by K. Bromberg
Author K. Bromberg is that reserved woman sitting in the corner, who has you all fooled about the wild child inside of her – the one she lets out every time her fingertips touch the computer keyboard. She lives in Southern California with her husband and three small children. Her motto is ‘have lap-top, will travel’ because she writes around school drop offs, homework battles and endless soccer practices. When she needs a break from the daily chaos of her life, you can most likely find her with her Kindle in hand, devouring the pages of a good, saucy book.
Visit K. Bromberg online:
www.kbromberg.com
www.twitter.com/KBrombergDriven
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Also by K. Bromberg
Slow Burn
SWEET ACHE
K. BROMBERG
Copyright
PIATKUS
First published in the US in 2015 by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Piatkus
Copyright © K. Bromberg, 2015
Extract from Hard Beat © K. Bromberg, 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-349-40830-9
Piatkus
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.piatkus.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Also by K. Bromberg
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for the Novels of K. Bromberg
Acknowledgments
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Hard Beat
Praise for the Novels of K. Bromberg
“[A] highly emotional yet satisfying series; oh, and let me not leave out SEXY.”
—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews
“Well-written and with a great balance of dialogue and description.”
—Love Between the Sheets
“An emotionally charged, adrenaline-filled, steamy, and passionate read…. K. Bromberg deliver[s].”
—TotallyBookedBlog
“This series is everything a true fan of romance would want or need.”
—Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews
“An intense, emotional, riveting ride [that’s] sexy, romantic, heartbreaking, and uplifting. This is the kind of book you don’t want to put down.”
—Aestas Book Blog
“K. Bromberg has created wonderful characters that you just can’t help but fall in love with … beautifully written and a very emotional read.”
—Ramblings from This Chick
“K. Bromberg is nothing short of an absolute genius … so real and raw that you truly feel every single emotion.”
—Romance Addiction
“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Armentrout
“Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”
—New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens
Acknowledgments
This book was a labor of love that had to be completed in a very short time frame. It tested and pushed me, and there are most definitely a few people I need to acknowledge and thank for their encouragement while I wrote it.
To my family: Thank you so much for your endless support as I take this crazy ride.
For understanding when I’m frustrated or sleep deprived or for taking the kids for a bit so I can hit a word count or work through a plotline. I can’t get back the moments I missed but I can make up for it with how much I love you all.
To the bloggers: Thank you so much for all of your support to make my books visible to readers. My success is due in part to you.
To my readers: You have shown me so much love and support that I’m overwhelmed most days. Without you, these books mean nothing. Thank you a thousand times over. I race you!
To my peers: Lauren, Laurelin, Pepper, Corinne, Whitney, E.K., J.E.M., Raine, M. Pierce, Claire, B.J., Katy, Adriana, Gail—thank you for the camaraderie, the ideas, the answers to my numerous questions, and most of all the friendship. No one understands this journey better than you guys, so it is nice to have like minds to speak with. A special thank-you to C. D. Reiss for the phone call that kicked my butt in gear when this book almost broke my confidence. I owe you one.
To S. C. Stephens, Samantha Towle, and Michelle Valentine: Thank you for allowing me to use your beloved rocker boys in Sweet Ache.
To Amy Tannenbaum: Thank you for your guidance through this crazy minefield of publishing. I’m lucky to have you on my side.
To Kerry, Jessica, Erin, and the team at Penguin: Thank you for making my first foray into traditional publishing not too scary.
Prologue
HAWKIN
“If you really want someone to manhandle your ass, I’m sure I could arrange for it to happen discreetly for you.”
I whip my head up and choke on the M&M’s I just swallowed. Did he really just say that? I meet Ben’s unamused eyes staring from behind his glasses and he just raises his eyebrows. His out-of-character comment causes me to stutter, while Vince chuckles at my friend’s dig.
“You’re my lawyer—get me out of it.” I shake my head and match him glare for glare. “Earn the big bucks you charge me…. Now, wouldn’t that be something?”
I know I’m being an ass but I’m fed up with everything right now. The lyrics that won’t come to complete the album, Ben sitting across from me daring me to tell him the truth so he can scold me like the kid I was when we first met years ago, and fucking Hunter and his bullshit that has me in this predicament.
Again. But this time with a helluva lot more on the line.
