Plowed

  Plowed

  By Kristen Luciani and Rebecca Manuel

  Cover Design by Rebecca Manuel and Jena Brignola of Bibliophile Productions

  Editing by Megan Saperstein, authorsaperstein@aol.com

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  PLOWED

  Copyright © 2016 KRISTEN LUCIANI AND REBECCA MANUEL

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  About Kristen Luciani

  Other Works by Kristen Luciani

  About Rebecca Manuel

  Acknowledgements

  Naked Truth Excerpt

  SIX MONTHS. TWO WORDS THAT had chilled Daxton to the core from the second they were uttered. Certainly not ones that could make his near-flaccid cock any harder, despite the pair of collagen-infused lips clamped with determination - sucking, pulling and tugging to no avail. He clenched the arms of the plush leather recliner, as his eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to force images of his family’s tear-streaked faces far from his mind when they’d received the prognosis.

  Jase had only been eighteen. Eighteen! What kind of God gives a kid an inoperable brain tumor and allows it to ravage his body, decimating his once-muscular frame down to nothing more than ashen skin and brittle bones? Brain Cancer. A fucking death sentence. The pain of such a loss ran deep into the crevices of Daxton’s fractured soul. A world without Jase had been inconceivable. The guy always lit up a room with his mega-watt smile and equally charged personality. Nothing was ever doomed; there was always a silver lining. Glass half full and all that crap. He’d been a glittering diamond in a world of coal.

  But despite all the positivity Jase could muster, reality bore its ugly-ass head, claiming his young and formerly vibrant life. Daxton’s baby brother and best friend was gone, forever. Days turned into months and shit never got easier, no matter what people said. There were three means of escape – booze, sex, and music – but they were temporary. And when the buzz wore off, grief always prevailed.

  “Come on, Daxy. Why can’t you get hard?” The whining voice grated on his nerves, blunted as they were from the excess of whiskey. “I wanna make you come. Tell me what to do so I can get you off.” Why couldn’t she just shut the hell up? And when would the toxic thoughts streaming through his foggy mind finally stop?

  Show time was in two hours and here he was, hung over from day-drinking, and getting sucked off by some bleached blonde backup singer named…Brandi? Brianne? Bambi? What the hell ever. Typical behavior for an insensitive asshole with the emotional stability of Jell-O. At least, that was the commonly held opinion of his father, legendary rock god Tyler Cole. Performing on the anniversary of Jase’s death was nothing short of a mortal sin in his book. Not that Daxton had ever been able to make him happy or proud. Nope, that was all reserved for Jase.

  Long, hot pink-lacquered nails trailed down his thighs, cupping his balls, kneading them with urgency. But his heart was too empty, and his mind was too full to cooperate with the valiant efforts.

  He pushed her away. “Stop.”

  The blonde’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open, his cock slipping from her still-pursed lips. “What did you say?”

  “I said, enough. Just get dressed and go.”

  “I thought you wanted to—”

  He raked a hand through his longish-dark hair. “I’m not into it anymore.”

  “You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Blondie jumped to her feet, hands on her hips, clad only in a red lacy bra and matching thong. Her body was tight and her tits were huge, but his brain refused to provide him any bit of release.

  “Yeah, that’s one I’ve heard a few times before.” He stood, zipping up his low-slung black jeans. More alcohol was a necessity. His pounding head did nothing to deter him from grabbing another highball glass and filling it with the amber-colored liquid.

  “I wasted the past half hour on my knees, and you’re still limp as a freaking spaghetti noodle. Not like you bothered to return the favor. So much for your reputation. Sex god, my fucking ass. You can’t even get it up!” The girl shimmied back into her obscenely short pleather mini-dress and flipped him off. “Fuck you, Daxton Cole. You have no idea what you’re missing.”

  He blinked several times, his half-hooded eyes focused on her overly made up face. Her lips twisted into a nasty grimace, brown eyes so heavily lined she resembled a raccoon, a really skanky one at that. “I guess my cock’s just not interested. He’s obviously got better taste than I do.”

  “Drop dead, dickhead. And break a leg. Literally!” She stormed out of the dressing room. The door slammed so hard, the walls shook. Or maybe that was the booze talking. He downed the rest of the Jim Beam and tucked in his ear buds, Dream On by Aerosmith looping on repeat. It had been Jase’s song of choice in those final days. Listening to it was such bittersweet torture; a never-ending internal battle between the need to feel closer to his brother versus the subsequent emotional assault that commenced each time Steven Tyler’s voice filled his ears. Christ, he was like a Ferrari headed straight into a tree, clocking a hundred and fifty. A fucking disaster of epic proportions, cruising toward the inevitable crash.

  “Your skirt is too short, Sara. Remember the fingertip rule!”

