by Tasha Black
Burn This!
A 300 Moons Book
Tasha Black
13th Story Press
Contents
Copyright
Tasha Black Starter Library
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
BAIT THIS! (Sample)
Chapter 1
Tasha Black Starter Library
About the Author
Curse of the Alpha: The Complete Bundle
Bad Boy Alphas
One Percent Club
Copyright © 2016 by 13th Story Press All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
13th Story Press PO Box 506 Swarthmore, PA 19081
[email protected]
Cover design 2016 by Sylvia Frost
http://sfrostcovers.com
Tasha Black Starter Library
Packed with steamy shifters, mischievous magic, billionaire superheroes, and plenty of HEAT, the Tasha Black Starter Library is the perfect way to dive into Tasha's unique brand of Romance with Bite!
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He could lick 'em by smiling
He could leave 'em to hang
He took it all too far
But, boy, could he play guitar
-David Bowie
The first rock star to steal my heart.
Prologue
Some people said Kate Harkness was a witch.
Others said she was an angel.
But to the very special group of foundlings in her care, she was just Mom.
Mom, with a long ponytail of frizzy yellow hair, smiling so hard that her sunburnt cheeks nearly covered her eyes. Mom, pushing a wheelbarrow or driving the pick-up truck that pulled the hayride at Harkness Farms. Mom, laying down the law when you messed up, and making you want to cry with pride when you had earned her gruff praise.
Any mom will tell you her children are special, but the kids who came to live at Harkness Farms weren’t exactly your run of the mill orphans. Kate’s children all possessed special gifts. Unique abilities, you might say. Each one had the unlikely power to shift into the form of an animal or magical creature.
And it was precisely because of these blessings that the children found their way to Kate Harkness. Most shifters didn’t have the power to change until adolescence. But rarely, a child would come into their gift early. And sometimes, this was just too much for even a shifter family to handle.
But not too much for Kate.
Bear. Wolf. Tiger. Dog. Butterfly. Dragon. It didn’t matter.
She made room in her home and her heart for them all.
To help them, every precocious young shifter brought to Harkness Farms was paid a visit by Gloria Cortez, a witch of no little renown, on the night of their arrival. Although Mrs. Cortez’s role in their everyday lives wasn’t as evident as Kate’s, it was no less important.
The tiny woman would cradle the child in her warm arms and whisper a sweet song, though none could ever remember the words.
“Three hundred moons, Kate,” she would say with a crinkly-eyed smile, handing the child off again.
“And then what, Gloria?” some of the children heard their Mom whisper one night, when they had snuck downstairs to witness the welcome ceremony of a new sibling.
“And then we wait,” Mrs. Cortez replied. “Magic always has a price. We’ll find it out soon enough.”
The children all believed that Mrs. Cortez had somehow given them the power to control their animals, to live a normal life among the rest of the world. But whenever they tried to ask Mom about it, she told them they would know well enough when they were older, and set them to work on one farm chore or another.
Eventually, they stopped asking. And the song was all but forgotten.
But now is a significant time for the first group of children who came into the care of Kate Harkness all those years ago. The 300th moon is finally upon them. Some memories refuse to stay forgotten forever.
And some prices won’t remain unpaid.
1
Johnny Lazarus looked out at the crowd.
He was a handsome guy, he looked at home on the farm with his shirt off, at home on the tour bus, at home in a fancy restaurant with his long dark hair brushing the shoulders of his tux.
But it was on the stage, with the savage beat reverberating through his body, making his feet feel like they had roots down to the center of the earth, that he felt in his element.
His band, Somnambulance, was on top of the world, and everyone wanted a piece of Johnny Lazarus. They had always traveled a lot, but this summer’s Outlaws of Rock festival was the longest tour they’d done in ages. It was starting to feel like one long concert, and the drives, hotel rooms and groupies in between were just breaks between the sets.
Even here in LA, the biggest venue of the whole tour, with thousands of screaming fans, he walked right onstage feeling at home, and unconcerned. He would snap his fingers and the crowd would fall at his feet, no worries. The crew was lean. They had been at this for months and the whole thing ran like clockwork.
Johnny closed his eyes and breathed in the experience. The huge field laid out before him swam with every scent the human body was capable of producing: sweat and tears, tobacco and booze, arousal and even a hint of fear here and there.
And the sounds: the shudder and thump of tens of thousands of hearts beating, feet shuffling, howls and sighs and palms slapping, some in perfect time to the old school Metallica cover they were doing, some not.
