The Swan and The Sergeant - Alana Albertson Page 0,62

A lump grew in my throat, and my eyes watered, but it wasn’t from the smoke filled air. It was over. I clutched my beloved guitar, the instrument that had been my lifeline for so many years, and smashed it on the ground. Every bang, every slam, every crack filled me with rage. Chips of wood flew on the stage, strings popped, and I destroyed my prized possession. I glanced back at the audience, my heart pounding in my chest. I gave them a final wave goodbye, flicked off my traitorous bandmates, and exited stage left.

Publicists milled backstage, reporters shoved microphones in my face, and girls screamed when I walked by. Too easy. I wanted something real, a connection. Even though I would never be good for anything more than a one-night stand.

I grabbed a bottle of jack and took a swig; the smooth liquid coated my throat. I was hungry, but wasn’t in the mood for the butter-poached lobster waiting in my room backstage. I figured I had a few seconds to make a break for the concessions, before the fans filed out. I dashed out the back door, and entered closest food stand.

Carnal Asada. Kick ass. What a cool fucking name. Mexican food in San Diego was always amazing. I was grateful to have my last show here, one of my favorite cities. I slid to the counter to order some tacos, when something besides food whet my appetite.

Jet-black hair that skimmed her back, huge tits that filled out her t-shirt, jeans that hugged her phat ass. Her plump lips were painted pink, but besides that she didn’t seem to have a hint of makeup on. Wow—did this woman have any clue how naturally beautiful she was?

She barely looked up from the register. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have two carne asada tacos and your number.”

Her head straightened and her eyes met mine, her lashes rapidly blinking. “Oh my god! You’re Dax, aren’t you? I’m so sorry I didn’t notice you there. What are you doing out here? You’ll get mobbed.”

People starting exploding out of the concert hall, and she was right, I had to get backstage. “It’s cool. Bring me my food to my dressing room.” I threw down a twenty-dollar bill and handed her a laminated back stage pass.

She brushed her hand through her hair, and rubbed the back of her neck. I winked at her and gave her my signature head nod. Before she could say a word, I disappeared backstage.

I stalked passed my singer, Trey. Motherfucker, tried to shake my hand. Fuck him. Fuck them all. Guy was a dick, always had been. Long time suffered of LSD, Lead Singer Disease. I was honest to god glad to be free of these fuckers, I just wished I could’ve left on my own terms.

I opened my dressing room, grateful that the bullshit statement about my departure wouldn’t be released until tomorrow. Creative differences my ass. But I refused to be a sob story to the media. I had a plan. Tomorrow I would vanish, and I would make my own path. I was twenty-one, I had my whole life ahead of me.

I peeled off my leather pants and hopped into the shower. The hot water scalded my skin, and I scrubbed the concert off of my chest.

I heard a knock at the door. Great—dinner had arrived. And dessert.

“Dax, uhm it’s Marisol, from Carnal Asada? I brought your food. I’ll just leave it at the table.”

Not so fast sweetheart. “Hey, hold up. I’ll be out in a second.”

I wrapped a towel around my waist, and opened the bathroom door. “Thanks, babe. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

Her eyes scanned my body, dropping briefly to my cock but then focusing back on my face. “I have to clean up at the restaurant and then I was going to head home.”

I walked over to her, careful to maintain eye contact. “No, you’re not. You’re coming to Vegas with me.”

Her jaw dropped, wide enough for me to imagine my cock in it. “Vegas? You’re out of your mind. Don’t you have groupies or something?”

I laughed. “Groupies bore the fuck out of me. My bandmates are assholes, everyone in my entourage is paid to tell me how fucking awesome I am. I want a good girl who wants to be bad. Are you game?”

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About Alana

ALANA ALBERTSON IS the former President of RWA’s Contemporary Romance, Young Adult, and Chick Lit chapters. She holds a M.Ed. from Harvard and a BA in English from Stanford. She lives in San Diego, California, with her husband, two sons, and six rescue dogs. When she’s not saving dogs from high kill shelters through her rescue Pugs N Roses, she can be found watching episodes of Cobra Kai, Younger, or Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team.

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Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE to thank my amazing editors on this book:

Kelli Collins who ripped the earlier version apart and helped me reshape the entire thing.

Gwen Hayes who is my arc goddess.

Deborah Halverson, for not giving up on this book and my writing.

To my husband, Roger, a real Marine hero. Thank you for watching the boys while I write and tolerating my endless “what if” conversations about my characters. I couldn’t have written this book without you.

To my two beautiful sons, Connor and Caleb. You are both the best part of my day.

To my critique partners:

M-E Girard, for your insightful edits into the characterization of Bret and Selena. You are the reason I won so many contests!

Juliette Sobanet, for all your spot on critiques and guidance. I’m so happy you moved to San Diego!

To my agent, Jill Marsal, for believing in this story in its many different versions.

To my brother, Joe Chulick, for convincing me to publish it. My sister-in-law Susie Chulick, for your uplifting encouragement.

To my mother, Diana Chulick, for fostering my love of reading.

To my three favorite romance writers, Kristan Higgins, Lauren Willig, and Susan Donovan. Thank you for taking your time to give me brilliant critiques on this book.

To all my fellow RWA members, for supporting this book, teaching me how to write, and critiquing this manuscript.

To my brilliant cover designer, Aria Tan. I heart you!