  Her mother’s normally crisp voice, edged with judgment, echoed in Sara’s mind. “Too short” was a gross understatement. Bending over without flashing the world was damn near impossible, and if she were back in Minnesota, the view from behind would have gotten her hauled in for indecent exposure. Outside her socialite, stick-up-the-ass, bubble-of-a-life back home, it was perfectly acceptable to flaunt butt cheeks, cellulite and all. But not for the only trophy daughter of Mayor Dirk Russell and his wife, Susan, the reigning Ice Queen of Grand Falls. They’d always made it abundantly clear that Sara lived in their world, not the other way around. How ironic that most of the time, they barely acknowledged her existence at all. Yet another reason why they’d vehemently insisted she flee after…everything.

  Sara squeezed her eyes shut to block out
the horrifying images, shrugging off the useless guilt that haunted her daily. If she let the events of that fateful night grab hold of her, if she allowed those chilling memories to percolate for even one second… No! Tonight was too important. She finally had a chance to break free, to escape that life, to figure out who the hell she really was. And right now, she was late.

  Her legs moved through the corridors as quickly as the four-inch heels would allow. Jeez, she’d only been wearing the knee-length suede boots for about thirty minutes and already her ankles were ready to collapse. How did girls make it look so easy? And why didn’t she practice walking in them a little longer, like Casie, her first friend in Houston, had suggested? Kitten heels were about as close to daring as she’d ever gotten back home. Anything higher was frowned upon, along with everything fun and exciting. One of her heels caught on the carpet as she scurried toward her destination. She stumbled forward, managing to land cleanly against a nearby wall. Smooth, real smooth. A quick glance around confirmed that nobody saw, nor cared. Anonymity. Exactly what she wanted.

  Her wardrobe no longer screamed conservative politician’s daughter, thanks to Casie. She’d become her new friend’s pet project from day one. No way could she sport her signature floral frocks as a junior publicist for Zenith Public Relations. And her Keds? Out with the next morning’s trash. To be taken seriously in this business, you had to look the part. At least, that was Casie’s mantra. But all the trampy clothes and makeup in the world couldn’t erase the blackness that stained Sara’s soul.

  She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a large mirrored wall as she scampered down one of the hallways in the underbelly of the City Center Arena. Her top revealed just enough, courtesy of the push-up bra she’d scored from Victoria’s Secret the day before. A hint of boob, the rest left to the imagination. If only her parents could see how conservative she looked next to the likes of the other interns milling about.

  Stopping outside the large black door, Sara plastered a smile on her face. Her hand gripped the handle, goose bumps popping up along her exposed flesh. She pushed open the door, light illuminating the expansive room. With a few quick blinks, her heart dropped to her stomach with absolutely nothing to cushion the landing, save for a few shreds of lettuce from the salad she’d choked down hours earlier.

  Empty. Not a soul occupied the space.

  Oh crap. Where the heck was everyone? She checked her clipboard and then the number on the door. They matched, so what changed? And why didn’t anyone tell her? If she didn’t find them, if they didn’t make it to their--

  The cell phone stuck in the band of her skirt vibrated. Crap. Someone was about to get fired and her name began with ‘S.’

  “Suri, we need Jimmy Sixx like, yesterday. Where the hell are they?”

  “Casie!” Forget the annoying nickname that her friend insisted on using because Sara was much too plain-Jane for a publicist in the music industry.

  A cackle sounded over the line. “Sorry, but Sara doesn’t really fit this new you. Suri is way cooler, don’t you think?”

  “Forget the nickname. Jimmy Sixx isn’t here!” Perspiration beaded on the back of her neck.

  “What are you talking about? The press is climbing the walls!”

  “The room is empty. Oh my God, where could they be? Did someone move them? Are they—?“

  “Just calm down and listen to me. Ask someone, for chrissakes.”

  “Don’t swear at me! I’m freaking out here!”

  “Fuck the language, choir girl. Find the damned band before your hot little ass gets terminated.”

  “Okay, okay!”

  Each breath became more and more shallow until it felt like all the oxygen from her lungs was squeezed out. A paper bag might do her good at that moment. Her eyes darted around, her throat tightening even more, if that was even possible. Everyone was dressed in black, and most people had long hair – guys and girls alike. Piercings and tattoos were ubiquitous. Jimmy Sixx could be anywhere and she would have absolutely no idea if one of the band members came up and bit her on the nose. Maybe it would have been smart to Google them after all. It was, quite literally, like trying to find four needles in a haystack. Not happening without some kind of miracle. And girls like her didn’t qualify.

  Man, she could’ve used a Diet Coke, although caffeine probably wasn’t a smart thing to ingest when her heart was racing like a thoroughbred trying to win the Triple Crown. She wiggled her toes in the too-tight boots and took off, headed toward… oh right, where the hell was she going? Wandering around aimlessly wasn’t getting her any closer to finding the four faceless guys she’d been ordered to represent. Such a simple assignment, yet she’d already managed to royally screw it up. It was the new beginning she’d hoped for, a chance to rid herself of the ugliness, to breathe without constantly peeking over her shoulder. Dammit, she had to pull it together and find the freaking band before—

  “Ahh!” A metal grate on the floor held her boot heel captive, but her body gave no regard to the imprisoned foot. “Watch out!” The force yanked her out of the boot, sending her careening into an unfortunate passer-by who didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow at her shrieks of panic. He hadn’t even looked up as she flew through the air. Nope, it wasn’t until she was plastered on top of him, soaked from head to now-bare toe in whatever the hell sticky, sugary concoction he’d been carrying that she got any bit of a reaction. A chill zipped through her. He shifted with a loud groan, hands settling on her back. Dark eyes narrowed on her chest, a slow, sexy smile lifting the corners of his deliciously full, kissable lips.

