Free-spirited musician Letty Dillinger adheres to a strict, “no strings attached” policy when it comes to men. After a wild night of unabashed sex in a fancy hotel room, she never expects to see the adventurous stud she dubs “Shades” again. When her all-girl rock trio books a tour at the last minute as the opening act for their archenemies, Letty’s shocked to discover she knows the competition’s new lead singer. Intimately. Shades is no longer a one-night stand. Now he’s the guy she has to one-up on stage every night for the sake of her career.
Sharing close quarters on a bus with her sexy nemesis and his bad-boy buddies puts Letty’s Golden Rule to the test. On this tour, guitar strings aren’t the only things being played. And when heartstrings are pulled too hard, they’re bound to snap sooner or later.
WARNING: STRINGS is not suitable for slut shamers, uptight stone throwers, Holier-Than-Thou prudes, humorless virgins, persons with chronic neck or back pain, pearl-clutching bitties, those who disparage crude humor or vulgarity in their many forms, closed-minded people with sticks up their asses, or anyone under the age of 18. The vile, base language and shocking, unholy sexual acts contained herein are not condoned by anyone with a lick of sense and should certainly not be reproduced without proper training and protection. The potty-mouthed and perpetually horny "heroine" (the term is used loosely) of this book does not resemble a normal, well-adjusted, or remotely believable person in any way, shape, or form. The author acknowledges that the characters in this book are shallow and two-dimensional; the plot is both ridiculous and insipid. She makes no apologies for any of it.
* Readers are strongly advised to wear latex gloves whilst reading to minimize contamination risks.
“Why the long face?” Bartender Rob tosses a stained white towel over his shoulder and leans across the nicked wood. He rests his meaty elbows in a puddle of liquor leftovers. I eye the spot and manage to keep my tongue in my mouth. No licking the bar. You’re not drunk enough. Yet. I do love me some booze, and I’m living off the coins I found in my couch cushions until payday. With a calloused index finger, I stir my vodka martini—the one birthday present I allowed my broke-ass self to buy.
“The short version? My boyfriend left me for Jesus. I’m stuck in a dead-end waitressing job, clogging people’s arteries at Fat Johnny’s Barbeque Shack, making jack shit. I’m earning even less busting ass at the gig I want to be doing.” The part about my boyfriend is a white lie. He’s really just a guy I was bonking for a while. Technicality. But the rest is one hundred percent truth. “No one gives a mangy monkey boner about art anymore. Nothing but a bunch of zero-talent sellouts in this fucking town.” I meet Rob’s eyes. “Man, I’m twenty-five today, and I have nothing to show for it.” Rob straightens.
“My mama always said, ‘If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.’” I shake my head. “Fuck that. I’d rather starve than sell out.” Yeah, I’m a little rabid about this particular stick-to-your-guns philosophy. Some people find strength in religion. I believe in music, and I defend it with everything I’ve got, even when things don’t go my way. I played the unfortunate role of a human pinball paddled back and forth between my divorced parents for most of my life. In my darkest moments, solace and light came from listening to my mom’s ’70s cassette tapes. For a few years, music was my only friend.
Nobody else understood me. It helped me through the rough patches and gave me motivation to pick up the bass at fourteen. Even though I haven’t made it yet, music is still the one thing that keeps me steady and sane. You don’t fuck with shit that does you right. Especially when it’s all you’ve got. I just wish… If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. “Happy fucking birthday,” Rob says. “Yeah, cheers, asshole.” I raise my glass and swallow the whole drink in three big gulps. Rob snickers and wanders over to a customer waving bills at him from the register. The guy one seat away from me laughs, so I glance at him. He’s hunched over the bar like he’s guarding his drink, with his head turned toward me.
Five o’ clock shadow, pierced eyebrow, dark brown fauxhawk, plugs in his earlobes—not too big, though. He wears a black wool pea coat-looking thing, jeans, and a pair of dark sunglasses. “Something funny, Shades?” I ask. “Your boyfriend leaving you for Jesus.” He has kind of a gruff voice. His face is okay, but it’s hard to tell what he really looks like with those glasses covering his most important features. I like his hands, though. They’re rough like mine. “I knew something was wrong with him when he complained about me asking for anal. What guy doesn’t want anal?” I twirl my empty glass by its long stem.
“He was kind of a dick trickle, so it’s not like I miss him or anything. Though the sex was decent. Better than my current prospects.” Damn, I’m dying for another drink. Maybe just one more. I’m pretty sure I got a couple bucks stuffed in my car’s ashtray for emergencies. I shoot a bird at Rob, who nods. “Definitely something wrong with a guy who doesn’t want to sodomize his woman.” Shades takes a sip from his glass. A wrist tattoo peeks out from his coat sleeve. I can’t tell what it is.
