by K. Bromberg
Combust
By K. Bromberg
Copyright 2018 K. Bromberg
ISBN: 978-1-942832-11-9
Published by JKB Publishing, LLC
Editing by AW Editing and Marion Making Manuscripts
Cover Design by Helen Williams
Cover Photography by R + M Photography (Reggie Deanching)
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
OTHER BOOKS BY K BROMBERG
EPIGRAPH
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
STAY TUNED
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG
“This book will have you CUFFED to your chair until the very last page of this high-flying tale.”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Audrey Carlan
A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances and the healing power of love. An absolute must read.”
—New York Times Bestselling author Helena Hunting
“A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”
—#1 New York Times Bestselling author Lauren Blakely
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout
“Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”
—New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans
“Super charged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott
OTHER BOOKS BY K BROMBERG
Driven
Fueled
Crashed
Raced
Aced
Slow Burn
Sweet Ache
Hard Beat
Down Shift
Sweet Cheeks
Sweet Rivalry
UnRaveled
The Player
The Catch
Cuffed
The hero is commonly the simplest and obscurest of men.
—Henry David Thoreau
“Whoa. Wait a minute. What do you mean, I have to pretend?”
“Your contract has a penalty for not finishing the songs on time.” My agent’s calm, coddling voice comes through the line but has the opposite effect of what she’s hoping for with it.
“Finishing the songs on time—which I’ll do—is not the issue. It’s you telling me I have to pretend to still be dating Jett; that’s the problem. You know,” I say with a voice dripping with sarcasm, “the Jett I found screwing Tara-Perfect-Tits in our bed.” My words hang on the line with so much conviction, yet my heart is imploding.
“Yes, that Jett.” Her voice is quiet now. Resigned. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, Dylan. I know it’s going to be hard, but you know how hesitant the label executives were to sign him on for another album with his history.”
“History?” I laugh. “You mean trashing clubs and being unbearable to work with in the studio? That history?”
“Dylan.” She sighs my name. “They know he’s on his best behavior, but they also know it’s him. The change from bad boy to good guy has never lasted long for him in the past.”
“And his crappy reputation is my problem . . . why, exactly?” I cringe, already knowing the answer.
“Because you’re the only reason they signed him on again. You’re the only person who could calm him down. You’re the—”
“Jett whisperer,” I mumble, hating the term I once thought cute. Now I realize it made me look like a naïve fool. Silence falls as I pinch the bridge of my nose. How am I supposed to make this work?
“I know it’s only been a day since it happened, but maybe once you calm down—”
“I’m pretending I didn’t hear you say that, Ava. There’s no way you just insinuated that I should overlook what Jett did because he’s Jett Kroger. That I should stand by and suck it up. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“That sure as hell is what it sounded like.”
“Look, Dylan . . . both you and Jett are my clients. I want the best for both of you, even though I currently want to kick Jett in the balls for what he did . . . but what is best for you is to finish this album.”
“Like I said, that’s not the problem—”
“And to do so without the label knowing you’re not together anymore.”
“But why?” I throw my hands up as a frustrated tear slides down my cheek.
“Because it will make them nervous. Nervous executives might delay or even table the album for another singer who’s more of a sure thing, because let’s face it, as successful as Jett has been for them, he’s a pain in their asses. And them delaying the album—”
“Means I don’t get paid,” I finish for her, thinking of my mom and her mounting bills. Just one more piece of the fucked-up puzzle added to this chaos my life has become.
I blow out a breath and roll my shoulders, hating every single thing about my life right now.
“It won’t be easy. I know that. But think of it this way . . . finishing the songs, pretending you and Jett are still a team . . . it will keep you in a favorable light with the label. I’ve already been working with them on expanding your writing collaborations outside of working with Jett, so it’s in your best interest to bite the bullet for a bit.”
I sink into my couch, close my eyes, and tighten my hand on the phone at my ear. She’s right. I know she’s right . . . but hell if I want to admit it. And hell if I want to have to sit face to face and write songs with the man who just broke my heart.
“Fine.” There’s a bite t
o my tone. Every part of me revolts against what that word agrees to.
