can hear me, as I empty thirty muffled rounds of lead into his chest in less than a minute. “Even in death.”
Impassiveness envelops me, and I feel an inscrutable sense of detachment from the situation—as if I’m watching the scene play out in front of me through someone else’s eyes. Completely surreal.
Picking up my cell phone from the table, I dial the number the federal agent gave me months ago – the one I thought I’d never use. He answers on the first ring.
“Hello, Diomassi speaking.”
“This is Bryleigh Oliveira, and I just killed my husband.”
Meet Blake Martin…
Sometimes you reach a point where you just can’t take anymore—a breaking point, some call it. The day I watched my husband murder the woman who was pregnant with his child, my point didn’t just break; it exploded like a full magazine’s worth of hollow points firing through the barrel of a fully-automatic AK-47. Literally. I am no longer his American Princess, nor am I his slave. Now, I’m a murderer in hiding. My name was Bryleigh Carter Oliveira, and that was my story.
Meet Madden Decker…
Immediately, she hangs her head to hide the tears and crosses her arms across her chest to cover her boobs. “I’m sorry for this,” she croaks in between her sobs. “I just want to go home.”
Rushing to her side, I’m hesitant to touch her, not wanting to inflict any additional pain. I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look up at me. “Don’t apologize, sweet girl,” I whisper soothingly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can ta
lk about it. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Tenderly, I kiss each of her tear-stained cheeks before leading her by the hand over to the shower.
“The spray of the shower will sting too badly. It’s better to clean them with a washcloth and then alcohol,” she reasons, obviously having done this before. “I can take care of it, Madden.”
I stop mid-stride and turn to her, knowing damn well my eyes are full of pity – I can’t help it. “Okay, but please let me help you.”
With a slight nod of her head, I open the linen closet, pull out a couple of cloths, and guide her back to the sink. Wetting the first washcloth, I drop to my knees in front of her, putting me eyelevel with the lacerations. She keeps her arms tightly wrapped over her chest as I go to work, carefully cleaning up the red streaks from her bony rib cage and concave stomach which I notice aren’t all fresh, thus confirming this is a common occurrence. I bite my tongue to not comment on her frailness, but I don’t want to tear her down any more than she already is at the moment. Instead, I make a mental note to feed her every chance I get.
After nearly fifteen silent minutes, all of the blood is wiped away and I grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet. Returning to my kneeling position, I peer up at her, making sure she’s ready for the burning sensation I know is about to come. Her eyes are closed tightly and she’s chewing nervously on her bottom lip. Her helplessness and fragility affect me in the most profound way. I want —no scratch that —I need to fix her like I need to take my next breath, and I have no fucking clue why. It scares me shitless.
After the longest two hours of any of our lives, with suffocating amounts of tension in the air, we finally make it to the rest stop Cami designated. Lucky for her, we’d still been in our homeland of Ohio when she’d lost her shit, so she was able to call someone to meet her a small jaunt down the road. Otherwise, I would have offloaded her randomly. At least, I think I would have.
Throwing down his cards in the middle of our four man game of Uno, Conner’s up and ready as soon as we stop and he sees a park out the window.
“You didn’t say Uno,” Rhett teases him as he picks up the scattered cards. “I win.”
“Move,” Cami barks at Conner, trying to shove past him and knocking her case into his hip as she does so.
“I’m not playing with her,” I warn Jarrett in a menacingly low snarl. “Get her the fuck off my bus before you have to alibi my whereabouts at the time of the murder.” I’m truly floored, no idea of the deep-rooted venom she’d hidden. And maybe she’s just having a categorically bad day…but I won’t risk her having another one on my bus.
Jarrett hurries to the door, throwing an arm around Conner’s shoulders. “Let’s scoot back, buddy, give Cami room to get off the bus.”
“Where’s Cami going?” He looks around, confused. “Cami, where are you going?”
“The fuck away from you!”
Instinctually, Jarrett has Conner moved back already, thank goodness, ‘cause I’m done, up with a fist full of her hair and my arm reared back as Rhett chuckles from behind me, his arm squeezing around my waist.
“Almost over,” he whispers, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Hold it together long enough for her to get off the bus and you never have to worry about her again. Come on.” He untangles my fingers from her greasy strands and walks backwards, dragging me with him. “Come sit down with me until she’s gone.”
I only do so under duress. He holds me down forcefully on his lap, my head falling against his chest. As relieved as I am that the debacle’s seconds from being over, it’s created a whole new problem. “We have a gig in a few days and no fucking bassist. What’re we gonna do?”
“I can play!” Conner raises his hand, eavesdropping from way over there.
Jarrett nudges him with a shoulder and heads to sit down by us, Cami completely unloaded now. Time for our little family to have a meeting, minus Bruce. He’ll stay put in his captain’s chair, steering clear of any drama.
“You play great, Con.” And he did. He was talented, even wrote some songs way back when. “But we need you on tambourine, remember?” Jarrett lovingly reminds him.
Every show, Uncle Bruce watches over Conner, right off stage, shaking his tambourine like a champ. I feel awful that all he can do now is shake the noisy thing from the wings, but it’s too unpredictable to let him on stage, some crowds nicer than others, venues ranging from large and rowdy to small and accommodating. We adjust accordingly.