“Nah, I wanted to sodomize him. He wasn’t on board with the plan. That’s when the Holier Than Thou shit started. ‘Jesus doesn’t approve of butt-fucking.’ Jesus this. Jesus that. What the hell, man? Don’t you think Jesus would want you to be happy? How will you ever be happy if you don’t try new things? Christ, it’s just a dildo up the ass. Loosen the fuck up.” Shades chokes on his drink, wipes his mouth with a coat sleeve, and laughs. Gorgeous teeth. A glass slides across the bar from Rob a few feet away. I stop it with my open hand and smile. Rob grins and saunters over.
“I got you this Flaming Armadillo for your birthday, my dear. I hope it fits.” He flicks his lighter and ignites the liquid in the glass. Blue flames dance. I salivate. “Rob, it’s perfect. You shouldn’t have.” “You’re welcome.” I pick up the shot and blow it out. To another year of dream chasing. Maybe this’ll be the one where I finally make it big. “Happy birthday to me.” Gulp.
Down the chute it goes, and I lose five IQ points as the alcohol gets busy with my already precarious brain chemistry. At least somebody’s getting some action. Shades raises his glass and shoots whatever he’s drinking. “Did you make a wish?” I’m not telling my real wish.
That shit won’t come true if you spill it. Instead, I say, “All I want for my birthday is to get fucked unconscious with no strings attached.” Not a lie. “What a coincidence. I’ve got a big dick, a bar tab, and the local cab company’s number on speed dial.” The guy’s eyes bore into me from behind the dark lenses, and I have a momentary lapse in vaginal secretion control. Clean up on aisle twelve, stat! * * * * *
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Book 2 in the Hard Rock Harlots Series
WARNING: BEATS is specially formulated for horn dogs, porn oglers, smut peddlers, BDSM junkies, M/M and M/M/F addicts, DP dabblers, and lovers of A2M backdoor sexy times. If you don’t fall into these categories, can’t stomach hot man-on-man action, or if you have no idea what the above acronyms mean, please back away from BEATS now. This isn’t the book you’re looking for. Failure to heed this warning could inadvertently throw unauthorized users into a persistent vegetative state, or at the very least, require administration of a defibrillator to the chest and/or groin area. Nobody wants that.
For months, shy drummer Jinx Hardwick has been silently crushing on her tall, dark, and scary bandmate, Toombs Badcock. Drawn to his frightening ink and scars, she yearns to uncover the shadowy secrets lurking behind his silver eyes, but Jinx is too intimidated to even look at him, let alone talk to him. When she stumbles upon Toombs and their manipulative lead guitarist Rax in a compromising position, Jinx realizes her chances of winning Toombs’s heart aren’t just a long shot—they’re nonexistent. To make matters worse, Jinx’s family needs her at home. She’s about to back away from it all—Toombs, the band, her dreams of fame and fortune—when Rax makes her an offer she can’t refuse: a no-holds-barred night alone with Toombs. There’s one small catch. She has to go through Rax to get it.
NOCTURNES contains 511 F-bombs, 81 well-endowed male chickens, 65 girl kitties, 58 Richard the Lessers, 10 C-U-Next-Tuesdays, and a plethora of other colorful words and phrases that would deafen your virginal mother’s ears and make her bust out her “Shame on you!” finger. If you’ve been tuned in since the beginning of the Hard Rock Harlots series, you know the drill. The sex is extreme, the language is graphic, and the story is over the top. Prudes and under 18s need not apply.
WARNING: NOCTURNES addresses serious topics such as alcoholism, prostitution, and cheating. If you’re looking for a barrel of laughs or sunshine and rainbows, this is NOT the book for you.
Rax Wrathbone is the dirty rock star you love to hate. The filthy fantasy slithering through your bed sheets. The serpent in your lady garden. The snake bite in your panties that keeps you sweating all night. He. Is. Sex.
And he’s no good. For anyone.
After a nasty breakup with his best friend and their band’s drummer, Rax is flying solo for the first time in years. Who needs the drama of commitment when the line for your humping booth spans three city blocks? No, groupies and liquor are far finer company than relationships, and they don’t leave bruises after they’ve had their way with you. At least not lasting ones.
Rax’s new adventures as an alcoholic, guitar-slashing one-man show are going along swimmingly until the only woman who’s ever brought him to his knees shimmies down a pole back into his life. Eve doesn’t abide excessive drinking, she has sex with strangers for a living, and she can’t remember Rax’s name to save her life.
She’s perfect in every way.
Now, if he could just get sober long enough to forget his past and convince Eve he’s worthy of her future…
About The Author:
Kendall Grey, word wrangler, whale warrior, wicked wench, and lover of tongue-tripping alliteration, was born without an off-switch between her brain and mouth. She's been called the "Flux Capacitor of Twitter" (@kendallgrey1) and "A little package of love all wrapped up in F-word paper," but she's really just a maniacal writer relaying eyewitness accounts of the rave inside her head. She writes urban fantasy with strong romantic elements and also dabbles in erotica and horror on occasion.
Kendall lives off a dirt road near Atlanta, Georgia, but don't hold that against her.
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