Crash and Burn E-Book

Amanda Adams

• Herausgeber: Tydbyts Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Some dreams die hard.
When Chance Walker was a child he wanted to be many things.

A fireman.
An astronaut.
A rock-n-roll god.

Too freaking bad he never learned to play the guitar.
Too bad he gave in to  adulting and went to law school instead of the school of rock.
Too bad the most beautiful woman he's ever seen wants nothing to do with him.

She's got secrets.
Big ones.
And if he thinks one kiss will rock her world...well...

Maybe he's right.
And maybe she's going to be a lot more than he's ready for.

Leseprobe

Crash and Burn

The Walker Brothers, Book 1

A Contemporary Romance

By Amanda Adams

Copyright 2016

All Rights Reserved

Table of Contents

Title Page

About Crash and Burn

Copyright

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Books by Amanda Adams

About Crash and Burn

The Walker Brothers, Book 1

A childhood promise has Chance Walker picking up a guitar once again. He hires sexy Erin Michaelson to bring music back into his life. She's one of the most intriguing women he's ever met.

When he sees her again, she's on stage using another name and seducing an entire audience. A single, sizzling backstage kiss will change both of their lives forever. Chance soon realizes that Erin is not just an itch, she's an obsession that he refuses to live without.

Copyright

Copyright 2016 Michele Callahan

Crash and Burn: The Walker Brothers, Book 1

Cover design Copyright 2016 eBook Indie Covers

Published 2017 By Tydbyts Media

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, people, places and events are completely a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Publisher’s Note: This book was previously released under the pen name Michele Callahan by another publisher.

Prologue

Chance Walker slid his finger under the starched collar of his dress shirt and tried to loosen the tie that threatened to strangle him. He didn’t get out of his car, just sat there like a fool trying to work up his courage. He stared at the piles of snow that lined both sides of the driveway. Icicles hung from the roof of the house and a warm puff of white air floated from somewhere on the roof.

He stared at the front door for a good five minutes without moving. There was nothing in this world he wanted less than to go into that house, sit down at Mrs. Klasky’s kitchen table and listen to her husband read his mother’s will.

“Damn it!” Chance shoved his hands against the steering wheel and decided it was time to stop being such a pussy. His mom was dead. It happened to people all the time. He’d get over it. Right? Eventually, the sweaty palms and panicked racing of his heart would stop.

With a sigh, he got out of the car and reached into the backseat for his navy suit jacket. Sure, he was only going to go sit in a room with his brothers and a lawyer, but he’d learned the hard way, a long time ago, to go into any legal meeting prepared to go for blood. Some instincts died hard.

He slammed the door and made his way up the driveway, past a large white truck, a cherry-red sports car, and a twenty-year-old Jeep that his brother Derek drove when the weather forced him to garage his custom black Ducati Monster. Chance’s sleek black Mercedes sport coupe looked like the only grownup’s car parked in front of the hundred-year-old, two-story brick house. And he had his mother to thank for that. She’d left her boys a very large life insurance policy. The way Chance saw it, the new car had been her final gift to him.

No doubt Klasky, his mother’s attorney, had a station wagon or a minivan parked in the garage. The Klaskys had eight grandkids and were always playing chauffeur to at least two or three of the little ones. Chance saw them around town whenever he’d come back to visit his mother, which was never enough.

He rang the doorbell and waited. A few seconds later, Mrs. Klasky opened the door in a pair of navy-blue pants and an oversized, cream-colored sweater. She had to be at least seventy years old, but she looked ten years younger.

“Oh, good dear. You’re here.” She hustled him in past the door and closed it softly behind him. “I’m so sorry about your mom, honey.”

“Thanks.” What was he supposed to say to that? No one ever knew what to say when somebody died. It sucked. It hurt. And there was no good way to talk about either one of those emotions, so he buried his head in work and didn’t talk about it. When Mrs. Klasky just stood there wringing her hands and looking like she was actually thinking about hugging him, he cleared his throat and took a step back. “Where is everybody?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Come in. Come in. They’re straight back in the kitchen.”

