by B. B. Miller
Wildest Dream
B.B. Miller & Leslie Carson
© 2019
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are produced from the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, events or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act, 1968, no part of this work may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form by any means, without the prior written permission of the authors.
Cover design by: Jada D’Lee Designs
Cover Image by: iStock Photos
Editing by: Lauren Schmelz and Greg: Write Divas
Interior Design & Formatting by: Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Other Titles by the Authors
Sneak Peek!
For the wild ones, the wanderers, the ones who march to the beat of a different drummer.
Murphy’s Law No. 261: If your bandmates get girlfriends, they quickly become dull and boring. AKA—Being the seventh wheel sucks.
Sean
“I’M GOING HANG GLIDING.” MY announcement—an epic one, in my opinion—is met with the typical apathy I’ve come to expect from my Redfall bandmates over the last few years.
Kennedy Lane, lead singer and guitar genius; Cameron Chapman, our kick-ass rhythm guitarist; and Matt Logan, Redfall’s fierce bassist extraordinaire, look more like teenagers unable to avoid the temptation of their smartphones than one of the biggest rock and roll bands on the planet.
Only Cam has the decency to lift his nose from the wonder of his beloved phone. “You’re not going hang gliding,” he grumbles. Since hooking up with the lovely Samantha, he’s gone and got himself an instant family, and with that the parental instincts that go along with worrying about the fragile state of a five-year-old girl. Although, there is no debating how utterly adorable Hannah is. Talk about having someone wrapped around your finger. I think all four of us would move the earth for her.
Still, Cam’s the last person I would ever expect fatherly advice from, but love apparently does things to you no one can predict. He and Sam are engaged now and beginning to plan their wedding. Wonders never cease.
“Damn right I am. Adventure Wars called Nic the other day.”
This gets their collective attention, and I can’t help but smirk as I lounge back against the sofa in the green room, stretching my arm across the back. Another interview, another city. They all start to blend together after a while. We’re all feeling the toll of this tour, but there’s a well-earned break on the horizon, and that can’t come soon enough.
“Adventure Wars?” Matty looks more than a little impressed. “That TV show where celebrities battle it out to see which one is more stupid?”
My smirk fades a little.
“Last week, some pro quarterback went shark diving. The other contestant was too chicken-shit to try it. They all donate money to charity regardless,” Matty adds.
“No shit,” Kennedy mumbles before dropping his phone into the pocket of his leather jacket. “When’s this taking place?”
“It’s not.” Tucker Pearson, our head of security, lurks at the door in that menacing way he has. “No fucking way are you doing that.”
“But it’s totally safe.” Even I can admit that I sound like a petulant child.
Tucker snorts and shakes his head. “Throwing yourself off a cliff with only a kite holding you up isn’t safe, Sean.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, hmm?” I challenge them all. Pushing up from the sofa, I pace the room, keyed up and anticipating our next performance as always.
“I’m all for adventure, but—”
“But nothing!” I interrupt Tucker. “When’s the last time we did something wild and crazy?”
“Last night,” Kennedy deadpans. “Or did you forget the eighteen thousand people we played for?”
“Not talking about that. That is safe. It’s what we know. What about pushing the boundaries a little?”
“Again, what about last night?” Kennedy continues. “Pretty sure no one has played a Stones tribute that way ever.”
I grin at the memory of our latest concert. We blew the roof off Madison Square Garden for the fourth night in a row. There’s nothing like that kind of adrenaline rush. “All right, I’ll give you that, but I’m talking about taking real risks here. You know? Feel your heart pounding, pure adrenaline—not the kind we get when we play. I mean the unknown.”
“Jesus, you need a hobby,” Cam mutters, rolling his eyes.
“My point exactly. We can’t all be in domesticated bliss. And what would I bring to the band if you all couldn’t live vicariously through me?”
“I ask myself that question on a daily basis,” Kennedy mocks with a grin, lifting his Gibson from the nearby stand and strumming a few chords.
“I really want—”
“No.” There’s no questioning the firmness in Tucker’s voice as he cuts me off. “This wacked-out show must have other options, so find one.”
“White water rafting in Ecuador?” Cam offers.
“Zip line over the rainforest in Costa Rica?” Matty chimes in.
Kennedy stops playing long enough to throw his two cents in. “New tattoo—on your forehead this time?”
“Yes. Yes. And are you insane? I can’t ruin this pretty face for women everywhere. I’m our money ticket.”
Cameron shakes his head and laughs at me.
“Whatever you do, it has to be something the insurance company will cover.” Tucker passes me an energy drink from the table.
“Listen to you, old man. See? This is what I’m talking about. I want to spice things up, and all you lot can think about is not violating section twenty-four in our insurance policy.”
“Finding a replacement drummer would be a pain in the ass,” Cameron jokes. “Maybe we should start looking now?”
