Jax Sterling is a sex addict with the heart of a golden retriever puppy. As the lead singer for the Red Letters, it’s easy to hide his loneliness behind his bad boy lifestyle…until he lands on tour with a hard rock goddess who makes him want the relationship he can never have.
Onstage, Ava’s all chains, whips, and guitar licks, but the backstage confessions they share are darker than their leather. She wants Jax, but he wants better for her than him.
But then, bad news drops that threatens the life of one of his bandmates, and the loyalty of the other. Terrified by how little he has left if he loses his best friends, Jax takes the plunge to let someone else into his life.
Until Ava finds out his ugliest sin, and it’s nothing she can forgive.
“Jax, wait!” She grabs my arm.
“Still not ready to sleep?”
Please God, let her ask me to hold her. That happens in Jera’s romance novels all the time. And okay, the heroes never pop inappropriate wood, but that’s just because they’re a bunch of pussies.
Ava nods, and I can’t quite read the look in her eye. Her hand feels soft on my arm and when it drops away, my skin tingles. “If you want to trade in truth or dare for a bedtime story next time, I rock at Dr. Seuss. Jera’s daughter can’t get enough of rhyming.” I half-smile. “Songwriter’s kid, you know.”
“Sorry. You should go catch a nap before the plane lands. I need a new damn boyfriend is all.” Ava sighs. “Hate sleeping alone.”
My heart jolts and I briefly debate the wisdom of jumping up and down, waving my arm in the air. Decide against it on the basis of possible un-coolness points. “You could try your bodyguard. Judging by the look he gave me when I was on my way in here, he’s dying to play Big Spoon.”
Ava laughs. “Yeah, not even a little bit. Plus, his wife is in my knitting group back home.”
“AVA knitting? From the girl who started the skull-with-pink-bow trend, that’s some serious blackmail, so now we’re even.” She still looks glum, so I skim my knuckles down her arm. “Come on, you’re not really alone. You’re on a tiny plane with the world’s most prescient flight attendant, a vampire bat, and a makeup artist whom I suspect of reading the dictionary. For pleasure.”
She laughs, squirming around until she’s straight on the bed again and squinting up at me as a tiny curl falls into her eyes. “You’re crazy weird, you realize that, right?”
“They’re your hand-picked staff, not mine.” I head for the door and pause with my hand on the knob. “I’ll totally stay and cuddle with you, you know. As long as you have sex with me three, maybe four times first.”
“Four?” She pushes her hair out of her face. “Oh, is that all?”
I wink. “‘If you never did, you should. These things are fun, and fun is good.’”
“Oh my God, did you just sex-quote Dr. Seuss at me?” She explodes into my favorite laugh, the gasping snorty one.
I close the door, grinning. Which sucks, because I look like a fool when I realize her bodyguard is still awake, swiveled so he can watch me come out of her airplane’s bedroom.
And he still hasn’t blinked.
About Michelle Hazen:
Michelle Hazen is a nomad with a writing problem. Years ago, she and her husband
ducked out of the 9 to 5 world and moved into their truck. As a result, she wrote most of
her books with solar power in odd places, including a bus in Thailand, a golf cart in a
sandstorm, and a beach in Honduras. Currently, she’s addicted to The Walking Dead,
hiking, and Tillamook cheese.
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