Standalone Novels
Jagged Love
The Kiss Series
The Accidental Kiss
Love of a Rockstar Series
Love of a Rockstar #1
To Cherish and To Hold #1.5
Broken Lullabies #2
Melody of Truth #3 (Coming October 28th, 2015)
His eyes as black as the the devils tongue
His melodic voice more tempting than a siren’s call
Three years ago, Camille Barker was held at knife point but her attacker wasn't the one who haunted her dreams. No, it was the man that stood a-washed in the yellow glow of the street light, his stare observant but heedless. A witness to the senseless act. The venom that dripped from his twisted lips saved Camille's life and set her soul ablaze. Reemerging from the ashes, she set upon the well worn path her parent’s always dreamed she would take.
That is until rock n roller, Matthew Lee, shows her that you can only bask in the sun so long before the monsters come out to play.
I’m the darkness in your dreams
You’re the moon that lights my starless sky
I’m the crow by your windowsill that sings a broken lullaby
-Broken Lullabies
Standing under the streetlight, awash in a yellow glow, his steel eyes glinted. I wanted to scream -- I wanted to run -- but my legs remained rooted to the spot. Danger floated in the breeze, and it smelled like death. His lips twisted into a cruel smirk as his gaze drifted over my shoulder. Glancing back at the endless stretch of city landscape, my breath hitched. A deep, jagged crack had formed in the cement and was approaching fast. If I didn’t move, it would swallow me whole. Our eyes locked. Mine filled with desperation, his vacant. I licked my dry lips as they opened to beg for mercy. A strangled croak emerged instead. The crack grew closer. His bone-chilling laughter rose into the starlit sky.
Darkness reached up and grabbed me, pulling me feet first into the chasm as I clawed at the dirt-encrusted walls. How could this be the end of my story when it hadn’t even begun? The fight leaked out my body like a popped balloon. The grim reaper danced in my line of sight as a hand gripped my wrist.
It was him.
My savior cloaked in the devil’s clothes pulled me out of the hole and into his waiting arms. The dark void that shadowed his eyes cleared. Flecks of blue were etched into the steel. They were beautiful, like him. A strange surge of warmth that felt a lot like desire flooded my veins.
“Who are you?” I whispered.
He tipped his lips to my ear, his intoxicating scent drifting under my nose. I inhaled deeply -- August. He smelled like the peak of storm season.
“Run.”
His voice as tempting as a siren’s call, it took me a moment to register his words.
“Run,” he repeated more forcefully. “Run, you stupid girl.”
His fingers dug into my shoulders and shoved me in the opposite direction. I stumbled but caught myself before my knees met the ground. Tears streaked my dirt-smudged complexion.
“Run, you stupid, worthless girl. RUN!”
Panic slammed into my chest and I sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. The dream world faded into the distance while reality seeped in. I kicked the duvet off my legs. A breeze from the open window cooled my sweat-soaked body. The faint hum of my refrigerator whirred in the suffocating silence. I didn’t have to glance at the clock to know what time it was.
Three a.m.
My nightmares were nothing if not punctual. I swung my legs off the side and padded into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Frustration nipped at my nerves.
I thought I was past this.
I thought I had moved on.
It has been years since the incident occurred, four to be exact. In our last meeting, my therapist said she thought we were close to the end. The long road to recovery was finally reaching the end, but that day in the basement wiped my progress clean. And it was all because of Matthew Lee.
I’d been searching for Marlene’s wedding dress. Luke said he stashed it in the closet, which shouldn’t have been hard because there was only one closet. But when I opened the doors, nothing hung off the rack besides winter coats. Throwing them on the ground, I stared at the empty space, convinced there had to be a secret compartment. My hand felt along the wall for any bumps or grooves.
“What are you doing?”
At the sound of the voice that haunted my dreams, a red-hot poker jabbed at my spine. Fear froze my muscles, but it couldn’t be who I thought it was. Could it? No, it couldn’t. That would be impossible. Nevertheless, nausea stirred violently in my stomach. Focusing on the wall in front of me, I said a silent prayer that I wouldn’t decorate the hardwood floors with my breakfast.
