VERY TWISTED
THINGS
Series:
Briarcrest Academy #3
(all novels are standalones)
Author: Ilsa Madden-Mills
Release Date:
February 2015
Cover Model: Drew Leighty
Genre: Hot New
Adult for 18+
A sassy violinist who lives next
door. An obsessed rock star who watches her through binoculars. And one night
when she bares it all. Life will never be the same in Tinseltown.
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:
“Then he came along, and like a twisted piece
of metal that’s burned beyond recognition, I emerged from the fire. Different.
Changed.” –from the journal of Violet St. Lyons This wasn’t happening.
Clad in a pair of red lacy bikini underwear—his favorite—I sipped on
tequila—not my favorite—and glared at Sebastian Tate, sexy rock star and
billboard model. Wearing low-slung jeans and nothing else, he paced around my
chair in tight circles, his tall frame blocking most of my vision, the lion
tattoo on his back heaving as he took deep breaths. Blonde and sporting faint
stubble on his chiseled jawline, he looked like the heartbreaker the tabloids
said he was. Bad, bad boy. But, oh, so good. He sent me a hard look. Pissed.
From my living room in the Hollywood Hills, I gazed out the window at the Santa
Monica Mountains, my eyes everywhere except on the glossy nude photos he
clutched in his hand. Of me. Of him. Of us. He swiveled his ice-blue eyes at
me. Earlier today they’d burned with another kind of fire, but things change
fast in Tinseltown. “These will be in the papers. Get ready,” he said, tossing
down the pictures on the table, making me cringe. I gazed down at them, my eyes
lingering over one of us on my patio, him on his knees with his mouth between
my legs as my body arched in ecstasy. My skin burned at the memory, echoes of
the passion we’d shared—and now everyone in the world would see. My family. The
society people in New York. The board of directors for the orphanage. My
stomach heaved at the thought, bile threatening to rise up. Another caught my
eye, this one a full color close-up of me crying black mascara tears as I
played my violin. Nude. It looked depressing as hell although in truth it had
been love that made me emotional. “Remind me to pass on the make-up next time.
And to not have sex outdoors. Obviously,” I said, forcing my shoulders to move
in a nonchalant shrug like I didn’t care, but he knew the truth. I was
devastated by these. And so was he. Because we weren’t supposed to be together.
He said my name in that husky voice of his, the one that made me crazy, the one
that made me want to rip his clothes off. “Violet—” “Stop,” I said, clenching
my fists. Because whatever he had to say didn’t matter. These pictures ruined
us, ensuring that he’d leave me for her, the beautiful Bubble named Blair.
Bubble, bubble, bubble. I wanted to pop her. Why did I always come last with
him? I stood and faced him, tossing back the last of my shot. “First off, I
wish we’d never met.” I held my hand up. “No. Wait. I don’t wish that because
then I wouldn’t know Spider or Mila. I—I wish I’d never fallen in love with
you. Loving means losing. Always. And I was stupid to forget it. I may have to
sell this house and move to another freaking country to get away from you, but
I’ll do it. I’ve done it before.” I sucked in a breath. “I’ll be fine without
you.” Lie. I would likely end up drunk on Mexican tequila, nursing what was
left of my heart. He closed his eyes, a dazed expression on his face as if my
words crushed him. “We were doomed from the very start,” I reminded him. “You
want to be a star, and all I want is you.” He stopped his pacing, a muscle
jerking in his cheek as he leaned down until his nose was level with mine. “Then
this is goodbye, Violet? You’re giving up on us already?” Did I hear a break in
his voice? Impossible. “If I don’t say goodbye first, then someone else will.”
Truth. He’d never be mine, simply because he didn’t belong with me. I was a
washed-up freak who had nothing but a mansion and a Maserati; he belonged on
the silver screen with a pretty starlet on his arm. We were over. Kaput. I
smiled, a bitter thing, and sashayed past him, enjoying the hiss of breath when
I let my hand drift over his crotch. “This moment is begging for a soundtrack,
don’t you think?” I said, coming to stop by the stereo system and cranking up
Kurt Kobain’s Smells Like Teen Spirit. Holding my hands up in the horns rocking
out signal, I bobbed my head to the beat while he watched, anger flickering
across his face. I danced and twirled around, closing my eyes, the music
vibrating through my body, my fingers itching for my violin. Bam! My eyes flew
open. He’d strode over to me and clicked the stereo off, chest still heaving.
He shoved his hands in my hair and dragged my face to his, and I groaned at the
fire that blazed in my body. I felt the warm heat of his skin and pressed
closer and inhaled. He smelled like bourbon and sex—a rock star’s diet—and I
panted, cursing myself at the same time. How would I ever get over him? He
pressed his thumbs across my mouth. Gentle. But his voice was cold. “You can’t
wait to high-tail it back to Manhattan to your lawyer boyfriend, can you?” “I
plead the fifth,” I said, staring at his full lips. I licked my own. “But you
can kiss me goodbye if you want. I don’t mind.” We stared at each other until
he exhaled heavily and put his back to me, his muscles as taut as the guitar
strings he played. He verged on breaking. Yeah, well, welcome to my world. Yet
at the same time, I reached my hand out to him. Stupid hand. But of course, he
didn’t see it. “So long, V,” he said soft as a whisper, staring at the ground
as if I was breaking his heart, when all along it was the other way around. He
took a step from me, then another, then another, until finally, he was nothing
but a speck. I clutched my chest and wanted to fall to the ground and rail on
it. Alone. Again. But tough girls like me didn’t cry over black-hearted boys.
Although in his defense, I owed him a thank you for saving me. To show you, I’d
have to start at the beginning, the day I lost everything. © Ilsa
Madden-Mills, NYT and USA Today bestselling author --Unedited and may change
before publication
Available Now on Amazon
New York Times and USA
Today bestselling 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. ★
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