  Her eyes dropped to the ample cleavage spilling out of her fabulous new bra, dangerously close to that sinful mouth. A gasp escaped. Oh good Lord, please let this be a dream…

  He pulled out a black ear bud. Perfectly white teeth blinded her as his sensuous mouth curled upward. “Wow, a front row seat at a wet t-shirt contest? I guess the press can wait a few more minutes.”

  THEY WEREN’T GREEN. TOO MANY flecks of brown and gold glimmered in the depths. Swirls of color swam into focus – rays of yellow and blue blending to form a hazel gaze; they were so captivating, so hypnotic. Words temporarily evaded him…but, were they really twinkling? Or was he that fucked up from the whiskey he’d just downed?

  Some kind of scent awakened his dulled senses… it was fruity, maybe raspberry? Mmm, sweet and juicy, much like the rack on the fallen angel plastered on top of his very aroused body. Clearly, the excess of booze hadn’t blunted the sensations rocketing into every extremity.

  Long, toned legs straddled him, and a perfectly-too-short denim skirt was dangerously close to exposing the part of her that was still covered. Barely.

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” The girl recoiled, clutching the bare skin now glistening with droplets of Jim Beam. “I can’t believe I just did that. God, I’m such a freaking spaz! Are you okay?”

  He licked his lips, fighting back a grin. A deep red flush colored her cheeks. Her mortification was fucking adorable. What he wouldn’t do for a chance to drag his tongue across that soft skin, lapping up every last taste. “You definitely got my attention. Pretty aggressive move. Most women prefer me on top.”

  Her mouth fell open, jaw pretty much crashing to the floor. “Excuse me?”

  “You just plowed into me. I’m thinking I should return the favor.”

  “Trust me, I couldn’t be less interested.” Blonde hair hung around her heart-shaped face in sticky strands, slapping against her back as she leapt to her feet, panic etched into her features. “Great, I’m freaking soaked!”

  He raised himself onto his elbows to get a closer look. Damn, his hands itched to run over those smooth, creamy thighs, muscles flexing as she straightened. A quick glance confirmed her ass was as bitable as he’d imagined. “Not quite, but I can definitely help out in that department.”

  “You’re a disgusting pig!” Her plump pink lips pursed and her nostrils flared. He’d finally struck a chord, and man, did he want to st
rum her strings. She had some fire in her. Nice. That could be fun later.

  “Ouch.” He clutched a hand to his heart. “If you didn’t want the attention, you should have worn a different shirt.”

  A loud gasp escaped from those lips, the ones he wanted wrapped tightly around his now-aching cock. That’s when the death look smoked him like a bug under a magnifying glass. “How classy of you to notice. It’s probably the only action you’ll get tonight anyway. Roadie.”

  “True. I guess I got a little overexcited. It’s been awhile. You know how us roadies never get any. But if you change your mind…”

  “In your dreams.” She scurried around him, squinting at the floor, giving him more than a glimpse of what lay beneath her skirt, if it could even qualify as that. Bend over just a little bit more… just a tiny little bit…

  “I’m not so sure about that since you’re not running away.”

  Her eyes blazed as she straightened. Oh, Christ, there was a lot of rage bubbling beneath the surface, and she was about to unleash it all over him…. or rather, who she thought he was, the roadie. Anonymity was awesome.

  “You are positively vile.”

  “Does that mean I can’t have your number?”

  “Yeah, because I’ve already got yours. Loser.” She grabbed her lone boot and stomped toward the nearest ladies’ room, door slamming behind her.

  Dammit, that perfect ass had just slipped right through his fingers. With a deep sigh, he popped in his ear buds and dragged himself to his feet. How crazy was it that he couldn’t get it up for a hot, naked chick actively sucking him off, but for the girl who looked at him like he was no better than the scum on the bottom of her designer boots, instant hard-on? He raked a hand through his hair, a smile playing at his lips. Yeah, maybe that was just what he needed.

  Sara gripped the edges of the sink, breaths expelling in short, desperate gasps. The nerve of that jerk! She jammed her foot back into the boot, shivering in the air-conditioned room. It was definitely because of the sopping wet fabric clinging to her, not from the feeling of his hands skimming her drenched skin. Forget the tingles that scooted down her back under the spell of his chocolately gaze. What the heck was wrong with her, having these thoughts about a guy who’d wanted nothing other than to cop a free feel? Blech!