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Leather pants? Check.
He’s the guy most women would pay to have break there hearts.
Except me. I already know how hard it is to get over him. Spencer made me believe in the notion of a soulmate at the age of seventeen. By twenty-three, he made me realize you can only truly hate someone you once loved.
Some people change the world.
Over You, a second chance romance. Releasing February 2019. More information to come.
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I hoped that the next line of blow made the arrogant, womanizing, all-around, grade-A asshole keel over.
Go ahead. Judge me, but that was exactly what I wished for when mega-watt, rock star, Jag Steele—who also happened to be my rocker boyfriend, Spencer Hailstorm’s, idol—leaned over to get his next fix.
Maybe hoping for sudden death was harsh, but the past year in Hollywood had made me cruel. Plus, we weren’t that for from a hospital. . .so the fucker wouldn’t actually die. It would just ruin his stupid, cockstar party.
At one point in life, I wouldn’t have wished bad things on that conceited manwhore snorting rail after rail next to Spencer. But that version of Georgia Anne was long gone. Just like the guy who had once loved her in a way that would have made Shakespeare jealous: unconditionally, undeniably, and without fault.
You see, that boy who used to wear second-hand clothes and write love notes to me on gum wrappers had been destroyed when he became the lead singer of the multiplatinum rock band, Midnite Kills.
And spat out in designer clothing.
The Spencer I had fallen in love with six years ago wouldn’t have fought with me in the car on the way over, since he wouldn’t have had cocaine hidden in his pocket. But that boy was lost somewhere between playing in bars and playing in arenas. While his eyes may have still been the same turbulent blue that reminded me of an ocean after a storm, the Spencer who had loved me more than life itself was MIA, and for what?
A gunmetal Porsche, a slut-red Maserati, and a house in the hills.
To some that may have sounded like the jackpot, but what people on the outside didn’t realize was: Hollywood came with a packaged side of bullshit that was nothing other than a glorified death wish.
Sure, Spencer wore those tight black Versace shirts like a second skin. The collars always dipped low enough to reveal his colorful chest tattoos, but fame was a four-letter word, a virus that was slowly killing every part of me, every part of him. Each last piece of us.
“Man, it’s my birthday. Come on. . .” Jag elbowed Spencer in the ribs, and, like a puppet, Spencer leaned over the table. A strand of dish-water blond hair fell from his messy bun when he took a hit.
“Really?” I groaned.
Jag’s gaze landed on me, his pupils blown wide. “It’s my birthday, princess. Give him a break.”
I patted Jag’s hollowed cheek. “Go screw yourself,” I grumbled before I pushed off the couch.
“Georgia Anne. Babe!” Spencer staggered to his feet, wiping under his nose.
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
That shouldn’t have been enough to make him take a seat at the devil’s altar, but it was, and he did. Right next to Lucifer himself.
Music thumped through the sound system while I swam in a sea of models and rock stars, the actresses and socialites all in their clicks, crowding Jag’s expansive living room. I skirted around the waitresses wearing little black dresses and red stilettos carting trays of drinks and cocaine on their shoulders, with no intention of going to the bathroom. All I needed was point five seconds away from the shitshow that was my life, which was why I headed straight to the massive floor-to-ceiling window of the Beverly Hills mansion.
The lights of Los Angeles glittered below like tiny jewels strewn across sand, and for the first time in my life, I would have given anything to be back in that valley where life was somewhat sane.
Placing my palm and forehead to the cool glass, I wondered how much longer I could hold onto this speeding car before I either had to let go or inevitably wound up in some horrific, fiery crash?
“Champagne?” One of the waitresses halted beside me. The glasses on her tray clinked together.
I could have downed every drink on that silver platter, and it still wouldn’t have been enough alcohol to make that party bearable. I snagged a flute of champagne anyway. The strand of effervescent bubbles danced along the curved glass. After two sips, I turned around.
Women had congregated around Spencer and Jag, staring, swooning. Touching. And both guys seemed oblivious to it all.
Three selfies in, Spencer’s gaze landed on me, and I quickly looked away, focusing instead on one of the black and white prints of Jag’s naked girlfriend that decorated the walls. I downed my drink and turned back to gaze out the window. Seconds later, an arm wrapped around my waist. Warm lips pressed to my neck. “You okay, babe?”
Our gazes locked on our reflection in the window. “I told you I didn’t want to come.”
“It’s not good to stay cooped up in the house.” Another kiss and his hands slid to my hips. “That dress looks good on you.” His warm breath fanned across my throat.