Live Your Dream (Redfall Dream Series Book 2)

by BB Miller

  It’s all helped keep me occupied so I don’t dwell on missing Matt. Which I do, desperately. It’s the first time we’ve been separated by more than five hundred miles since the accident. I had to fly to LA for some meetings a month ago, and it felt like I was missing a limb. Now, sometimes I miss him so much it’s hard to breathe. I don’t know what I’m going to do when he has to fly to Europe or Australia again.

  But I have a job to do, too, and I want to do it well. I’m still in my first year as giving director. Abby and the board of directors were incredibly supportive while Matt was recovering, and I don’t ever want them to think I’m taking advantage of their generosity. Plus, I love what I’m doing. Seeing the look on a child’s face when they receive their dream has always been wonderful, but now that I’m more directly responsible for the arrangements, it’s even better. I have a goal to increase the number of dreams we’re able to fulfill by ten percent in the next two years, and I’m going to get there, by God.

  My phone chimes with a text. I pull it out and laugh at the photo of Sean dragging an obviously reluctant Matt and Cam into a fast food place with poutinerie in the name. More gastric adventures with the Brit, it seems. I sigh and smooth my hair away from my face. The first concert in Montreal was a triumph, according to the press, and the second stop in Toronto was just as good. They’re in Winnipeg tomorrow night before continuing west. They should be home next week. I should be able to last that long, right?

  Right.

  “Congratulations, Tess!” Abby gives me an enthusiastic hug when she reaches us. “Everything has gone off without a hitch. Fantastic day.”

  “Thanks. I have a great team.” I gesture toward the causeway, where my assistant, Hal, and a couple of my Giving staff members are chatting animatedly with the catering crew. A warm feeling infuses my chest, as I recognize the words I’ve heard a million times from Abby’s lips fall from my own. I do have a great team, and I learned from the best mentor a girl could have.

  My boss gives me a knowing smile. “So do I.” April and I both laugh, nodding in acknowledgement of her praise. We stand for a few moments, looking out over the happy scene, and enjoying the feeling of a job well done. The joy on Amanda’s and her family’s faces is a welcome reminder of why our work is worthwhile.

  Seeing that the photos are winding down, April leaves us to go corral the photographers. I glance at Abby. “Are you going to join Adam and his wife tonight, since Kennedy’s gone?”

  She smiles a secret smile. “No, I had something else in mind.” Before I can ask what that might be, she asks, “What have you got on deck for tomorrow?”

  “Well . . .” I sit on the edge of the short wall that surrounds the track and mentally recount my schedule. “I have to write the after-action report from all this,” I begin, gesturing to the scene below us. “I need to call Barry at Nintendo; I have a Skype meeting with Brigitte at—”

  “How about a quick trip up north?”

  My head snaps up. Her hazel eyes twinkle with mischief, and my heart leaps. “Are you suggesting what I hope you’re suggesting?”

  A smile tugs at her lips. “Why not? You can do all that on the way, right? We can see the Winnipeg and Edmonton shows and fly back Monday morning in time for the staff meeting.”

  I jump to my feet, and whatever she sees on my face makes her laugh. “Who am I to argue with the boss?” I grin absurdly and brush a smudge off my suit pants. I want to race out of here and start packing, but April is waving at me to join her down below, reminding me of my obligations. “I’ll wrap this up, and then we can book a flight.”

  “No need; I had Hal do it this morning. He’s got us booked out of SFO tomorrow at eight a.m., with a short layover in Minneapolis. My treat—and don’t argue. I have a ton of air miles to use.” She slips an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the stairs leading to the track. “We should get to Winnipeg in plenty of time.”

  “You’ve been planning this since this morning?” A laugh bubbles out of me as we walk down the steps and begin to navigate through the crowd. “My, aren’t you the devious one? What happened to the all-work-and-no-play Abby Walker I used to know?”

  “Oh, she’s still about the work. But you can’t be in love with a Redfall man and not know the value of play, too.” She gives me a wink. “Now, let’s go say goodbye to Amanda and the Blakelys.”