“Hey...” his tone laced with concern, “Are you okay?”
His fingers brushed my elbow. As if he had burned me, I jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”
“Sorry.”
That voice again. It sounded so familiar, yet the kindness didn’t. I had to know if the past had chased me to Seattle. Either that or hide in the closet till he left. The latter sounded tempting, but as a grown woman, it also sounded childish. Slowly, I turned, ready to flee if need be. When we finally faced each other, I nearly screamed in relief.
“Normally, I get a different reaction when I meet women,” this stranger said.
My eyes raked over his bow-shaped lips, oval jawline, and tortoise shell glasses that balanced on the bridge of his crooked nose. Unconventionally handsome. More Marlene’s type than mine, but what mattered was that it wasn’t him. The past stayed where it belonged.
After I found my voice, I spoke, “What’s the normal reaction?”
“Lots of high pitched squealing.” He laughed at my brow arched in question. “I’m Matthew Lee. The lead singer of Five Guys and Luke’s best man.”
He extended his hand. I let it hang there, untouched. Although Matthew wasn’t him, it was hard to squash my feelings of distrust. Who was I kidding though? I trusted nobody, not even the postman who wore a permanent smile on his face. I’d swear he has a pile of dead bodies buried in his backyard. Nobody was that happy.
Matthew dropped his hand. “What’s your name?”
“Camille.”
“Do you have a problem with me, Camille?” His lips quirked into a grin as if the concept amused him.
“Should I?”
His mouth faltered as an indiscernible emotion flickered in his stare but quickly passed, and he returned to being the fun-loving rock star.
“Luke sent me down here to look for a bottle of twenty-year-old whiskey. Any ideas where it is?”
“It seems like the bride and groom both sent us on a witch hunt,” I grumbled.
“What are you looking for?”
“Marlene’s wedding dress.”
He stepped over the mess of jackets on the floor. Pulling down an old steamer trunk tucked inside the closet, he popped the lock. The scent of mothballs floated in the air.
“Is this it?” Matthew held a plastic covered dress up for me to see.
“What kind of idiot hides a wedding dress in a trunk?” I snatched it out of his grasp and folded the gown over my arm. “Thanks. See ya.”
Spinning on my heels, I made a beeline for the basement stairs. Matthew’s curious stare burned a hole in my back and compelled my steps to quicken. It was only when I was safely on the other side of the door that my breathing came more easily.
The days that followed, my anxiety returned like an old, jealous lover, spurring the nightmares. I hadn’t gotten a decent night’s sleep since. With final exams coming up, I figured I’d take advantage of my nocturnal state and cracked open my textbooks. But due to my exhaustion, the words swam on the page. Coffee. I needed cof
fee. Dragging my ass out of the hard wooden seat, I fixed myself an extra-strength dose then returned to my desk. As night turned to dawn, my brain soaked in the information before me as best as it could. Simultaneously ignoring all thoughts of Matthew, which proved harder than it should.
I swirled the amber liquid in the glass. Taking a deep sip, a pleasant burn cascaded down my throat and into the pit of my stomach. As soon as the empty crystal tumbler hit the bar, it got refilled.
My eyes lifted. “You are my favorite, K.”
K, otherwise known as Katherine, snorted. She’d inherited the Blithering Idiot from her uncle. A weathered old man who praised the ground his niece walked on. According to Katherine, he practically shoved the keys into her hand when he retired. More than happy to hand the reins over and experience the world he’d been missing while he tended bar.
“Anything with a vagina is your favorite,” K retorted.
“True. Too bad you bat for the other team.”
“I bat for both teams but you aren’t on either one of them.”
Her witty barb caused my lips to lift smugly. “Keep telling yourself that. I’ll get you to come around eventually.”