Great. Exactly like he’d expected.

He walked down the hallway lined with photographs, some old, some new. None of them registered. His hands he kept balled into fists in his jacket pockets. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to talk about this. Not today. Not ever.

“Chance.” His brother, Derek, got up from his seat at the end of the table and came over to wrap Chance up in a hug. Derek smelled like asphalt and motor oil and mint. He’d kicked chewing tobacco a few years back, but replaced it with a gum chewing habit that would keep the gum companies in business single-handedly. He never left home without a pack of spearmint securely stashed in one of the pockets of his black leather jacket.

“Hey, loser.” After the quick hug, Chance patted Derek on the shoulder and was slightly surprised to see his two other brothers, Jake and Mitchell, lined up to hug him as well.

Derek didn’t give him a sharp comeback or even a punch in the gut. What the hell was going on? Mom dies and we all turned into saps?

“Late to the party, as usual.” Jake grabbed him and lifted him off the floor. Chance was just under six foot, the same size as his two reasonable brothers. But the youngest, Jake, was four inches taller and fifty pounds thicker than the rest of them. He had on the usual plaid shirt, Wranglers, and cowboy boots that turned his six-four into six-six.

“And you still smell like cow patties and hay bales.” Jake was big, and blond, blue-eyed and better looking than the rest of them. So, of course, they’d told him he was adopted. He’d believed them until he was five, when their mother had spilled the beans to their youngest.

They were all adopted.

“Tough love, brother. But you smell like you had your ass wiped by a bathroom attendant with a perfumed moist towelette. You turning into one of those metrosexual city boys?” Jake set him back down and Mitchell took his place. Of all his brothers, Mitchell was the only one who spent more time in the city than Chance did.

“Naw, man. That would be me.” Mitchell grinned and grabbed Chance around the shoulders. He squeezed, but just stood there. Mitchell lived in the city now, but ran for the mountains every chance he got. Hell, his brother texted him pictures hanging from the side of a rock wall in a sleeping bag a couple hundred feet up the side of a cliff. Mitchell was a surgeon and lived for the adrenaline rush of the emergency room. Gory gunshot wounds and stabbings made his brother happier than the steady stream of nurses he was always dating.

Chance just grinned. He was the only man in the room in a suit. Even Mr. Klasky, his mother’s eighty-year-old attorney, was in khakis and a golf shirt.

Mr. Uptight. That was what they called him, and looking around the room, the name fit.

“Now that you’re all here, we can begin.” Mr. Klasky rolled in a small television with the old-fashioned VCR combo. The screen was only about nineteen inches, and so old, Chance wasn’t sure it would even display in color.

Jake kicked out a chair and Mitchell let him go to resume his seat. Chance sat down at the kitchen table and tugged on his tie again. Damn, it was hot in here.

They all thanked Mrs. Klasky respectfully as she served them lemonade and a tray of chocolate chip cookies, just as she’d been doing since they were in grade school.

When she settled against the wall, Jake offered her his seat, but she shooed him away. “You boys are going to want to be sitting down for this.”

His brothers looked as confused as he was. As the attorney at the table, they all looked at him to talk law with their host.

“All due respect, Mr. Klasky, but Mother’s estate was taken care of months ago, when she first got sick.”

“Yes. Yes. I know.” The older man bent over, looking for an outlet in the wall so he could plug in the dinosaur of a television.

“Then why are we here?” Chance looked from Mr. Klasky, who had finally found an outlet and was shoving the electrical prongs into it, to his wife, who glowered at him with a raised eyebrow until he added, “Sir.”

Satisfied, Mr. Klasky stood tall and rubbed his hands together like an excited schoolboy. “Well, boys. I promised your momma that I would get you all together today, six weeks to the day after she passed, God rest her soul.”

“But why? Everything’s been handled.”

“Not everything.” Mrs. Klasky pulled four envelopes from her apron pocket. Each looked like it would hold and oversized birthday card. She walked to the table and handed one to each of them. “Don’t open this yet. You have to watch the video first.”