“You want to be an asshole, Hawkin? I can play that part real well too in case you’ve forgotten. How about you come clean? How about you make Hunter pay for his own mistak
es and you stop risking everything you’ve worked so hard for?” He leans forward, props his elbows on the massive desk, and continues our visual pissing match over his folded hands. The truth in his words hangs heavy in the air between us.
“I told you—the jacket was mine.” I grit my teeth on the lie. “I don’t know how the blow got in the pocket…. Shit, I was drunk off my ass. I set it down for a few minutes—some groupie probably stuffed the baggy of the shit in there or something. I don’t remember. Party got out of control, cops came, shook us all down, and it was just there in my pocket.”
“You mean it was in Hunter’s pocket.”
This conversation needed to have ended like ten minutes ago. Or better yet, never have happened.
“Nah. It was me. People kept mixing us up all night long because we both had on jeans and dark T-shirts. My jacket, my pocket, my fault.” End of story, Ben. Drop it.
My mind flashes back to the look Hunter gave me and the desperation in his voice as he tossed me his jacket when the cops came barging in. “Please, Hawke. It’s not mine. I swear. I can’t go to jail for this stupid mistake. It’ll kill Mom.”
“Convenient theory.” He breaks through my thoughts and brings me back to the here and now. “But you’re forgetting the simple fact that there are pictures from the party and not once were you wearing that jacket … but Hunter sure as hell was. Your martyrdom is admirable, but I still call bullshit,” he says, leaning back, with contempt in his eyes.
And I hate putting it there, hate seeing the obvious disappointment and knowing that I’m letting him down, but I can’t do what he’s asking. I can’t risk Hunter being locked up for the long haul under California’s Three Strikes law for some stupid coke. Mom’s health is bad enough as it is—losing her baby might just push her over the edge. Might be the last straw.
And besides, I don’t go back on my promises.
Vince snickers again and Ben’s eyes shift over to glare at him. “You think this is a fucking joke, Vinny?” Ben says, reminding Vince of the hoodlum punk he once was and the nickname he’s distanced himself from as much as possible.
The laughter stops immediately, the tension ratchets up another notch, and their inherent dislike for each other rears its ugly head. “You want your boy here locked up? Your new album and tour to go to shit because he’s getting some love in cell block G? Can’t sing to the groupies then, now, can he?”
Vince sits forward in his chair and just shakes his head. I can see his anger vibrating beneath the surface, but thank fuck he reins it in, because I sure as hell don’t need more to deal with.
“I know what’s at stake, Benji. No one has to spell it out for me.” He raises his eyebrows, the come at me taunt written all over his face.
“It was mine,” I reassert to break the hold of our shared history and bring their attention back to the shit I need over and done with.
“I’m still not buying it. You ready to perjure yourself and have both you and Hunter end up in jail? Protecting your brother is one thing, but hell, Hawke, you,” he says on a cough, and I sure as hell know he means Hunter, “were carrying enough grams to be charged with intent to sell. We’re talking hard time here if you get convicted.”
“I won’t be convicted.” I make the pronouncement with certainty, although internally doubt slithers into the cracks of my resolve.
“You said you’d never have a number-one single on Billboard either,” he replies, eyebrows raised, “and I believe you’re sitting on four of them in the last two years…. Never say never, Hawke.”
“You made your fucking point, Ben. Now get off my case and quit passing judgment on me. I—”
“I’d love to get off your case. In fact, there shouldn’t even be a fucking case because it should be Hunter and not you sitting here.” The silence practically suffocates me as his eyes dare me to correct him. To confess I’m taking the rap for my brother.
I want to say fuck this shit, storm out, and go beat the hell out of Gizmo’s drums until my arms are sore and my ears ring, but that won’t fix a goddamn thing. Instead, I lean back in my chair and rest my head, eyes to the ceiling and fingers pinching the bridge of my nose.
I’d bet my ass that a judge isn’t going to throw the book at me. There’s no way.
“And before you sit there and start thinking that a judge wouldn’t give you hard time for your first real offense, think again.”
How in the hell did Ben know what I was thinking? “Fuck that. I’m as clean-cut as they come besides the shit we all did as kids.”
“You mean as clean-cut as rockers come, right? Because let’s face it, the Abercrombie & Fitch look works in your favor, but you still have a documented press record of being the hotheaded rebel: club fights, paparazzi run-ins, a penchant for fast cars….”
“And your point is what? Being hotheaded and being a fucking drug dealer are two different things, right?” Vince speaks up and shifts forward so his elbows rest on his knees. The guy would go to bat for me in a goddamn football game if I asked him to.
