New Release Spotlight: Chaos by Jamie Shaw

Chaos
Mayhem #3

By: Jamie Shaw

Releasing July 21, 2015

Avon Impulse

Chaos

Mayhem Series

From the moment she saw Shawn Scarlett perform at a school talent show, Kit Larson has loved two things: the guitar, and the gorgeous, green-eyed boy who inspired her to play. But one careless night in high school shatters her hope of ever being more than a notch on his bedpost.

Six years, two bands, and one mostly-mended heart later, Kit’s about to make her rock star dreams a reality as the new guitarist for Shawn’s band, The Last Ones to Know. He may not remember their reckless night together, but Kit has never forgotten… and she’s determined to make him eat his heart out.

The release of their new album means a month cooped up on a tour bus, sleeping inches away from the ridiculously sexy musician she’s never quite gotten over. And as Kit gets to know the real Shawn—not Shawn Scarlett, the rock god, the player—their attraction becomes too hot to resist. But the past is paved with secrets, and when they finally surface, Kit could lose everything: the band, the music, her dreams… and Shawn.

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During the seconds that tick away between my knock and the door opening, I think about grabbing my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall and hightailing it back to my Jeep. I think about who will open the door. I think about Kale and wonder what in the hell I’m doing.

But then the door is swinging open and I’m stuck on the threshold of a decision that could make my life or ruin it.

Long dark chocolate hair. Fierce brown eyes. A piercing gaze that smacks me right in the face. The girl—who I’m guessing is the one who responded to my email and signed her name “Dee”—trails her eyes all the way down to my boots and then back up again. “The band isn’t here to sign shit or take pictures,” she says.

Apparently, I’ve offended her just by breathing. “Okay?” My eyebrow lifts from the sheer gust of hostility she throws at me, and I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m in the right place. “I’m not here for autographs or pictures . . .”

“Great.” She begins closing the door in my face, but I slap my hand against it before she can shut me out.

“Are you Dee?” I ask, and the girl’s glare hardens with either recognition or irritation. Maybe both. She’s so focused on trying to murder me with her eyes that she doesn’t even notice when a blonde-haired girl pops up behind her. With nothing to lose, I wedge my combat boot against the door and hold out my hand. “I’m Kit. We spoke over email?”

“You’re Kit?” the blonde asks, and the brown-haired girl that I’m assuming is Dee slowly offers up her hand.

“Oh, sorry,” I say with an apologetic laugh, realizing why the girls are acting like I’m some kind of groupie. Probably because I look like one, with my barely-there top and my spider-leg mascara. “Yeah. I have four older brothers who thought Katrina was too girly of a name.”

The running joke is that I didn’t even know my name was Katrina until grade school—but it isn’t a joke, because I’m pretty sure I really didn’t. The boys boycotted the name my mom had insisted on, and eventually she gave up the good fight. It was Kit from the day I was born, and the only people who call me Katrina are people who don’t really know me.

“And you’re here to audition?” the blonde asks.

I pull my guitar case from where it’s propped against the wall and give them a big smile. “I hope so. It is okay that I’m a girl, right?”

“Yeah,” the blonde rushes to say, but Dee still has her eyes narrowed with skepticism.

Having been the only girl in an all-guy band in college, I’m used to it, so I’m not surprised when she says, “That depends . . . Are you a girl who can play the guitar?”

“I think so,” I deadpan. “I mean, it’s difficult since my vagina is constantly getting in the way, but I’ve learned to manage it just like any other handicap.” I pause for dramatic effect, my expression somber when I add, “Sadly, I don’t get special parking.”

A long moment of silence passes where I’m sure my brand of humor is lost on the two chicks in front of me, but then Dee bursts out laughing and they both lead me inside.

Born and raised in South Central Pennsylvania, Jamie Shaw earned her M.S. in Professional Writing before realizing that the creative side of writing was her calling. An incurable night-owl, she spends late hours crafting novels with relatable heroines and swoon-worthy leading men. She's a loyal drinker of white mochas, a fierce defender of emo music, and a passionate enthusiast of all things romance. She loves interacting with readers and always aims to add new names to their book boyfriend lists.

Author Links: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

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New Release Spotlight: Make You Burn by Megan Crane.

Make You Burn
The Deacons of Bourbon Street # 1

By: Megan Crane

Releasing August 4, 2015

Loveswept

Make You Burn

The Deacons of Bourbon Street

Meet the Deacons of Bourbon Street, bad boy bikers who are hell on wheels—and heaven between the sheets. Megan Crane revs up an irresistible new series co-written with Rachael Johns, Jackie Ashenden, and Maisey Yates.

 

Sean “Ajax” Harding’s oaths are inked into his skin. Once second-in-command of the Deacons of Bourbon Street motorcycle club, he left New Orleans to protect the brotherhood, and only the death of his beloved mentor, Priest Lombard, could lure him back. Walking into the old hangout gives him a familiar thrill—especially when he gets an eyeful of the bar’s delectable new owner. A wild ride with her is just the welcome Ajax needs. Then he realizes that she’s Priest’s daughter, all grown up and totally off limits.

