A Standalone Briarcrest Academy Novel #3
Author:
New York Times best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills
Introductory price of $2.99 on release
day for 24 hours only!
A beautiful violinist who lives next
door…
The obsessed rock star who watches
her...
And the one night she bares it all.
Synopsis
Vital
Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his YouTube music video would
go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did.
After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a
matter of time before his stars aligned.
But
life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.
After
being cheated on, Sebastian’s only rule to falling in love is simple: Keep Calm
and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new neighbor with binoculars
seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an erotic game between two
very unlikely people.
Twenty-year-old
Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist who's lost her mojo on stage.
She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to find her way through her
twisted past in order to make her future.
He’s
the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his autograph. She’s the
introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who he is.
When
they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off. Yet, giving his
heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who craves attention
isn’t Violet’s.
Welcome
to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes the best things in life
are VERY
TWISTED THINGS.
Buy Link
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1DEhDbS
Buy Link
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1DEhDbS
Violet
“Fairy dust is
not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
Boom!
I, Violet St. Lyons, who once
believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that
the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said
it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed
my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed it for
eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the
plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished.
Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d
sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been
collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding
passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at
us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space
and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed,
as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d
boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was
going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking
grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had
already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay.
We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old
money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the New York Times featured
pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted.
The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with
its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit
had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few
minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was
making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone
off.
Bits of debris flew around,
narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face
drawn back in a horrible grimace.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun
like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink
tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them
silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me.
We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin case flew
past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the
plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here
because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond
promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left.
Would the Mayor of New York’s son
go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin,
and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay
awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to
the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the
plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean
rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and
braced myself. We hit at an angle, the
plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by
the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart
thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but
she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it
filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the
dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I
swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding.
Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red
shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up,
up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore
it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the
water.
The
hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get
to the top. Please.
My
body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat
making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and
more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark
spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My
body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I
let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No
bright lights, no tunnel.
No
heaven, no mother, no father.
No
comets.
No
fairy dust.
Sebastian
Two years later
“She was music
with skin.” —Sebastian Tate
I tapped my foot.
What
was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the
Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of high-powered
binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me
at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her
long legs as she moved around. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where were the
usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was
impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit
our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by
glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her
rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which
faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play.
She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went
over me.
What
was she doing?
Could
she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she
positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist
poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like
Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music
that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up
in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d
ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow
hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse
kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and
the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.
Her robe slipped off her right
shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating
as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the
folds of the material. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking,
strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself. Whoever Violin
Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her
heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as the
binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed
from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks.
Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled
from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head
bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it
had me.
The entire event was surreal, yet
poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t
even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She
did.
Bam!
She snapped her
head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at
attention.
And then …
Standing there in the moonlight,
she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements
seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar
jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting
to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.
My gaze searched her patio, the
backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back
and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy
material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the
front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up
her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read
her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled,
her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage
of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from
holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already
laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed,
making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did something
completely crazy.
The lonely girl next door flipped
me the bird.
©
Ilsa Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things
Author Bio
New
York Times and USA Today best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about
strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
She’s addicted to dystopian and all things fantasy, including
unicorns and sword-wielding heroines. Other fascinations include frothy coffee
beverages, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she’s a
Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master’s in Education.
When she’s not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool
magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
Social Media
Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills
Instagram: http://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
Website: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/
Instagram: http://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
USA Today Blog YouTube Video:
BUY HER OTHER BOOKS HERE
http://www.amazon.com/Ilsa-Madden-Mills/e/B00F277DE2/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1423792826&sr=1-1
GIVEAWAY
No comments:
Post a Comment