I level him a warning glance. “You wouldn’t dare, Three.” Cameron narrows his eyes at my nickname for him. Being born into an uber-rich, country club elitist family is something I’ll never stop kidding Cam about. Cameron Louis Chapman, the Third… What a crock of shit. Who gives their kid a handle like that? So, to me, he’ll always be Three. Sure, he pretends to hate the name, but secretly, I think he loves me for it.
“Don’t die, and we won’t have to,” he fires back at me.
“Words of wisdom there.” Matty pokes at my hair. I dyed it jet-black after experimenting with various shades of blue for the last couple of weeks. I like to change things up. Keep people guessing.
“And I thought we talked about this. Remember? When you channeled Spiderman at the hotel in Buenos Aires last month?” Kennedy glares at me, and I give him a one-finger salute.
“I was totally fin—”
“You could have died, Sean,” Tucker reminds me. He’s such a buzzkill. “Climbing between the balconies like that. You’re not invincible.”
; I wave him off. “I didn’t die, though, did I? And the rooms were right beside each other.”
“Yeah, Thirty-two stories up,” Cam helpfully supplies while he shrugs on his leather jacket.
“Answer the door next time and we won’t have to worry about it.”
Cameron rests his arm across the back of the couch he’s lounging in. “I was busy on a very important video chat with Sam.” He ducks as I hurl a grape at him from the nearby fruit tray.
“Just think of the women you’d disappoint if you did die. Broken hearts around the globe,” Matty says with a hint of amusement in his voice.
“I really do hate disappointing women.” I throw a grape up into the air and catch it in my mouth.
Kennedy snorts. “Doesn’t that happen every night?” I stick my tongue out at him.
A sharp knock on the door puts a stop to our limitless sparring. “Redfall! You’re on in ten.” Duty calls as always.
I’m not, nor have I ever been, what people define as normal. It’s a blessing and a curse. My parents encouraged me to question everything and to never be complacent. They tried to do the same with my twin sister, Sydney, but she’s always been the one on a more even keel, pulling me back to reality when I tended to run off the rails, which back in the day, was often.
We were that family—the ones who took backpacking tours to the middle of nowhere, whilst everyone else was lazing about on holiday. Sydney and I spent our tenth birthday helping my parents build a school in Tanzania. With my father being a director of the International Development Office, a government department that distributes aid to countries in need, summer holidays were taken wherever he happened to be dispatched: Nepal, Ghana, the Philippines. More than just a talking head, Dad is one of the rare ones who actually gives a shit; he rolls up his sleeves and digs in to help. He always wanted both Syd and me to get involved in political life, so near and dear it was and still is to him.
Sadly, for him, that dream was doomed for failure the moment I turned sixteen and made the miraculous discovery that girls would do just about anything if they found out you were a drummer—bless them many times over.
Politics wasn’t for Sydney either. The artistic gene—that we still can’t seem to place—bit her early. She’s now an architect with one of the most prestigious firms in London. Those countless hours of drawing and sketching with my mum, who can’t draw a straight line with a ruler, obviously came in handy.
Sydney, however, has never caused family embarrassment, something I’ve excelled at over the years. My stint in rehab doesn’t shine as one of my finer moments. I don’t think that’s what dear old Mum and Dad had in mind when they told me to spread my wings and explore. But for a while, I was weak and caved to the lure of seeking the ultimate high in an industry where drugs are offered around like appetizers at a glitzy party.
The press is brutal in ways you can’t imagine when you’re famous and make mistakes. Couple that with a by-the-book influential member of the government, and you’ve got yourself a scandal. That may be the only regret I have—causing my parents to be hounded relentlessly by the paparazzi, demanding their comments on my coke bender that landed me in rehab for a couple of months.
Thankfully, as these things often do, the next celebrity train wreck followed mine quickly, and my family was just a footnote on page ten within a couple of weeks.
These days, with my bandmates cozying up with their significant others, the dynamic in our group has changed dramatically. I had a tea party with Cam and Hannah a few weeks back, for the love of God. A proper tea party. Mind you, those pink sunglasses Hannah made me wear were fantastic, but still, it’s quite the change in culture from our days gone by. My mates are blissfully happy, but our nights of partying and staying out unchecked until four in the morning are a distant memory.
All that partying we did in the past wasn’t always a good thing. For a while there, all of us were in serious danger of taking things a step too far. Change is inevitable in life, a sign that we’re all growing up, if you will, but if you asked me a year ago if I’d be hosting tea parties for five-year-olds, I would’ve told you you’d lost your mind.
But, that is the wonder of life. The unpredictability is what makes us want to get up and see what’s in store. On days like today, when I’m held back, when I’m told I’m not allowed to do something, well, that just makes me want to do it more. Buy the shoes, wear the ridiculous outfits, take the jump. You’re here to light it up, and I intend to do just that.