“That is right.” His brow wrinkles. Sweetness.
“Don’t worry, we’ll think of something.” I stand, moving to the door, figuring Cami’s long gone. “You wanna stretch your legs in the fresh air a minute, Bubs?”
A jaunt in the sun is as much to clear my mind as his. I have no idea what we’ll think of, and I’d dragged them all on this misadventure, only to have it now collapsing. Although originally my idea, it’s become all Rhett and Jarrett have. Even if we call it quits today, I have Conner and a fallback nest egg, but the boys were ostracized socially and financially from their shitty “family” the minute they’d stepped onboard. Well, officially, anyway; the groundwork of such was laid long before. They’d finally given their parents the excuse they needed to justify their douchery at tea parties and such: “It’s okay to shit on our kids because they…”
So I can’t just cancel the gig. It may be no big deal to me—this was never about being discovered or getting signed as the next “big thing” in my eyes—but I suspect it’s become exactly that to Rhett and Jarrett.
I need a miracle…preferably one that has some empathy, or at least fakes it with their mouth closed, and can pluck a mean bass.
What started as stretching our legs for a minute turned into an afternoon picnic and a game of Frisbee golf. I’m heading to hole five, a par two (the trash can), cleaning up what’s left of our lunch when something, or someone rather, catches my eye.
Hello, miracle.
The glint of the sun reflecting off the guitar slung across his back is what first snags my attention, but the favors he’s doing that pair of Levis is what’s keeping it.
Hell yes, I noticed. How could I not? I am, after all, a healthy twenty-three-year-old woman.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Jarrett creeps up behind me, scheming in my ear.
Positive he’s not thinking “I wish I had an hour all my own to let that guy fuck the legs off me,” I turn my head back to him and attempt undeterred sarcasm. “If my answer to that question is ever yes, feed me lots of fish. Brain food. Not any from Conner’s tank, though.”
Which reminds me…eh, we’ll wait for Bubs to mention it.
“Seriously smartass, we gonna stand here and pant ‘til he notices us or we gonna go ask him?”
“Ask him what?” We both know I’m full of shit—I know exactly what he means. And yes, in a perfect world, this would appear to be divine intervention…guy with guitar conveniently located at same rest stop as band coincidentally in need of a guitar player, but I far from believe in a perfect world. I do, however, let my head fall back for just a moment to take in the clear, endless blue sky and wonder, filled with warmth at the thought. Good lookin’ out, Mom.
“I can’t let a stranger on the bus with Bubs. What if he’s a mass murderer?” What if he’s not as pretty on the inside as he is on the outside?
“Ah, Mama Bear, run him through all the tests. You’re careful. And he might say we’re crazy and tell us to fuck off. Let’s ask before we worry about it.”
Biding my time, I chew on the inside of my cheek and look back, confirming Conner’s still tossing the Frisbee happily, Rhett watching him. “You asking or am I?” I sigh, hopefully masking the foreign tingle of anticipation working its way up my battered spine.
“He’s hetero, I can tell from here. I say we send in,” he flicks a finger back and forth between my boobs, “the big guns.”
“Don’t lick your lips!” I shove him, mouth agape. “You’re like my brother. Th
at’s illegal in at least forty states, and gross.”
“You didn’t think it was gross when—”
“Enough.” I slap my hand over his mouth hastily. “I’ll go, but you stay right here and watch, closely. He makes a move for a weapon, dial 911 as you run to rescue me.”
“On it.” He grins at me, full of victory, a hint of his earlier teasing still lingering in his expression.
Girding my loins, I think, do women have loins and can they be girded or is that only a guy thing? Summoning my courage, I move with slow, hesitant steps in the miraculous unknown’s direction, reminding myself with each one that it’s for the boys, the band, the overall goal of staying the hell out of Sutton. And it is, but I’m kidding myself if I don’t admit I wouldn’t be this anxious if I was walking up to an ugly man. Or even a kinda good-looking man. Shallow much, Liz? Nah, I have no control over biological response.
Almost there now, his head lifts and turns at my approach, connecting eyes as sable brown as thick molasses to my own. He was tummy-turning enough far away. Up close, he’s better than photoshopped, a clear-cut case for Guinness Genetics. His lips are full, much plumper than my own, and he has a strong nose and jawline, both very masculine, the latter covered in a dark scruff. His hair is the same rich chestnut as his eyes, not too short, but definitely not too long. “Just fucked” hair (isn’t that what they call it?) be damned. He’s got “just fucked her and she had to hold on” locks, unruly in the most intricate fashion. The black boots at the end of long, thick legs are scuffed, faded jeans worn, well, and the long sleeved black thermal he’s wearing? Oh, he wears it, or rather, every muscle in his torso holds it up flawlessly.
Bottom line—he’s easy to look at.
“Are you a deranged serial killer and/or rapist?”
I like to open subtly.
“No, are you?” His timbre is deep and gravely, sending my vagina subliminal messages. Something along the lines of “yup, you want it.” With a voice like that, I’m praying he isn’t a chain smoker. To fuzz this perfect picture with the stench of an ever-present cloud of smoke would be one helluva slap in the face of the Almighty creator.