  Our plan goes almost smoothly. A traffic accident on the highway in Winnipeg means our car pulls up to the artist entrance to the MTS Centre just after the guys take the stage. Tucker meets us with a broad smile, watching as we eagerly climb out of the SUV.

  “Kennedy and Matt are going to freak when they see you two,” he comments, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “How did you keep it a surprise?”

  “It wasn’t easy,” I mutter, sharing a glance with Abby. We’d both ducked calls from our men, having to claim via text that we were in meetings where we couldn’t pick up. In reality, we’d been in the busy Minneapolis airport, penned in by wailing children and pissy travelers, with no hope of hiding where we were.

  He hustles us inside and, after getting our VIP passes from a staffer, shuttles us down a labyrinth of hallways. “Well, whatever you did made them act like sulky teenagers denied the car keys. Pathetic!” He chuckles. “But it fired ’em up, too. They’re killing it tonight.”

  The dull roar emanating from the utilitarian block walls grows louder as we walk, bursting into an echoing cacophony when we step out into a vast blackness. Disoriented, I halt and thrust out my hand, feeling like I’m going to pitch forward. My eyes and ears adjust as I feel Tucker’s strong hand on my elbow and I grin, recognizing one of Sean’s drum solos.

  Abby and I stick close together as we pick our way behind Tucker. It’s hard to see the dim flashlight bobbing ahead of us. The floor vibrates in sync with the sounds from the stage. Tucker was right. The guys are tearing it up tonight, and considering the constant roar of the crowd, it sounds like the good citizens of Winnipeg—Winnipegites?—feel like they’re getting their money’s worth.

  We mount some rickety metal stairs, and my hands sweat at the feel of the open blackness underneath us. But when we reach the stage level, the darkness gives way to the light bleeding through the backing curtains. Tucker positions us in the wings at the edge of one of the curtains just as they finish a song. “Don’t touch the curtain,” he whispers in my ear, and I nod. At least, that’s what I think he said. It’s hard to hear over the screams of the audience. I feel him move to stand behind us, and then promptly forget him. All my attention is on the tall form in front of me under the lights. My heart is pounding and it’s hard to breathe. His back is to me, but he’s close enough that I can clearly see the sweat soaking through his gray T-shirt between his shoulder blades. I wipe my damp palms on my hips and swipe my hair over my shoulder. Holy damn, he looks good.

  Handing his bass off to a roadie clad in black, he stalks past Cam to take a seat at the grand piano. The spotlight hits him, turning his short blond hair into a halo. Kennedy swings around and backs up a little to give the stage to Matt, and in doing so, spies us in the wings. His face lights up when he sees Abby, and I hear her gasp in response. I give him a cheeky little wave, and he smirks. Returning my gaze to Matt, it’s obvious he hasn’t seen me. His eyes are trained on the keys, and then close slowly, his head tilting back, and he begins to play.

  She binds me to this earth,

  silken touch as strong as steel

  The crowd hushes as his rich tenor soars and bends the notes to his will. After a moment, Cam and Kennedy join in, their guitar lines swirling in the air around the piano. It’s surreal to see Matt at the grand instead of Kennedy, but the joy I feel at hearing the lyrics I’ve only heard bits of when I’ve woken at night in the loft now out in the open . . . It’s indescribable.

  Blazing red, she soars above it all

  crashing through the monotony

  She is life and light, heat and sweat

  she’s all the
home I’ll ever need

  and I’ll be damned if I turn away

  His eyes open and meet mine across the stage, wide with shock. I can’t breathe; the intensity of his gaze paralyzes me. Then a brilliant smile lights his face, and I gasp, my legs feeling like jelly. My face aches from smiling.

  They finish the song and Matt stands as the crowd goes wild, but it seems distant, a vague roaring that fills the space around us as he stalks toward me deliberately. Then he’s grabbing my hand and pulling me into his arms.

