Description: 17+
Sometimes in love, you lose all control…
At age ten, Rain fell hard for the sweet boy caring for his little sister.
At age eighteen, she runs into Lennon, now an experienced player and no longer the innocent boy she once loved.
At age nineteen, she has to put all her plans on hold to have his baby, and under a cloud of deception, she faces tragedy and heartbreak.
At age ten, Lennon proposed to Rain in front of the whole school.
At age eighteen, he thought he was over her until he sees her at a party, no longer a little girl but all grown-up and sexy as hell.
At age nineteen, he loses everything he ever cared about.
I wait patiently offstage. Indigo Blues has been playing for almost an hour, and the crowd loves them.
With sweat glistening on Lennon’s firm chest and abs, his tats shine under the spotlight. I’d like to claw out the Rain on his chest. How dare he put me over his heart?
“We’re going to slow it down,” Lennon says into the mike, his deep voice quivering my abdomen. “I’d like to introduce the love of my life and my wife, Rain from Crank.”
A few disappointed girls boo. Lennon has on leather pants, and it’s obvious he isn’t wearing underwear. That long penis splayed across his pelvis and riding down his thigh is no sock. And when he catches me staring at it, the damn thing grows. He dresses like a slut, but I can’t?
I strut onto the stage, imitating the Marilyn Monroe catwalk. I fake a smile despite the icepick stabbing my damaged leg. The guys in the front rows throw roses onto the stage and even a few girls do. Those must be for Lennon. I pick one up and smell the intoxicating scent. I’d like nothing more for us to be at home, the three of us.
Lennon meets me halfway and closes in on me. I suck in a quick breath, not suitable for singing. My legs shake being so close to him. A mixture of hate and lust fill my belly.
He nods at the band to keep playing the intro. He leans down and ties my shoes, like he did when I ran into him at the sorority party after not seeing him for eight years.
“You’re still my girl,” he says. The crowd quiets to hear him.
When he fingers back his dark curls, like he often does to Hope, a whimper escapes my lips. I glance away from his face, and my gaze lands on his loins.
He covers his mouthpiece and whispers into my ear, “Getting an eyeful?”
Ugh. I’m still staring at his crotch. I can’t help it. He might as well be naked wearing the tight leather.
Tears spring to my eyes. “I hate you,” I mouth.
Hurt shadows his eyes. His hand presses on my hip then glides over my butt, shoving me against his erection. He rubs it against me, and my knees almost give out. I long to carry his baby again, to feel her growing inside, her snare drum of kicks against my belly, to sing to her.
As Lennon grinds against me, a lot of girls groan down front.
“Make love to me,” he says into the mike.
When the song ends, Lennon doesn’t let go of me. He takes both hands and cups my cheeks. What the hell does he think he’s doing? One hand slides up my back and grips the back of my head. My body mutinies me and catches fire.
He leans down and forces my mouth open with his tongue. I struggle against him, but it’s of no use. He kisses me long, hard, and deep. So much desire fills that kiss my body goes limp in his arms.
The arena has grown strangely quiet. I break free, swing my opened hand at him, and slap him hard across the cheek. A handprint blooms there, throbbing a brutal red.
“Women,” he clucks into his mike, holding his cheek.
EXCERPT
With sweat glistening on Lennon’s firm chest and abs, his tats shine under the spotlight. I’d like to claw out the Rain on his chest. How dare he put me over his heart?
“We’re going to slow it down,” Lennon says into the mike, his deep voice quivering my abdomen. “I’d like to introduce the love of my life and my wife, Rain from Crank.”
A few disappointed girls boo. Lennon has on leather pants, and it’s obvious he isn’t wearing underwear. That long penis splayed across his pelvis and riding down his thigh is no sock. And when he catches me staring at it, the damn thing grows. He dresses like a slut, but I can’t?
I strut onto the stage, imitating the Marilyn Monroe catwalk. I fake a smile despite the icepick stabbing my damaged leg. The guys in the front rows throw roses onto the stage and even a few girls do. Those must be for Lennon. I pick one up and smell the intoxicating scent. I’d like nothing more for us to be at home, the three of us.
Lennon meets me halfway and closes in on me. I suck in a quick breath, not suitable for singing. My legs shake being so close to him. A mixture of hate and lust fill my belly.
He nods at the band to keep playing the intro. He leans down and ties my shoes, like he did when I ran into him at the sorority party after not seeing him for eight years.
“You’re still my girl,” he says. The crowd quiets to hear him.
When he fingers back his dark curls, like he often does to Hope, a whimper escapes my lips. I glance away from his face, and my gaze lands on his loins.
He covers his mouthpiece and whispers into my ear, “Getting an eyeful?”
Ugh. I’m still staring at his crotch. I can’t help it. He might as well be naked wearing the tight leather.
Tears spring to my eyes. “I hate you,” I mouth.
Hurt shadows his eyes. His hand presses on my hip then glides over my butt, shoving me against his erection. He rubs it against me, and my knees almost give out. I long to carry his baby again, to feel her growing inside, her snare drum of kicks against my belly, to sing to her.
As Lennon grinds against me, a lot of girls groan down front.
“Make love to me,” he says into the mike.
When the song ends, Lennon doesn’t let go of me. He takes both hands and cups my cheeks. What the hell does he think he’s doing? One hand slides up my back and grips the back of my head. My body mutinies me and catches fire.
He leans down and forces my mouth open with his tongue. I struggle against him, but it’s of no use. He kisses me long, hard, and deep. So much desire fills that kiss my body goes limp in his arms.
The arena has grown strangely quiet. I break free, swing my opened hand at him, and slap him hard across the cheek. A handprint blooms there, throbbing a brutal red.
“Women,” he clucks into his mike, holding his cheek.
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About the author:
Chris Myers spends most of her free time writing and dreaming up new characters who fight each other for page time. She is an award-winning author and lives in Colorado with her daughter, her better half, and her Bichon BeBe. Her work has appeared in the NewsMag and has earned several awards including first place Paul Gillette, Colorado Gold finalist, and semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. She has taught writing workshops for conferences, PPW, and Delve Writing and was an adjunct professor at CSU. Chris is a member of SCBWI and Pikes Peak Writers. She earned a Masters from the University of South Florida.
Look for her series RIPSTERS, a Young Adult, paranormal/mystery with the spark of romance, starting with DATE WITH THE DEAD.
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Thank you for posting!
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