Chance stared down at the pale green envelope in his hand and his heart hurt. There was his name, sprawled bold as could be across the front of the card in his mother’s handwriting. He looked up to check his brothers’ cards. Sure enough, their mother had written their names on each envelope sometime before she passed.

“Holy hell.” Jake leaned back in his seat and started tapping his cowboy hat against his knee, a sure sign that he was agitated.

Mr. Klasky shoved an old VHS tape into the player and the fuzzy screen went black for a few seconds. He heard the whirring of the tape as it played and had to shake his head. How long ago had his mother made that tape? Twenty years?

And there she was, young and healthy. Yes, probably fifteen years ago. He would have been about twelve when she made this video. He remembered that face. That smile.

God, it hurt to see her. But the real gut punch came when her voice echoed through the small kitchen.

“Hello, my precious boys. I’m going to make this tape and give it to Mr. Klasky just in case something happens to me. I don’t plan on going anywhere, but if I do, I want you boys to know I loved you more than anything and I was always proud, every single day, to be your mother.”

Jake sniffed and turned his head away. Chance didn’t bother. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his cheek dry. When was it going to stop hurting this much? He tried all the gurus’ advice he heard. Try to be grateful for the time you had. Only focus on the good memories. Remember how much she loved you boys. Blah, blah, blah. Endless advice from people trying to help. Nothing helped. He had a hole in his chest and nothing was ever going to fill it.

“You boys know how much I always pushed you to follow your own hearts. Follow your dreams, I say. Well, I’ve been thinking about this a lot this past year. Derek is fourteen now, and I see it happening already.

“Life is going to get ahold of you boys, and drain your dreams right out of you. I know. The real world is hard and unforgiving. Boys don’t get to have dreams anymore. They have to be men. The world is going to expect you to be hard. And I know you can be hard as nails. All of you. I know where you came from. You were born into a hard world. I tried to show you a different life, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid you’re going to grow up and forget who you really are. I don’t want you to forget your dreams.

“So, I did something a little crazy. Maybe you’ll remember, maybe you won’t, but on my birthday a few years ago, I asked each of you to write a very special card…”

Chance glanced down at the card in his hand as a memory stirred, a memory from long ago. A card with his favorite superhero on the front. A green envelope to match.

No way.

His mother’s laughter hit him and he lifted his head to see her shining eyes and bright smile one more time. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Always would be, inside and out. Even bald and sick, she’d been beautiful to him. To see her like this, young and healthy and laughing. He felt like he was a kid again.

“I’m going to ask Mr. Klasky to hold on to these cards for a while. Someday, I’ll die. Maybe I’ll be ninety, maybe not, but if I’m gone and you need reminding, he’s going to remind you of who you really are.”

She got serious and leaned forward until her face filled the entire screen.

“I love you. Each and every one. And you each made a promise to me, all those years ago. And dead or not, I expect you to keep it.”

Then she laughed again. “Dead or not. How’s that for a good one? I love you. Don’t forget who you were born to be. Open your cards now. Read them. And above all, remember why you wrote them. Keep your promises. I love you, and you know I’ll be watching.”

Chance looked down at the dried-out paper and the yellowed edge that ran along the seal of his envelope. He knew what he’d find when he opened the card…a growling image of The Incredible Hulk on the front of the card. His messy, fourth-grade handwriting on the inside. He remembered that day, and his mother giggling with him as he wrote line after line…

Hell, he was so screwed.

Chapter One

Erin Michaelson spotted Mr. Suit-and-Tie the minute he walked into the store. Tall and fit with model good looks, his dark blue suit molded broad shoulders to perfection. He had wavy brown hair that looked so soft her fingers actually twitched on the glass countertop. His eyes were warm and sharply focused wherever he looked. The deep chocolate brown of his eyes were perfectly framed by lashes longer than hers, which just wasn’t fair.

Leaning over the counter to get a closer look, she knocked over the pencil container at the register with a loud bang. Pens, pencils and paperclips went flying over the glass with a loud clatter that drew his attention.

Shit. He was coming over.