  In the sudden glare of the spotlight, all I can see is his face, inches from mine. My pulse thunders in my ears as his lips descend, and everything vanishes except him. His soft mouth is warm and demanding, claiming me in a way that only he can. Then he pulls back, leaving me trembling in his arms, his eyes soft with love. Love for me.

  “Well, it’s about time, Cardinal. Did you like your song?”

  Tears spring to my eyes as my heart swells with love for this brave, determined man. He’s overcome the nightmare of his childhood and the hardships of his dangerous youth to emerge as this strong, gifted, generous man whom I love with every fiber of my being. I don’t know where the future may take us, but if I have anything to say about it, it’ll take us there together.

  Chase the Dream

  Book 3 in the Redfall Dream Series—Coming in 2018

  Chapter 1

  Cameron

  “STOP SLOUCHING, CAMERON.” Three words from my mother guaranteed to make my thirty-seven-year-old self feel like an awkward teenager again. “All those years hunched over your guitar haven’t done a thing for your posture.”

  “Lovely to see you too, mother.” I lean in for the obligatory kiss to both of my cheeks—clean shaven as requested in the formal email sent from her assistant earlier in the week. The familiar scent of Chanel swirls around me as she leans back with a scrutinizing gaze, looking for flaws.

  “You always did look so handsome in a suit,” she starts in a rare compliment. “This isn’t the Armani I sent over, is it?” She purses her distorted lips in disapproval. The collagen and countless facelifts have been putting up the good fight. Not a single wrinkle on her sixty-year-old face, dripping in diamonds and vintage Versace, hair perfectly styled and sprayed to within an inch of its dyed blonde life, she still manages to commands the room. The poster model for the billionaire’s wife.

  The crowd at the Chapman Center for the Arts buzzes around her, all sharks in the water, quietly waiting for their turn to take a bite. A few minutes with Victoria Chapman, the reigning Queen of Boston’s elite first, and my mother second, can rocket you to elite status. You can almost smell the desperation on the high society wannabes lingering around the fringes.

  Cameras flash around us, though this time in a welcome change, they aren’t for me. It’s the elitist event of the year in Boston, put on by my parents in support of the Arts Center, one of the many charities who benefit from my family’s influence and power. Hell, the building is named after them. But, even if this is a massive publicity stunt, it’s for a good cause. It may be the only thing that actually doesn’t turn my stomach about being dragged here.

  The money raised tonight and throughout the year supports the arts center that provides opportunities for talented musicians that otherwise wouldn’t be available. Everything from programs like the one my band Redfall played in Sydney that offers chances for child prodigies to train with symphonies around the globe, to an all-day private high school focused on the arts, and a fully funded daycare for the musicians who are part of the symphony. I know how much time and dedication it takes to play at this level. It also takes money—something these musicians don’t have.

  “I stopped wearing the clothes you picked out for me when I was sixteen.” She shakes her head slightly before flattening her hand down the lapel of my dark blue suit jacket. “And it’s Tom Ford,” I add just to rub it in.

  She takes a step back as if standing too close to her son is a crime, her eyes narrowing. “Armani cuts a better suit. How many times do we have to have this conversation?”

  “In your opinion.”

  “My opinion is the only one that matters, dear.” She links her arm around mine and turns to flash her practiced smile for the cameras before gliding us through the lobby. The masses part for her as if she’s some holy relic to be revered. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I frown, glancing down at her. “I do just fine getting my own dates, thank you.”

  “Yes. We know.” She flashes me a warning glare before her public mask snaps back into place. “Darcy Hamilton.” I barely manage to bite back a groan. “Recently single,” she continues on, just loud enough for me to hear as we merge into the line for the theatre. She nods and gives a finger wave to a few people along the way. “She was dating Benjamin Knight, you know? Of the athletic company? Shoes, apparel.”

  “I’m familiar,” I murmur. “Isn’t he worth a few billion?” Sometimes, it’s fun to annoy her. She scoffs slightly, taking a program from one of the ushers standing outside our private box seats.

