To the outside world, Kray Brooks had it all growing up.
Wealth. The devoting parents.
The beautiful girlfriend.
Good grades.
All of it a lie, except her. The woman he left behind thirteen years ago to try and achieve his real dream… to become a musician.
Life doesn’t always go according to the plan you set out for yourself.
Sometimes, you drift. Become lost, lose hope and crash.
For thirteen years he’s been drifting wherever his guitar takes him, avoiding his past. Never thinking of his future.
Not once did he think it would all catch up to him. Until it did.
Excerpt
“You in there or what?” Josh nudges me with his hip. His finger rises up to tap me on my temple, startling me out of my slumber. I stumble forward, damn near tripping over a guitar case that’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. I should be paying attention to where I’m going. There are many people here singing and offering up some sort of trick for money up and down this strip. Only the ones who can carry a tune catch my wandering eye for more than a second. Not that they all don’t deserve my attention, but the people who sing have a raw, natural talent. I become lost in their voices. Attuned. Familiar. There’s no sweet, tender, or rough and seductive voice close by. Therefore, whoever owns this particular case isn’t singing, or otherwise I may have pulled Josh to a sudden stop to listen before tumbling over it like an idiot. “Shit. Sorry about that,” I tell the man I notice standing up against the brick wall without looking at him. This is what I get for thinking about things I shouldn’t. “It was my fault,” Josh comments as we both bend down to shove the few dollar bills that fell out back into the case. The man behind us just mumbles something incoherent. I instantly feel worse for some reason. He’s worked hard for this money. In the heat no less. And here I am, scrounging around to make sure I gather it all up while assholes walk around me not giving a shit there are two people squatted down on the sidewalk. They just step around us, not bothering to offer help. Insensitive assholes. I reach into my purse and toss a hundred-dollar bill inside the case. I know most of these people spend their money on booze and drugs. I don’t care. Well, I do, really. They should be using it wisely. But who am I to judge? I only wish I could have heard him sing before we walk away. The talent they have is remarkable. It’s sad, really, how I enjoy listening to them sing on these streets for food, a home, or more than likely a fix of alcohol or drugs. I can’t help it; those voices carry me away. Some of them are truly mesmerizing. Wasted talent on a dirty street. I’m sure some are runaways with dreams shattered and hopes burned. This is the only way they know how to survive. The Hollywood record producers should listen to some of these talented people instead of shoving their lying butts into the faces of the fake boob Barbie to either get in her pants or rake her back over hot coals, sucking as much money out of her as they can. If only the rich would seek out the poor. To lend a hand to those who only think life has fed them nothing but shit. For these people to see that no matter how bad your life has been, if given the chance or a choice, you can become whoever you want to be, even if you’re alone doing it. I turn to the man whose face is darkened by the way he stands. His face is completely out of my sight with his chin tugged down to where it’s almost touching his chest. One black, shiny-booted foot rests up against the wall. His jeans hang low. He’s wearing a faded gray t-shirt that, if I’m correct, was black at one time. It also looks way too small, because my god, is it tight across his massive chest. He has shoulders any woman would love to reach around and grab as he lies on top of her. I’d give anything to see his face. To hear him sing. To observe and dissect his talent…
A sex contract seemed like a good idea, until she fell in love.
When Symone Esquire fails to woo her best friend into taking her virginity, his rejection is the catalyst that inspires her to create a sex contract with a local legend, a man nicknamed “The Cherry Popper”, to take her virginity instead.Sid Cooperton is used to being solicited for sex, being the lead singer of a local rock band does have its perks . . . but when the nerdy, yet intriguing, Symone approaches him with a proposition to take her virginity in exchange for his college tutoring. It’s simply an offer he can’t refuse—even if his reputation for being a virginity exterminator is grossly exaggerated.
Symone wasn’t expecting anything more than a business relationship with Sid, but she soon realizes there’s so much more to her sex tutor than just sex. Matters become even more complicated when her once uninterested best friend, suddenly wants to take their relationship to the next level like she always wanted.
With the relationship she’s always dreamed of within her reach, Symone must make a decision: choose her best friend, the man she’s been in love with her whole life, or choose Sid, the man who has suddenly become the subject of all her fantasies.
The contract has been signed: Symone’s virginity for Sid’s B average.
It was supposed to be simple, until she broke his only rule.
She grabs my kindle and turns it on, reading from the page I’m on. “Veronica opened her legs, inside was a moist mixture of juices I couldn’t wait to taste.” She shudders. “Yeesh, it gives me the creeps even repeating it. That damn word makes poor Veronica sound like a washcloth or even worse, a cake. Cakes are moist, not vaginas. Vaginas need to be wet, possibly slick, but never moist.”“You do realize you said the word moist three times in the same sentence, right?”
“Damn it. See it should be forbidden I tell you. From now on moi . . . that word, is forbidden in my presence. You must find another word to use.”
“But what if I make you a moist vagina cake for your birthday? Can I say the word then?” I joke, grinning over my kindle.
“I swear if I didn’t love you, Symone, I’d strangle you. Please don’t ruin cake for me by making it in the likeness of a twat. At least make it shaped like a dong.” She tries her best to sound serious, but then I catch her smiling at her toes. Here it comes . . . one . . . two . . . any second now . . . she should start laughing in t-minus ten . . . nine . . . eight. And there it is, the hysterical hyena laugh Staci has become famous for. She covers her mouth and glares at me.
“You did that on purpose!”
“What?”
“Made me laugh, you know how much I hate my laugh.”
“Isn’t that the point of a joke, to make people laugh? Besides, I only mentioned making you a vagina cake. You took it a step farther by calling it a twat and requesting a moist dong instead.”
Author Bio
V. Kelly grew up in Reno, Nevada, but now lives in Watonga, Oklahoma, with her husband and two beautiful kids. Always a writer, it was only a matter of time before the stories in her head escaped and became available for the world to read. She is a lover of frogs, otters, all things green, reading books about compelling relationships, and spending time with her family.
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