Above it all stood the silky smooth feel of the guitar in his hands. Little Ruby, his darling, her strings singing under his fingers. No matter how gritty the concert, little Ruby was always smooth and clean and cool to the touch. She was impervious to the bacchanal. He should have named her Pallas Athena. Except she sang so sweetly when he stroked his fingers against her, it reminded him of something else entirely. So little Ruby was her name.
He sang into the mic as the crowd screamed along, and who the fuck could blame them? The band was killing it. The song was an old favorite, from back when Metallica was good. And as a bonus, the post-Fifty Shades chicks really got into the master-servant lyrics.
Johnny had vague memories of his mom listening to this type of music, before… Before the fire, and before everything changed. Before the night she snuck him out and drove all night to the suburbs of Philadelphia to leave him with Kate Harkness.
“It’s just for a little while, bud, until I can get a job out here and an apartment, okay?” she had assured him.
Even at age five, madly in love with her big brown eyes and the flowery
smell of her shampoo, he had known that wasn’t true.
And, in fact, she had never come back.
To her credit, she also hadn’t come back after he got famous. He’d made a point of keeping the name she gave him. So she would know what she had missed.
The machine gun beat of the drums splattered out and the song ended.
The whole crowd screamed like crazy, like they never wanted him to stop.
Well, too bad. It was time for the finale.
Jazz, the young girl on crew who was in charge of little Ruby during the finale still looked nervous even tonight, the last show. She was probably the only one still feeling the heat, and he couldn’t say he blamed her.
It was Jazz’s job to grab the guitar out of the air when Johnny tossed her. Then she had to run backstage and protect her until the show was over and Johnny came to snatch little Ruby up fiercely from her arms.
Johnny had been known to get a little carried away during the final song. And little Ruby was an irreplaceable antique Les Paul.
Though Jazz seemed barely old enough to be allowed to go on a tour at all, there was a serious look on her soft brown face. Johnny knew instinctively that she would protect his instrument with her life, if necessary, and would never allow herself to get caught up in an some silly prank, egged on by one of the pop princesses or boy band geeks, where she would scare Johnny into thinking something had happened to little Ruby.
He tossed his beloved tenderly into Jazz’s slender hands and gave the kid a grin when she caught little Ruby as if the guitar had flown into her arms of its own volition. She grinned back and disappeared into the darkness offstage.
He strode slowly back to the mic, grabbing a bottle of water off one of the amps along the way.
The air hung hot and wet, like a damp sponge, even though the sun had set two hours ago. Ominous clouds had formed a dome over the field since morning. The kids selling umbrellas and disposable plastic ponchos had been making a killing all day. But it turned out to be an empty threat.
At least the cloud cover probably cut down on the cases of sun-stroke in the medical tent.
Johnny sucked down half the water bottle, then poured the other half slowly over his head.
Screams, mostly female, rang out as the t-shirt went transparent over his lean, muscular frame. He let himself smirk and they got even louder. He tossed the empty bottle out into the crowd and tried not to watch as a sea of people reached for it.
“You guys havin’ a good time tonight?” he asked mildly into the microphone, scanning the crowd.
They roared back at him.
“Me too. Me too. I was hoping we’d get to hang out with you a little longer, but we just got word from the park management that it’s time to shut things down,” he said sadly.
“Booooooooooo,” they screamed.
There was no word from anyone, of course. He was teasing them.
They knew it. And they loved it.
“They told me if we don’t get off the stage, they’re gonna pull the plug,” he told them with a confidential tilt of his head, like he was spreading a juicy rumor about a neighbor.
“Booooooooo,” they screamed back.
“You know what I got to say to that?” he asked, dropping the gossipy tone, and picking up his branded rebellious attitude.
The crowd began to cheer loudly.
“I said… You know what I got to say to that?” he asked, taunting them.
They cheered frantically, louder than before.
“Fuck that!” he screamed back.
The whole crowd went nuts.
Johnny literally couldn’t hear himself think.
“Fuck that!” he screamed again, instead of trying. He pumped his fist, unsure if any mic in the world would allow them to hear him over their own sounds.
But they heard him, they always did. They picked up his phrase and began to chant.
“Fuck that…Fuck that…Fuck that,” their collective voice bounced off the back of the stage and echoed back to him.
He smiled and stripped off his water and sweat-soaked shirt.
More high-pitched screams.