  “Please.” She leans closer, her voice dropping lower. “He had a gambling problem. Lost half their earnings in one night. It was quite the scandal. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

  Shaking my head, I lead her to our spot above the mezzanine. Only the best box seats for the Chapmans. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  She pats my chest lightly. “It’s cute that your hobby can keep you entertained. While you’ve been gallivanting from city to city with your little band, your father has been working himself nearly to death.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but he’s been doing that his whole life. And I don’t gallivant.”

  She waves the program in front of me, clearly not wanting to hear a thing I say. “Anyway, Darcy is lovely. Long blond hair, thirty, on the board at the Hospital Foundation. She was Miss Massachusetts a few years ago, you know. I think she does Pilates at the club. I’ve seen her there when I meet the girls for brunch on Thursdays. Her parents own Hamilton Jewelers,” she rattles on, sinking down gracefully to a seat at the front of the box.

  “You going to tell me how much she weighs too? Jesus. It sounds like you’re trying to sell me one of the horses.” Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I take the seat beside her.

  “Watch your language, Cameron.”

  I smell her before I see her, a cloud of Clive Christian wafting over me. It’s an expensive scent I grew up with, being surrounded by high society women who wanted to make sure they not only looked rich, but smelled it too. They all have a certain air about them—something that screams refined, sophisticated, elitist.

  “Ah, Darcy, Elizabeth . . .” It’s hard not to roll my eyes. “You made it.” My mother should have been an actress. She actually sounds like she cares about these people. She stands and extends the customary kiss to the cheek greetings, and I stand as well. Even after years in what is considered a raunchy and highly unpredictable rock and roll band, the manners that were drilled into me come back easily.

  “Cameron, of course you remember Elizabeth.” My mother motions from Elizabeth to me as if I’m on display. I don’t remember Mrs. Hamilton. Too many carbon copies of her have passed through our doors over the years. None of them are memorable. But I lie, because it’s what’s expected of me.

  “Mrs. Hamilton,” I greet her, earning me a few brownie points. Yes, mother. I remember every single thing you and your legion of nannies taught us. Elizabeth looks her fill of me, her eyes widening as I take her offered hand. She can hardly hold it up with the ice rink sitting on her finger—a given when your husband owns one of the biggest jewelry franchises in the world. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Oh, you’ve grown into a fine young man, wouldn’t you agree, Darcy?” At least Darcy lives up to the hype my mother was spewing. She’s striking in that manufactured, beauty-queen way. I wonder why her mother doesn’t have her married off already. Talk about trophy wife material.

&n
bsp; Almost as tall as my six-five in her stilettos, she’s rocking a form fitting white sequined gown that barely conceals a pair of fake tits that probably put a significant dent in Daddy’s pocket book. Perma smile plastered on her face, model worthy pose beside her mother, looking at me like she’d like to pounce. She’s got so much make-up on, I wonder what she actually looks like underneath it all. Darcy too, is dripping in jewelry—some huge sapphire monstrosity locked around her neck that looks like it weighs more than she does. Jesus, woman. Eat a cheeseburger.

  “I would absolutely agree,” Darcy purrs, holding her hand out. Freshly manicured nails, painted blood red, bling on her wrist and fingers, except notably the finger she’s desperate to put something on. “Darcy Hamilton.” She’s about as subtle as a brick to the head.

  “Pleasure to meet you. Cameron Chapman.” Her nails trail a light circuit over the inside of my wrist as she bats her big eyes at me, looking a little stunned. Maybe it’s all the mascara weighing her eyelids down. Her nails scrape my skin. It feels like she’s staking a claim, and I don’t like it. I move to the side, motioning for them to sit.

  “I downloaded your latest album last night,” she purrs brushing past me, her voice all breathy. “It’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can thank Kennedy for that. He wrote it.”

  She giggles at this—the appropriate response for all of these ridiculous women who don’t have a fucking clue how to carry on an actual conversation. Underneath all that glitz and glamour, she’s not as far off from the groupies as I’m sure she thinks she is. I wonder if she even knows who Kennedy Lane, our lead singer is, if she listened to a single thing we’ve done before she found out our mothers were trying to set us up.