Nerves on overheat, she scrambled to pick up the pens, but his damn presence made her fingers shake and she dropped half of them. What was up with that?

“Here. Let me help.” He was close now, so close she could smell his spicy cologne, like a mix of dark chocolate and cinnamon. His scent invaded her system and made her imagine nibbling on him. Everywhere. He looked a couple years older than she was and his ring finger was bare, not that she was looking. Nope. She had the insane urge to bury her nose against his neck to see if he smelled just as good up close.

In about five seconds flat he had the entire mess cleaned up and stood, watching her mouth with dark, brooding eyes. She would have donated a pint of blood right then and there to know what he was thinking, because he looked like he might be, possibly, could be, thinking about kissing her. Which made her think about kissing him back. Before she knew it, she licked her lips slowly, wondering if he’d even notice.

He didn’t move, and she started to feel like a caged bird behind the counter. “Um, thanks. For helping.”

“Sure.” He grinned and looked her in the eye. She wished he hadn’t because her heart pounded and it felt like a car had just parked on her chest.

When she remained as frozen as an ice sculpture, he gave her a quick nod and wandered toward the back, to the guitars where Samantha looked all too eager to help him select a guitar.

Great. Nerdy loser girl sees hot guy and freezes yet again. Why did she always freak and lose her nerve? Why couldn’t she be more like her onstage alter ego? That bitch was wild and fearless, a total animal on stage.

Her alter ego would jump the counter and follow him, but the butterflies in her stomach kept her on her side of the counter. Besides, her frayed rock band T-shirt, ragged jeans, ponytail, and bare face was very strong man repellent. And she really just needed to keep her head on straight, not get distracted by a walking daydream.

She glanced down to the song she was writing. Yep. The super-smart thing to do was to let Samantha get close to all that hotness. Samantha was beautiful, bubbly, and dressed in an adorable sweater and leggings. Where Sam never met a stranger, and could talk to anyone, Erin knew that she came across as quiet and intense on a good day. Sam was fire and Erin was ice. Today, she didn’t even want to try to compete with the ginger. Erin’s band, Fourth Strike, had practiced until two in the morning, and she’d had to be at work in the music store by eight. She’d barely had time for a shower, let alone lipstick and perfume.

Their lone customer took his time with the guitars, touching many of them with long, lean hands. He ran his fingertips over the smooth sides and rough edges gently, explored the guitars like a lover would. The visual, and the complete attention he gave to the instruments, made her squirm. His reverence for the guitars came through in the soft glide of his fingers and the serene look on his face, and she couldn’t stop her imagination from replacing the six-string under his hands with the soft dips and curves of her own naked flesh.

God, she was pathetic. If he turned her on just standing in the store, he’d be deadly to her senses if he actually began to play. Could he play? The way he wrapped his hands around the instrument made her think he could. The thought rocketed him up the sexy scale even higher.

Shaking her head to clear it, she forced herself to look away. She’d grown up poor, but she’d seen his type often enough. Rich clothes. Cut chin. Broad shoulders and a way of standing that screamed confidence.

Guys like him had made something of themselves. He looked like a stockbroker or a banker, someone comfortable gambling with both money and people’s lives. She didn’t want to tangle with that kind of player. A man like that could make her heart hurt and her panties wet at the same time. Totally dangerous and way out of her league. He could make her want shit she had no business wanting. A guy like that would just break her heart into a million tiny pieces.

His voice drifted over to her at the counter and she closed her eyes. Of course his voice would be smooth and deep, the kind of voice that made her whole body eager to rip her clothes off and beg him to talk dirty. Jesus, her mind was in the gutter. She tried not to listen as he discussed the various guitar models they had mounted on the wall with Samantha.

A good fifteen minutes passed and Erin did her best to ignore Samantha and the walking sex god as they worked their way through the entire guitar section. They moved closer and closer to where she stood leaning over the glass display case next to the register.

“Hey. He wants the Gibson.” Samantha walked up and laid the expensive guitar across the glass. Erin didn’t even look up.