He let them take in his naked torso. He was glad he was built. Chicks went wild for the abs and the biceps. And the dudes seemed to get a kick out of his body too. Like somehow because they connected with his lyrics they felt like they were a part of him, like his body was theirs too, since it expressed their feelings.
And of course, some of them just wanted to fuck him.
He basked in it, glorying in sharing his beauty, though he knew from a certain point of view, it would be considered vanity.
His foster sister, Darcy, for one, would never let him live this sort of thing down.
But he was merely sharing with others what had been given to him freely - not earned. Shouldn’t he share it with the world, much as he shared his musical talent, which had also been bestowed upon him?
Of course there was that other gift.
Best not to think about it.
He threw his shirt into the crowd and their screams ratcheted up higher. People literally dove to catch it.
“I say we play one more. Let ‘em try to stop us!” he offered.
He held up his right hand, and a guitar flew at him from stage right.
A serviceable, but disposable, Fender Stratocaster.
He caught it expertly and strapped it on.
Man, they were smooth tonight. He could have caught it with his eyes closed.
“Anybody have any requests?” he asked innocently.
He didn’t really need to ask. There was only one song they hadn’t played.
One song that all these people paid their hard earned money, or their parents’ money at least, to hear.
In answer, the crowd lifted their heads up to the clouds and and howled, like wolves baying at the moon.
Adorable. They were all adorable from up here, their flaws hidden by the distance, their imperfections smoothed out by perspective. So small, crying out to be heard. They were all his babies.
Johnny drank them in for another moment.
Who knew when the next tour would be? He’d be back in the renovated attic soon, all by himself, trying to coax little Ruby to sing the songs in his imagination again. Then they’d all be back in the studio, in an antiseptic booth, nothing but his own voice playing back on a loop to tell him whether it was any good or not. He might never write another song that made the world throw their head back and howl, like he was inside their souls.
He stopped thinking and gave his babies what they wanted.
He punched out the three notes of the opening riff of “Strength of the Pack.”
Three…two…one…
The crowd erupted, stamping their feet on the ground and yelling. The effect from the stage above was like watching a pot of water boiling over.
Johnny smiled at what he had wrought. This song was his, and they were all here to bask in it.
His fingers punished the strings of the Strat, jabbing the notes out like they were Morse code.
Take me. My body, my soul, they are nothing more than a mirror, made to show you yourselves. Look into me unblinking, my heroes, my slaves.
The riff stopped for a quarter rest before the song kicked in and their hearts pounded with anticipation so fierce that he could hear the throb over their screams.
He let the energy flow through him, carry him.
Then the bass and drums led him into the verse and he sang.
When Johnny had first started playing, he’d tried to copy the bands he idolized. He’d studied the greats and then tried to take from them what he thought the fans would want to hear.
It turned out the fans were smarter than he thought. They could smell that bullshit a mile away.
But “Strength of the Pack” was different. It was something he had written for himself, a song about his brothers and the bond they shared, straight from his heart.
And that was why they loved him. Why he was on all the ma
gazines and world tours. Why thousands of teenagers were sticking his face on their home screens and howling his lyrics into their selfie sticks on youtube.
It was because his songs were his truth.
And his truth was universal.
The verse built up steam heading to the first chorus. Johnny could practically taste their excitement on the air.
Something flew out of the crowd at him and landed at his feet.
He knew it was a bra before he looked down. He could smell the woman who it belonged to - young and brave. She’d been working up her nerve to do this all night.
He scooped it up and hung it from the mic stand without missing a beat, and went right into the chorus.
As they always did, the crowd sang it right along with him.
“You can’t fight the…
Strength…
Of…
The…
Pack.”
God, it sounded good like that. He smiled down at them and spotted bra girl in the front row.
She was blonde and her curves were a bit on the generous side, just his type.
She pointed at the lacy thing on his mic stand and lifted her shirt, giving him a great view of the bra’s previous contents.
It was par for the course, and similar things happened during every show, but somehow, it felt different.
He looked down as a soft haze enveloped her. Her hair was a halo of the softest gold, her eyes china blue in an angel’s face. In spite of the crowd, he knew her beautiful breasts were revealed just for him. Those stiff little nipples were pink as flowers and reaching for him as if he were the sun.
Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to go to her. To push the crowd away and claim her for himself.
Confused, he stepped away from the mic and leaned down to stare at her for a moment.
He nearly missed the start of the second verse, but luckily the girl didn’t keep her cool. She freaked out under the focus of his attention, squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a piercing scream that brought him back to reality.