Sophie Lombard loved her father, not his lifestyle. She’s done with bikers . . . until Ajax roars into town—arrogant, tough, and sexy as ever. And although he treats her like the Catholic schoolgirl he once knew, Sophie’s daydreams tend to revolve around sin. With the very real possibility of heartbreak looming, Sophie knows better than to get too close to an outlaw. But every touch from Ajax is steamier than the Louisiana bayou—and heat like this may just be worth getting burned.

“My daddy told me I could dress up like a drag queen and wander the streets of the French Quarter over his dead body,” Sophie Lombard said as she tugged off the glittery mask— and there was no doubt about it, goddamn it, it was her. “So it was now or never, really.”

Ajax knew that face, though he took the stripper cosmetics and the hooker lashes as another insult, when the face he remembered had been scrubbed clean and sweet and pure. And when she peeled the acrobatic headdress from her head and sent it skidding a few feet down the dull sheen of the bar, her long, dark, wavy hair tumbled down past her shoulders, a thick and shining rope of it he wanted to wrap around his hands while he took her—

Jesus Christ.

He stared at her, willing this to be some kind of homecoming-inspired hallucination, but no. He was sober at the moment, he hadn’t touched the funky stuff in years, and this was Sophie Lombard all grown up. She was a lush little package, all taut curves and a belly ring, just like a couple of his preferred wet dreams. She had the most perfect set of plump, round tits he’d ever seen, even with the stupid tassels jutting from them, and they definitely should not have been on display for the entire fucking city like that. Or ever. What the hell was the matter with her? More to the point, he absolutely could not fuck her in the Priory toilets, no matter what bad decisions his cock was agitating for even now.

A man did not fuck the daughter of his beloved father figure when said father figure’s body was barely cold. Even if the daughter in question was dressed for a long night on the pole and had basically just advertised that she was for sale to the better part of New Orleans.

Not in the toilets, anyway.

When she only slipped onto a bar stool, making no attempt to cover herself or change what passed for her clothes, Ajax decided he’d had enough. It was high time he took control of this shit.

Before he lost what was left of his.

“Hey, Sophie,” he said. He didn’t have to raise his voice to command the attention of the entire bar. He saw her stiffen like she recognized his voice and he couldn’t deny that he liked that. He was never meant to go unnoticed, not here. Not in the only place he’d ever belonged. “Is that what you’re wearing to the funeral?”

She turned toward him slowly. So slowly he had a lifetime or two to remember her as a little girl. Sophie of the big, wide eyes and sparkly little laugh. Sophie in thick dark braids and skinned knees. Sophie, who Priest would have died to protect, which meant any of the brothers would have done the same. Sophie, who had never been meant for a sticky dive bar and a pair of pasties, no matter how hot she looked in both.

Sophie, who glared at him down the length of the bar with a notable lack of the respect Ajax was used to receiving, especially from soft, breakable females who usually purred and got silly when they took a good look at him.

“Oh, hey there, Sean,” she replied after a long moment, her green eyes cool and haughty, like she was a goddamned queen instead of a half naked girl with a death wish, throwing around names she knew better than to use. “Long time no see.”


“Call me that again,” he suggested, in what he considered a friendly manner given the insult she’d just thrown at him, though he wasn’t entirely surprised when Tulane backed away from him in a wide-eyed rush, “and I might be the last thing you ever see.”

“Let me guess,” she replied, “you spent all this time in charm school?” Was it his imagination that she sat taller on her stool, then arched her back just enough to make those tits stick out a little further? Like she was trying to fuck with him? “Between you and me, you might think about asking for your money back. I don’t think it took.”

He forgot who she was for a moment, forgot the respect she was owed because of her father. He grinned at her instead, the way he would any other bitch who got in his face like that, flinging down challenges from across a public bar like he was some dickless frat boy. Ajax had always had a pretty face. No one tended to notice it much after the first time he grinned at them like that, though.

“No need to resort to all this flirting, baby,” he told her softly. “If you want to hop on and ride my dick, just ask.”

Sophie smiled at him, and it was not a nice smile. It was all the proof he needed that she wasn’t that sweet little girl he remembered, and he was a sick fuck, because it fascinated him to see she had her father’s fangs when she felt like showing them. He wanted them sunk in his neck. He wanted her to draw blood.

He wanted her, bad.

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Megan Crane is a New Jersey native who had great plans to star on Broadway, preferably in Evita, just like Patti LuPone. Sadly, her inability to wow audiences with her singing voice required a back-up plan. Accordingly, she graduated from Vassar College and got her MA and PhD in literature from the University of York in England. She wrote her doctoral dissertation on AIDS literature, mostly so she could wallow in her obsession with the remarkable multimedia artist David Wojnarowicz and her idol, the bitter and hilarious David Feinberg. After many years in the rain and subject to the whim of seasons, she followed the sun to Los Angeles, where she lives with too many pets and an artist named Jeff. She is still plotting her Broadway debut.

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