“He’s going to need a…”

“I need a case.” His words layered over Erin’s and she looked up, catching his eye when they spoke at the exact same time.

“Oh, right.” Samantha tugged on Mr. Gorgeous’s arm and led him over to the guitar cases. She was there half a minute before scurrying back to take the guitar Erin held out. “Right. Sorry. Gotta fit the guitar to the case.”

Erin didn’t reply, just went back to her current battle with the band’s newest song lyrics. Her brother, AJ, had already helped her polish the guitar riff and she had a pretty great melody hammered out on the piano, but the lyrics? That was generally her favorite part of the process. Today she was coming up with a big fat zero.

Why can’t you see

Why can’t I be

Lost in you…

No. That was total garbage.

She erased the last two lines and started over.

Why can’t you see

Why are you so mean to me

You make me bleed…

Crap. Terrible. She hated whiney lyrics. She nearly tore a hole in the paper with her eraser this time. She’d better start scribbling on another sheet of paper, because this one had both the guitar chords and all the notes of the piano melody written on the treble clef. If she wrecked it, she’d have to start over.

Hmmm.

They say we should live and learn

But all we do is lust and yearn? Burn? Worm?

She chuckled at her own joke and erased it all in frustration. The song had possibilities, but her brain drew a total blank on words, just like it had been for the last six weeks. Total song drought. Even AJ had begun to worry. Erin didn’t know why nothing was flowing. She just felt burned out. And tired. And not sure anyone was ever going to give a shit about anything she wrote anyway.

She’d written all of the original music the band played, but lately she felt completely uninspired. Nothing changed. They weren’t going anywhere. They booked the same gigs at the same bars night after night, week after week. Every bar had their regulars. She knew that every Tuesday night at The Red Crow bar she’d have the same twelve drunk people listening to her that were there the week before.

But maybe, just maybe, they’d finally caught a break. She’d texted AJ the good news about an hour ago. They had finally gotten a gig next week at The Funk Club. It was a hot pop dance club that frequently hosted some of the up and coming names in music. And the owner, who she’d been stalking for weeks trying to get the gig, told her that Wesley Shipton of Shipton Records had asked to see them play.

Talk about a Holy Shit moment! She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she got the text.

Playing for Shipton could be the break they needed. So, she didn’t tell AJ or the others who was going to be there. They’d just freak out and do something stupid, like show up stoned. Or drunk. Or both. Most nights she got them to hold off on the party until after the work was over, but this kind of pressure would push AJ over the edge.

No, the Funk Club gig next week was going to be perfect. Assuming she could figure out lyrics for this new song. The band had practiced the music for weeks, but the lyrics? No luck yet. Nothing. Zip. Nada. Her muse had completely deserted her. With the record label here to see them play, it was a bad, bad time for her muse to take a vacation.

Evil bitch.

To top that off, her dad, after twenty years, had decided to try to be a father. The last three times she’d seen him, he had screeched at her and her younger brother to get a real job, a real life. A career.

What he really wanted was a steady paycheck and someone to take care of him. Erin, at twenty-four, had enough trouble taking care of herself.

Besides, she didn’t want a “real” job and the cubicle life. She’d gone to college for two years and hated it. She didn’t care about calculus or freaking world history. She wanted to sing and play her guitar. She wanted a record deal, and world tours, and freaking hot guys, like the one walking around in the store right now, throwing themselves at her feet begging her to kiss them. But if her muse didn’t start behaving, none of that was going to happen.

“Ever.” Guys like him didn’t go to concerts or beg any woman for anything. Heat rushed through her at the thought of his hands and mouth all over her. Nope, with a guy like him? “I’d be the one begging.”

“Excuse me?” Mr. Wonderful was standing in front of her looking so hot she had to force herself to blink before answering him. Had she really just said that out loud? Shit. Heat rushed up her neck and she knew her face had to be turning a nice, embarrassing crimson.

“What?” Brilliant comeback, Erin. Really intelligent.