When I open my eyes, Jett is everywhere despite his side of the closet being empty and his house key sitting on the credenza by the front door where he left it. His Dodgers hat he forgot hangs on the back of the kitchen chair. The odd-shaped coffee mug he swears makes coffee taste better is beside the Keurig. The rumpled throw on the couch is where he left it from the last time he fell asleep there.
His cologne lingers. The strum of his guitar still echoes. His laughter still fills the halls.
“Dylan?” Ava’s voice snaps me back from thoughts I shouldn’t be having. From the ache in my heart, I’d give anything to go away. From the ridiculous thoughts edging my mind that maybe it was a mistake when I know full well it wasn’t. “What do you have to lose?”
My dignity.
“I’m good. Fine. You’ll get your songs, but I have to go.”
Literally.
I shove up off the couch and head to the one room I’ve been avoiding. The bed is bare—mattress without sheets, pillows on the ground from when I threw them in a fit of fury—and I head to my closet for my suitcase. As I grab its handle, I dial my brother.
“Hey stranger.” His voice breaks the dam against the floodgate of tears I’ve been trying to hold back.
“Da-Damon.”
“What did that bastard do to you?”
“I need your help.”
I awake disoriented and lost in the silence. It feels weird without the usual sounds—the loud honking of cars and music floating up from the dance studio across the alley. It feels like I’m naked.
Just absolute and complete silence.
Then I hear the giggle. A thump against the wall. A swear following the thump.
And I know he’s finally home.
Crap.
This isn’t how I planned on meeting him, but what am I going to do? Hide away in this bedroom and pretend I’m not here when my car is clearly parked on the left side of the driveway?
I scramble out of bed and throw on a robe, pull the sash on it as tight as it can go, and prepare myself to meet my new housemate. Of sorts.
There’s another giggle. A murmured sound of satisfaction. Both make me cringe to open my bedroom door.
But I do. Curiosity gets the best of me.
I’m blinded momentarily as the sun from the open front door reflects off one very sexy, slinky, and daring silver sparkly dress. A pair of sky-high strappy heels is in one of her hands. Her other is threaded through the hair at the base of the neck of the man whose back is to me.
I shouldn’t stare, but I do.
And not because I’m being rude but because of the immediate sense of inadequacy I feel when I look at her. My frumpy robe admittedly makes me feel out of place next to her in her party dress.
“I’ve gotta go,” she murmurs against his lips and, of course, her voice sounds like she looks, sultry as all hell.
“Mmm. You sure?” His laugh is a deep rumble that fills the hallway.
Another kiss. The run of his hand down the side of her torso until it rests squarely on her ass.
“No . . . but yes.”
They both chuckle as their lips meet again before she steps out of the open doorway, their arms stretching between them, giving me a full view of her for the first time.
Mussed, brown hair that makes bedhead look sexy. A body I’m used to seeing in the Los Angeles perfection I escaped but know I’ll never have: long legs, subtle curves, defined arms, great boobs. Simply put, she’s gorgeous.
I don’t even fear she’ll see me, because her eyes are so completely focused on him that I fade into the background.
They look like an Abercrombie & Fitch ad. Their positioning—her body turned toward his, the pout on her lips, the undeniable attraction between them.
Dear God. Is this what I’ve moved into? Perfectville?
After one more hesitation, she walks away with him staring after her and me looking at the back of him.
A car door shuts. An engine starts. His focus still on her.
“Are you just going to stand there and stare? If you were interested in joining, I’m sure Mal would’ve been all for it.”
His words blindside me, but nowhere near as much as the sight of him when he turns to face me.
Wow.
I open my mouth to speak. Close it. Open it again. Sputter. “I don’t—I’m not—she—” I manage to get some words out, but they come off sounding just how I look: frumpy. In my white fluffy bathrobe—that I’m holding closed at the neck—I look like someone’s aunt Gertrude while he looks like . . . that.
Perfection with a little bit of grit thrown in.
Those aqua eyes of his pin me motionless as they narrow and stare. “Well?” He lifts his eyebrows as he folds his arms across his chest and leans his shoulder against the wall. The hardened expression on his face transforms instantly when his mouth turns into a carefree smile. “Relax, McCoy. I’m just teasing you, but I have to admit, the look on your face was worth it.” In the same amount of time it takes me to breathe a sigh of relief, he crosses the distance of the foyer and reaches a hand out to me. “Grady Malone.”
