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CHAPTERONE
RAZOR
“Are you coming?” Bender’s exasperated voice echoes around the rental car interior as I answer his call. Crap on a cracker. It’s been the day from hell. After a three-hour turbulence-filled flight from LA to Houston, all I wanted was to grab my bags and get on the road to Silver Spoon Falls, but the travel gods decided to fuck with me. They sent my bags on a detour. To the land of lost luggage.
“I’m not even breathing hard yet,” I growl, knowing I’m already arriving an hour late. “I don’t have a goddamn thing to wear. The airline lost my luggage,” I tell my friend. “I’m going to be late.”
When Bender called and asked me to perform a special concert to benefit the local children’s hospital, I couldn’t turn him down. I figured I could visit Silver Spoon Falls, attend the party, then spend some time with my younger sister, who also lives in the small Texas town, and maybe even take in a football game or two. The two-week vacation was supposed to be my chance to relax after weeks of working non-stop. The best-laid plans and all.
“I’m going to hit the mall and grab a couple of outfits, and then I’ll head straight to the bar.” The benefit is taking place at the bar Bender invested in recently. The Park Avenue Bar in downtown Silver Spoon Falls reminds my former bandmate of the little bar in Los Angeles where we got our start.
“Just come as you are,” Bender growls. “We’re supposed to go onstage in an hour.” HIs persistent harping isn’t helping the situation. Then he grumbles under his breath about my fucking pain-in-the-ass phobia. Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m goddamn terrified of flying. Years ago, our band, Bent, hit it big. One of our singles went to the top of the charts and the rest is history. We went from traveling in dilapidated buses to flying first class. I’d never been on a goddamn plane in my life and found out real quick that flying isn’t my thing. I spent the next few weeks puking at the thought of boarding a goddamn flying tin can. My band members knew we needed to fix the situation, and they attempted an intervention on me. The fuckers hired a “phobia specialist”—in other words, a quack. Dr. Doolyn recommended I find a traveling outfit that soothes me to help with my discomfort. I didn’t take much stock in his advice, but I didn’t really have much to lose so gave it a try. I chose thison its last legoutfit to make my dumbass bandmates happy. To my surprise, the ploy worked, and I was able to fly without drinking myself into oblivion. There was only one problem. I chose the most butt-ugly, ready-for-the-trashcan outfit in my closet. Not wanting to anger the travel gods, I’ve worn the same outfit to fly ever since.
I groan, glancing down at my well-worn gray “traveling” sweats and holey t-shirt. It isn’t holy in the religious sense. The fucker has more holes than a block of Swiss cheese. “I’ll make it quick.”
“Well, goddamn hurry. The whole band is here except you,” Bender urges me.
“I’m pulling into the mall parking lot now,” I tell him. “I’ll buy the first outfit I find and rush over,” I promise my friend before hanging up.
I rush into the large department store and head straight for the men’s department. I’m zoned in on a rack of jeans when I notice a shady motherfucker crouched down behind a table of sweatshirts.
After glancing in the same direction, I get a blow straight to my goddamn heart. And soul. Fuck my life. I don’t have time to fall in love right now, but the goddamn relationship gods don’t give a shit about my time restraints.
I watch as the curvy little goddess twirls around in the shoe department mirror, checking out the mile-high black boots she’s trying on. My cock goes from zero to ready to fuck in a millisecond, and I realize I’m done. Caught. After making fun of Bender and my sister, Jules, for falling in love at first sight, I guess it’s only fair I get nailed by the same condition. Her silky mahogany waves with caramel tips are pulled up into a messy twist on the back of her head, leaving her long, graceful neck exposed. My lips itch to run along the soft skin, learning its texture. I rub the back of my neck, realizing the insane thoughts are coming from my blown mind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the shady fucker moving closer. When he pulls his black hoodie tight around his face, attempting to disguise his identity, I’ve seen enough. There’s no way this asshole is getting anywhere near my goddess, so I block his path while making my way to her. Flames lick through her golden amber eyes as her gaze slowly slides down my body. A shiver runs through me while every molecule in my body goes on high alert from the sensation.
“I like those boots.” I smile down at her. “They’re almost as hot as the legs in them.” I barely resist the urge to smack my own forehead at the corny shit spewing from my mouth.
“That’s not a bad pick-up line.” Her eyes narrow. “But I’ve heard better.”
“I’ll make sure to do better in the future.” I ignore the jealousy coursing through me at the thought of another man making a move on my girl while I decide how to make a move on her. That wins her. Forever. I hold out my hand to her. “Razor Montgomery.”
She blinks several times, staring into my eyes, and an adorable little wrinkle forms above her eyebrows. “Your mother must have had a rough delivery to name you Razor.” The goddess doesn’t take my hand or give me her name. That’s okay. We have a lifetime to get acquainted.
Before I’m able to respond, I hear, “Oh my God,” screeched at glass-breaking decibels behind me. “It’s really him.” Turning around, I find my worst nightmare. Teenage girls rushing for me.
“Razor!”
My mind goes haywire while I try to keep up with all of them talking over each other. I sign everything thrust in front of me, quickly trying to get this horde to go away.
After signing autographs and taking pictures with several females ranging from younger teens to older than sin, I finally extricate myself and turn to find my goddess is gone. The shoe department is completely deserted. Fuck my life. My heart drops, and I feel sweat breaking out on my forehead as I rush around the entire department store searching for her.
An hour later, I’m forced to admit my curvy little goddess escaped. So did the shady motherfucker who was checking her out. I’m a goddamn moron. My phone buzzes in my pocket for the eighth or ninth time, and I realize Bender is going to have my ass if I don’t get moving.
“I’m coming,” I growl, answering his call.
“You’re not even breathing hard yet,” he barks. “Get your ass here or I’m going to kick it all the way back to Los Angeles.”
I grab a pair of jeans and a t-shirt without holes and head for the nearest register. The sales clerk attempts to question me, but I shut that down and grab my bag.
Luckily, the map bitch has her shit straight. Ten minutes later, she announces, “You’ve arrived at your destination,” as I pull into the Park Avenue Bar parking lot.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I grumble. Fuck. I’m talking to a goddamn navigation computer.
Bender meets me at the door. “You better have a good excuse.” He grabs me by the shoulder. “Get your ass behind the stage and get ready. I’ve stalled for over an hour. You have five minutes before we rock this place.”
I rush behind the stage and drag the new clothes from the bag. Pen Rocha, our bassist, steps over. “Let me help you with the tags.” It only takes a few moments for me to strip down to my underwear and pull on the new outfit. As bandmates, we’re closer than family, and no one blinks an eye as I get ready.