“What?” Apparently she’d successfully confused both of them, because he was staring at her like she had two heads. When his gaze darted to the sheets of music she had spread over the glass, she scurried to stack them and shove them out of sight in the cabinet behind her.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes.” He lifted a mint-condition case onto the counter. “I need to pay for these.”

“Okay.” She checked the case and entered the information into their register without lifting the lid to check the guitar already safely inside. He stopped her when she told him the total.

“But, you didn’t even look at the guitar.”

“The Gibson, Les Paul?”

“Yes.”

“I know how much it is. Trust me.” She’d had her eye on it for three months, ever since the store’s owner had taken it out of the box. She’d have to save her money for three years to afford it.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Go ahead.” She raised a brow, but didn’t lift a finger to help him. Accidental contact was to be avoided at all costs.

He spun the case around and she tried really, really hard not to look at his hands. She was a total sucker for a nice pair of hands. And, sure enough, up close, his were gorgeous. Long, strong fingers with squared tips and a nice big palm that could cup the entire back of her head, or her breast…

Oh, no. She was not going there.

Too late. Her nipples pebbled to attention inside her bra and she hunched forward a bit to make sure she didn’t have the headlights on, giving him a show.

Jeez. How long had it been since she’d been with a man? Eight months? And why was she thinking about this now? She had the biggest performance of her life coming up. She needed to focus…

“Okay. You were correct. Here.” He held out his black credit card with that sexy hand. She took it without responding, but noticed his gaze fall to her chest.

Stupid nipples were probably on high beam. She hadn’t worn her industrial-strength bra to work today. No. She had on one of those thin lace and satin things that looked sexy but didn’t do much else. She had wanted to feel pretty this morning, so she’d put on her sexy underwear beneath the jeans and T-shirt she normally wore to work. But the thin cotton, pulled tight over satin wasn’t going to hide much.

Oh, well. Just another day at the office.

He signed the receipt and she handed back his copy and his card.

“Thank you for coming in. Have a nice afternoon.”

“I need to sign up for lessons. I’m a bit rusty.”

She looked at him with new eyes. So…he actually played guitar? “How long has it been?”

“Seven years.”

“Ouch.”

He grinned, and she stopped breathing. That level of sexy should be outlawed as totally unfair. And he had great taste in guitars? If there was a perfect man in the world, she was pretty sure she was staring at him right now.

“All right. What’s your schedule like? Are you free Monday nights?” She pulled the lesson-planning schedule book from the shelf behind the counter and opened it to the following week. There were four guitar instructors. Eddie would probably be the best choice. Close to the hunk’s age, Eddie was an excellent player. Guitar Eddie was the clichéd rich boy who, at twenty-five, had shifted from rebelling against his parents plans for him to attend Harvard Law, to just plain rebelling against the status quo. Of course, it was easy for him to be a rebel since his parents still paid his car payment and his rent.

Lucky bastard.

“No.”

“No, what?” She stared at his lips. They were full, and looked soft. Kissable. What had she asked him?

“I can’t do Monday.”

Right… “Okay. How about Tuesdays?” Ginny taught on Tuesdays. Ginny could handle this guy. She was married with two kids and totally in love with her husband. No problem.

“No.”

She glanced down at the book, then up and their gazes locked. “Wednesdays? Thursdays?”

“No and no.”

“When, exactly are you free, then? Because Saturdays are booked, and no one teaches on Friday night.”

“I’m not free, ever. But I made a promise that I’d make the time, so I have to work it in. Do you have anything from 9:00 to 10:00 on Sunday morning?”

Was this guy for real? “Are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” A faint tinge of color climbed over his cheekbones and she watched, fascinated. Was he blushing? The thought intrigued her.

“Knock it off.”

“I’m sorry.” He pulled the guitar off the counter and set it on the carpet at his feet.

She shook her head, flustered. “Not you. Sorry. I was talking to myself.” Yes, his face looked a bit pink, and he reached up to tug on the neck of his pale blue dress shirt and red power tie. And just her luck, her fingers itched to reach up and unwrap him like a birthday present. She bet the skin on his neck tasted as good as it looked.