Shaking her head, she moved off to wait on her adoring customers. Katherine had that bartender’s instinct and always knew which nights required a single versus a double shot. I slammed the rest of the whiskey and signaled for another. Tonight required a triple. Fuzziness clouded my brain, but the memories were still getting through. Memories I had tried to bury between the legs of various women.
Instead of refilling my glass, Katherine swiped it off the bar and gave me a clean tumbler. She spritzed tonic water inside. “You’ve had enough.”
“No, I haven’t.” My words came out slurred and I winced. “I’m…fine.”
Enunciating didn’t do jack shit. I was three sheets to the wind, exactly where I wanted to be. My brain finally faded to black.
“Do you want something to eat?” Katherine slid a menu over to me. “Toby makes a mean double cheeseburger. I’ll even add bacon jam free.”
A greasy staple like a burger would derail my drunkenness and I wasn’t ready to be sober. Pushing the menu back to Katherine, she eyed me warily.
“Normally I don’t get into people’s personal business because it’s a downward slope to becoming their therapist. However, this isn’t like you.”
“How do you know? It’s not like we’re friends.”
My barb didn’t penetrate the thick coat of armor she had acquired over the years of being a bartender. She dealt with jackasses worse than me on a daily basis.
She placed her hands on her hips. “Doesn’t matter. I’m good at reading people and my gut is telling me something happened you are trying to forget.”
“That’s half the people in this place.”
The Blithering Idiot resided in Pioneer Square down a long alleyway and through an unmarked, wooden door. A marketing tactic Katherine implemented before speakeasies blew up in Seattle. At night, the place bustled with crowds, but at four in the afternoon, only the regulars filled the booths. Who, by the looks of it, had seen their fair share of tragedy.
“You are too young and handsome to become a drunk,” she said point blank.
Her concern began to grate on my nerves. I didn’t come here for a lecture. I came here for the stiff drinks and maybe the company of a woman.
“I’ve had four drinks, K. That’s not grounds for becoming a drunk. Lay off, will ya?”
She held up her hands. “Fine, but I’m putting in an order for a cheeseburger. You need to eat.”
Having three sisters, I knew when to back down. She wrote my order on a slip of paper and clipped it on the revolving rack. A cold breeze drew my attention to the front door. A young woman stood on the threshold bundled in a trench coat and knee-high boots, scuffed at the toes. Her honey brown hair tangled at her shoulders either from the wind or a lack of a comb and hung like a curtain around her face. Heavy eye makeup drew attention to the insecurity shining in her stare, as did her body language. She looked like a girl begging to be saved. We locked eyes and a ghost of a smile floated across her face. I raised my glass in greeting, which prompted her to approach.
“Hey,” she said in a breezy whisper.
“Hey yourself. Take a seat.”
Her knee brushed mine as she sat daintily on the vinyl barstool. Close up, I could see her foundation etched into the lines around her mouth. She wasn’t as young as I’d thought. Nevertheless, she would do for the night.
“What’s your name, beautiful?” I asked.
A heated blush crawled up her cheeks. “Tiffany.”
Of course it was. All the damaged girls were named Tiffany. They should come with a label, “Breakable, handle with care.”
“It’s lovely to meet you. My name is…”
“Matthew,” she finished for me. “Matthew Lee. The rock star, right?”
“Are you a fan?”
Tiffany bit her bottom lip as her eyes drifted to the floor. “You can say that. My friends are going to have a field day when they found out I met you.”
“Would you like an autograph?”
I grabbed a napkin and waited for her to hand me a pen. When she did, I scrawled my perfected signature onto the flimsy material with a line from my latest song.
“Reach for the galaxy but settle for the moon.”
I handed it to her. She mouthed the words I’d written and beamed. “That’s my favorite song of yours.” The light dimmed from her expression. “Is it really true you guys are breaking up?”
Luke, our bass player, had decided to focus on two new ventures, Winter Blues, a new record label, and opening a restaurant. Without him, the band wouldn’t be half as good, so we decided to dissolve. Luke offered to make me a partner on the record label, but problem was the business side of music wasn’t my thing. That rush you got from singing in front of a thousand plus audience could only be described as heroin - incredibly addicting.