“Dylan McCoy.” I look at where our hands meet, and my attention is hijacked by the abs in the background, peeking out from behind his unbuttoned shirt. All eight of them. “But you knew that. Thanks for letting me . . . uh—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says as he walks past me and into the family room. “Sorry I didn’t know you were here or else I would have”—he shrugs in an adorably sheepish way that is in complete contradiction to the pure, heady maleness of him—“not made so much noise.”
“My car’s in the driveway. Can’t be much more obvious than that,” I say, fully aware I’m being sarcastic when he doesn’t deserve it. But, he opened the door with his initial comment.
And frankly, I’m sick of taking shit from men. After Jett . . . ugh. After Jett is all I need to say to remind myself why I’m allowed to be snarky.
“I never use the driveway.” He looks at me and lifts his eyebrows unapologetically.
“And I’m supposed to know that, how?”
“Are you always this combative?” His tone sounds as if he’s irritated, but his smile says anything but.
It stops me from saying more, and I remind myself he isn’t Jett. Grady Malone isn’t the man who broke my heart. He’s not the reason I’ve set off for the next few months to lick my wounds and gain some distance to grow immune to his charms before I have to face him again.
“No. Sorry. I . . . it’s just been a long few days.” I hang my head for a moment, swallow my pride when I’m so used to being strong, and then lift it back up. “Thank you for letting me stay on such short notice. I appreciate it.”
“You needed a place to stay. I have an extra room in a house where I’m gone several days of the week. And it’s Damon.” He shrugs as if letting a friend’s sister stay in his house for a few months is something he’d do any day of the week. “I’d do anything for your brother.”
“Thanks. Like I said, I appreciate it more than you know.”
“We all need to get out of Dodge sometimes. I get it.” He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. I shake my head when he holds one out to me.
The scanner on his bookshelf comes to life—codes dispatched to Fire Station Thirteen—scaring the shit out of me, and brings back the bittersweet memories of my childhood. I must jump a foot because Grady laughs. “Sorry ’bout that. I have a habit of turning it on the minute I walk in the door.”
“It’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” I was used to it once.
“You can always turn it off if I forget when I leave for a shift.” I nod in response. “Make yourself at home. Did you find the Wi-Fi code?”
“No.” I remember my fruitless attempt to find it. “I didn’t want to snoop.” I rest my hips against the back of the couch as he walks out of the kitchen and mirrors my posture against the counter a few fe
et across from me.
“Snoop all you like. I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, I made sure all the really embarrassing and equally pleasurable sex toys were put away before you arrived.” He flashes that grin, and I stare at him, mouth agape, wide-eyed and innocent when I’m far from it.
All I can do is choke on air.
He shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re as easy to rile up as your brother. If you’re going to live here, Dyl, you’re going to have to learn to relax. I like to joke. Life’s too serious not to joke. So get used to it.”
“Dyl?” I’m so used to Jett and his broody ways that Grady’s humor is going to take some getting used to.
“We’re roommates now. It’s normal to shorten each other’s names, isn’t it? You’ll call me Grade. I’ll call you Dyl. See? Perfect.”
“Are you always this cheerful?”
“Depends on the day. Or the morning.” He rubs a hand over his unshaven jaw and grins as his eyes flash toward the door. Ah, Mal, the source of his happiness.
My mind is moving a million miles an hour. Living here seemed fine twenty-four hours ago when I had the house to myself, and he was on shift. But now he’s home, and I have to get used to the fact that he’s going to be everywhere. Him and his cheery demeanor. Or rather, him and his girlfriend.
“Is your girlfriend going to have a problem with this?” My mind flashes to Jett. And walking in on him and Tara. In my bed. Not that I’d do that to Mal. Not that Grady would want that with me . . .
“Who?”
He has to ask? “Glitter-dress girl.”
“Glitter dress? Oh, no. She isn’t my girlfriend.”
“Oh.”
“And she won’t be around again.”
Could’ve called that one a mile away.
“Ah, you’re so sentimental.” My voice drips with sarcasm.
“At least I’m honest.”
“Does she know that?”
He rolls his eyes like a little boy. “Yes, she knows that. Mallory and I used to have a thing. She moved away and was home visiting some family . . . so we, uh—”
“Reconnected?”