Sneak Peek: Prologue + Chapter 1
Very Twisted Things
A Standalone Briarcrest Academy Novel #3
by New York Times best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills
Release Date: March 1, 2015
This is a standalone New Adult novel with graphic sex and language.
Introductory price of $2.99 on release day for 24 hours only!
Description:
Vital Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his YouTube music video would go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did. After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a matter of time before his stars aligned.
But life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.
After being cheated on, his only rule to falling in love is simple: Keep Calm and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new neighbor with binoculars seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an erotic game between two very unlikely people.
Twenty-year-old Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist who's lost her mojo on stage. She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to find her way through her twisted past in order to make her future.
He’s the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his autograph. She’s the introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who he is.
When they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off. Yet, giving his heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who craves attention isn’t Violet’s.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes the best things in life are VERY TWISTED THINGS.
Prologue
“Fairy
dust is not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
Boom!
I, Violet
St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born
on the same day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two
avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me
Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very
least, comet residue.
I’d
foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was
now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the
plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished.
Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d
sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been
collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding
passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at
us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space
and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched,
helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their
hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward
the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted
piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around
her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her
hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of
Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of
the New York Times featured pictures of us on a
monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality
dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in
my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in
front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots
had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and
announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on
schedule.
Then the
first explosion had gone off.
Bits of
debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and
squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace. Fear and then horror
flickered across his face as he saw Mother, but there was no time to comfort
him.
Paralyzed
in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun
was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of
clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in
the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth
birthday.
Just then
my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed
against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit.
God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a
glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left. Would
the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?
The air was
turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I
resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger,
faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan.
Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear
escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in
a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it
sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on
my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final
look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water
everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung
my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I
kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from
my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding.
Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt
above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up.
Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it.
Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the
water.
The hottest
fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to
the top. Please.
My body
rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat
making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and
more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots
filled my eyes. This was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My body
twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of
the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright
lights, no tunnel.
No heaven,
no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy
dust.
Two years
later
“She was
music with skin.” —Sebastian
Tate
I tapped my
foot.
What was
taking her so long?
From my
backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a
pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low
whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material
flashing around her long legs as she moved around her patio. Her hair was down,
too.
This was
new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked
like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since
our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such
an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need
a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she
played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of
her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just
stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was
she doing?
Could
she see me?
As if it
were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began
playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I
don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing,
blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d
slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and
seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led
Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something
electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements
controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the
slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her
arms to manipulate the strings.
Her body
arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million pieces
before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off her
right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered,
vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out
of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously
bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her
like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself just as an
appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me
lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in
as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she
bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans
on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each
note she pulled from her instrument.
She
finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the
emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and
gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.
The entire
event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a
deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the
hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.
Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes
lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
And then …
Standing
there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so
slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work
herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of
the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart
piece by piece.
And didn’t
that thought surprise me.
My gaze
searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked
her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering
over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than
just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe
halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes
went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her
mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly
set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was
giving in, but not without a fight.
Violin Girl
was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still
didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to
me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked
the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then
she did something completely crazy.
The lonely
girl next door flipped me the bird.
© Ilsa
Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things
Author Bio
New York Times and USA Today best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. She spends her days with two small kids, one neurotic cat, and one husband. She collects magnets and rarely cooks except to bake her own pretzels. When she's not crafting a story, you can find her drinking too much Diet Coke, jamming out to Pink, or checking on her carefully maintained chocolate stash. She loves to hear from readers and fellow authors.
BUY HER BOOKS HERE: http://amzn.to/1qNbF3y
Social Media Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorilsamaddenmills
Twitter: @ilsamaddenmills Instagram: http://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
Website: http://www.ilsamaddenmills.com/
Instagram:
http://instagram.com/ilsamaddenmills/
No comments:
Post a Comment