I went to take a sip from my drink, forgetting it was water. A growl of annoyance ripped from my throat. With Katherine nowhere to be found, my hand reached behind the bar and gripped the bottle of Jack Daniels. I emptied the glass and poured three fingers of whiskey. Looking to Tiffany, she declined.
“You don’t drink?” I asked.
“No,” she said shortly.
A story lived behind that curt tone for sure, but I wasn’t here to find out what made her broken; I was here to fuck her. Setting the bottle back behind the bar, I zeroed in on the strip of creamy white skin between where her boots ended and her skirt began. Aware of my attention, she blatantly shifted in her seat. A flash of lacy, black underwear caused my dick to twitch. Tiffany’s eyes hooded with lust while her tongue provocatively traced her top lip.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I questioned.
Without waiting for an answer, I stood and held out my hand. Once her palm fitted against mine, the deal was sealed, which -- like always -- wasn’t very hard. The day it did become hard would be the day I’d know I’d met my match. Throwing a couple of twenties onto the counter, Tiffany and I strolled out of the bar into the cool late afternoon air toward my apartment.
I lived in the penthouse at the Four Seasons Hotel in downtown Seattle. Most of the other apartments were vacant due to the high price tag and seediness of the area. I didn’t mind a little grit though. It added color. We rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and the doors slid open, revealing the un-obscured wall-to-wall windows and the 360-degree view of the sound.
Tiffany gasped. “This is amazing.” She spun around in a circle. “I can’t believe you call this place home.”
“Believe it.”
My drunken state hovered a notch below wasted. If it dropped any further, the beer- goggles would get thrown off and I wouldn’t be able to get what I needed: a refuge from my sins.
Coming up from behind, I slid Tiffany’s hair to one side. It felt brittle beneath my fingertips. Pressing my
lips to her bare neck, she sighed in pleasure. The rest was like paint by numbers. A caress here, a gentle nip there, until Tiffany’s back arched off the hardwood floors as an orgasm racked her body. While the act had become mundane, it was the price I had to pay for not saving the beauty in the red dress four years ago. Her faith in humanity stolen in front of my very eyes as her inner glow was smothered with each punch. Based upon our recent chance meeting, that light hadn’t returned.
With three hours to spare until my final exam, I ducked into my favorite coffee shop and settled into a seat next to the window. Light broke through the clouds, scattering sunbeams across the ceiling. The rustic, red walls and salvaged furniture made it seem as if you were in somebody’s home. Benjamin, the sole employee and owner, basically lived at Café Solage, so in a way you were in somebody’s home, which was part of the reason why our relationship ended two months ago. He simply didn’t have room to spare in his life. Luckily, we stayed friends. I wouldn’t be able to function without my daily almond milk latte and homemade morning glory muffin. Slipping a trashy romance novel out of my purse, I cracked the well-worn spine.
My parents shoved me onto the academic path after the incident. Grad school provided a sense of structure when the world around me buzzed with chaos. My major was clinical psychology with a focus on mindfulness-based cognitive therapy. It could be used to treat everything from depression to anxiety to psychosis, but I wanted to apply it to victims of violence. My true passion though was screenwriting. Nora Ephron, my hero and the master of romantic comedies like You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle, and When Harry Met Sally, could only be described as pure brilliance. Marlene, my best friend, thought my romance addiction had made my standards too high when it came to men, but I didn’t see anything wrong with that. Standards weeded out the douchebags.
“Your latte with a dash of cinnamon.”
A chipped teacup decorated in a rose pattern got set in front of me. I glanced up and smiled at Benjamin. His long, sandy blonde hair was up in a man bun while a five-o’clock shadow dusted his cheeks. The Birkenstocks that adorned his feet made him look like the hippie version of a Calvin Klein model.
Broken Lullabies Page 1