“Hey, London.” My eyes snap open and I try to look over my shoulder in the direction of the melodic female voice. It’s nearly impossible, as I’m strapped to a hulk of man who seems more than a little excited to have me sitting in his lap.
I’m currently hooked to a stranger to whom I’ve entrusted my entire existence. I’ve signed my life away—literally—on a myriad of forms, disclaiming the fine New York skydive organization from any liability should I plummet to my death. I’ve sat through the fastest instruction video in the history of the world, and been zipped into a fabulous blue jumpsuit that I would normally howl at wearing.
Right now, I’m not howling. My heart is literally in my throat, the deafening roar of the engine in my ears louder than most concerts I’ve played. Adrenaline pulses in my fingertips, firing harder, faster than ever before. A hint of burnt rubber lingers in the cramped cargo space eight of us are squashed into. The plane? Some rickety old number held together by duct tape most likely.
Metal clinks behind me, and I feel… Ted? Tim? Regardless, T-man tightens my harness across my rib cage, joking to one of the other experts about virgin jumpers. On any other day, I’d be all over that comment. Today? Breathing is hard. For the first time in my life, I’m actually questioning my sanity.
The reality of the situation grips me as one of the other instructors hauls the side door of the plane open. A gaping hole where a door should be. The brilliant blue sky stretches out for miles. At least it will be sunny when I plunge to my death. I let out a snort and try to calm down.
Growing up, Syd and I used to pretend to be superheroes. With blankets wrapped around our necks as capes, we would race through the yard in Knightsbridge, arms spread wide, me jumping into one of Mum’s flowering shrubs just to see what it felt like. That was exhilarating. This is just pure insanity. I take another breath.
“London!” I twist around enough finally to land my eyes on the persistent woman in question. “Yeah. You.” She smiles at me. “It helps if you remember to breathe.”p
“I’m all right.”
Her eyes, pale blueish-gray behind her goggles, dart down to my perpetually bouncing leg and the corners of her mouth turn up.
“That’s nothing. I’m always like this.”
“Sure you are,” she hollers over the deafening roar of the engine. The corner of her pretty mouth curves up. Typically, women tend to fall all over me. This one looks thoroughly amused. I can tell she’s tall and hiding a significant amount of curves under the oversized jumpsuit. Her hair—blond, sleek, and cut in a funky, layered style—lands just under her chin. Color me intrigued.
“How did you know I was English?”
She rolls her pretty eyes. “Please. You were the loudest one in the waiting area. That accent is kind of hard to miss.”
She’s got me there. “You’ve done this before?” I ask as T-man shuffles us toward the door of death.
Tossing me a killer smile, she nods happily. “A few times.”
“And you’re not just the least bit scared?”
“Bigger things out there to be scared of.”
“Such as?”
Her jaw sets, all amusement gone. “Never doing this. Having someone tell you that you can’t.” My heart stutters at her words, but before I can dig further, T-Man hollers in my ear.
“She’s right. Just breathe, man. I’ve done this thousands of times. You’re in good hands. It’s the best thing you’ll ever do!” T-Man sounds confident. I don’t bother telling him I
’ve played with legends—living and gone. I hardly think tandem jumping from a plane is going to top that.
More shuffling to a tiny, wobbly platform that sits between me and potential death. My legs dangling off the side of a plane seems surreal, and then we’re rocking forward, back… What the hell was I supposed to remember? Cross legs, bend arms… No! That’s not it, and what the hell were the taps on the shoulder meant to be?
I crane my neck to try to get another glimpse at my mystery woman, but it’s too late. T-Man rocks forward once more, the air steals my breath, and we’re free falling into the mind-blowing, great unknown.
“Sweetheart, I’m about to be inside you. At least give me a name.” My voice is raw and needy as I arch against my mystery woman’s palm.
We’re outside, at the back of the hangar in the airfield, hidden from view. Adrenaline is, still coursing electric through my veins from the dive, from my blond beauty from the plane. This woman… she’s killing me: a slow, torturous, but oh so delicious death. It’s been a primal experience, unexpected and addictive.
I’ve made her come once already, her sweet taste tingling on my tongue. I’m pretty sure she pulled hair straight out of my skull from tugging on it so hard when I sank between her creamy thighs and licked my way to pure heaven. Praise the Lord for natural blondes.
“No names. Let’s just pretend we don’t know each other, London,” she whispers against my ear. I can’t help but groan when she glides her hands over my cock once more, drawing the condom down my hardened length as she nibbles up and down my neck.
It’s maddening—she refuses to let me kiss her. I want those sweet lips on mine.
“But I don’t know who you are.” I groan, my hand tightening around the ample curve of her waist, pressing her against the building. She’s going to have marks. So am I, and I’ll wear them proudly.
“And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
I groan in frustration, and my fingers stroke between her glorious long legs once more. She grinds her hips forward. “You’re aching for me, aren’t you, love?”