But of course so would Ben. At least my back is covered from all angles.
Then his comment about prison hits me again and I shudder at the thought of who else might want my back if I was to be convicted. Fuck me.
I blow out a frustrated breath and close my eyes, knowing I’m going to piss somebody off regardless of the decision I make. It sucks when doing what’s right and what is required of you are two completely different things.
So let’s add a few more people to disappoint to my list. Save Hunter and then possibly my mom and keep my promise, or let him sink, lose my integrity, but make everyone else happy?
But what makes me happy? None of the fucking above.
“True, but a judge would just love to make an example of that pretty face and your public status. The women screaming they want to have your babies may boost that ego of yours but they aren’t going to do you an ounce of good influencing a judge on the length of your sentence.”
Vince snorts beside me. “I wouldn’t put it past his fangirls…. I’m sure a few would offer the judge their blow job services in order to save this asshole. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘Meet me in my chambers,’ right?”
I roll my head against the back of the chair to glare at him but he ignores me. And I know he’s pissed, know he’s fed up with Hunter’s bullshit affecting me and in turn the band.
So I stare back at the ceiling, head and heart in conflict but only because I know this is wrong, that I’m just as guilty for enabling Hunter. Know that when I tell myself this is the last time I’m going to save his ass at the expense of mine that I have to really follow through.
Blood is thicker than water but you can still drown in it all the same.
I lift my head up and look at Ben again. “What are my options?” I refuse to talk about whether it was really me or not again for the umpteenth time. Subject’s dead.
Ben twists his lips as he looks at me with confused disbelief over why I’m standing my ground but he shouldn’t be, he knows my history. “Man …” He sighs in resignation. “I wish you’d reconsider, but I knew you weren’t going to, so I spoke to some associates of mine who know the judge on your case and well … and there is a possibility …”
“A possibility? Dude, I need something concrete here,” I tell him, glancing over at Vince, who’s staring at Ben in anticipation of how he’s going to fix the impossible situation.
“Well, the judge is an alumnus of USC and likes to make his status and success known by giving back to the school in unique ways.”
He’s fucking lost me here. What does this have to do with me? “And …?”
“Well, my associates suggested that maybe if you agree to do a seminar about public media and the pressures on the modern-day public persona—”
“A seminar?” I swear to God Ben’s lost his mind. Does he not remember that school was not my strong suit? Shit, I was so busy daydreaming about song lyrics and escaping into their no
tes, I never paid attention. Well, unless she had a short skirt, a tight top, and an appreciation for the backseat of my car. I sure as fuck paid attention then. “Like teach, lecture, whatever one class?”
“More like twelve classes,” he deadpans and pushes the jar of chocolate across his desk, using my notorious sweet tooth to try to soften the blow.
“Hell no!” I say the same time Vince bursts out laughing hysterically like a goddamn hyena. Did Ben take the blow from evidence and get high? Because hell if he doesn’t sound like it with that suggestion. School was a sour note played on an out-of-tune guitar to me, and now he wants me to teach?
Clearly Ben doesn’t think our laughter is very funny, because he just sits and stares at me until our laughter dies down. He’s just about to speak when the intercom on the desk beeps. “Yes, Jennifer?”
“Mr. Levine’s here to hand deliver the contracts and wants a quick word with you if possible?”
“Tell him I’ll be right there but I only have a minute because I’m with a client,” Ben says as he rises from his chair, holding a hand up to me. “I’ll be right back. It’ll give you time to think this over … and you do need to, Hawke. You’re in some serious shit here. Twelve lectures and you’re in the judge’s good graces, meaning the possibility of a lighter sentence if any at all.” He buttons his suit jacket as he moves from behind the desk toward the door to his office. “Your options are limited: no band and jail time or teach the seminar and finish up the album.”
He puts his hand on the door and turns to meet my eyes again. “Don’t toss the idea. You need this, Hawke. If you’re protecting Hunter to help your mom, what do you really think will happen to her if you’re gone? The one person who’s really looking out for her?” And with that he opens the door and leaves the room as I bite back the expletives I want to hurl at him.
“Fuck man!” I exhale the words once the door is shut, put my hands behind my head, and slouch back in the chair, his low blow hitting its mark dead on.
“Dude … you teaching? That’s hilarious,” Vince says, words interspersed with laughter. “Professor Play. Sounds like a bad stage name for a porno.”
