Guess what? BRUISED, the third book in the Brody Brothers series, releases Thursday, May 23rd!!! *throws confetti*
I think itâs time to share the blurb, donât you?
BLURB:
âYouâre coming with
me.â
When Killian Brody
showed up at Dallas Fairclothâs work with news that her half-brother might die
without her help, she never expected the oldest and sexiest Brody to freaking
kidnap her to seal the deal on her cooperation.
The scandalous affair
between Dallasâs mother and Killianâs father made everything inside Dallas
revolt at the Brody name. It was because of a Brody her world had been left in
ruins at the age of eight, and sheâd had to rebuild all on her own. She hated
the Brodys. Which was too bad, really. Killian Brody was take-charge, arrogant
and so damn sexy she would have climbed that rugged cowboy like a tree if it
werenât for that last name of his.
Her mother had proven
the men in the Brody family were as dangerously addictive as any drug, and
Dallas didnât want to get hooked. But when Killian turns his sights on her and
makes her believe sheâs the one he canât live without, she has a choiceâplay it
safe, or dive in headfirst and risk falling in love with a Brody man.
85,000 words
***This standalone contemporary romance contains multiple sex scenes. Also contains an Alpha with serious impulse issues, a spicy heroine, a felonious kidnapping that may or may not count, and one teeny little spanking. No cheating, no love triangles, no cliffhangers. HEA guaranteed. Due to adult language and sexual content, this book is not intended for people under the age of eighteen***
But wait! Thereâs more! Iâm sharing the first chapter as well!
Feel free to read onâŠ
Chapter One
âTwo orders for a shot
and a beer chaser, and one Bud Light in the bottle, uncapped, for the table by
the jukebox.â Dallas Faircloth set her tray on the bar that ran most of the
length of The Dive, and gave the pockmarked man behind it a spectacular
side-eye. âBy the way, the assholes over at the snooker table will be filing a
complaint with the management, or so Iâm told.â
Manny
Espadero, owner of The Dive, crossed himself. âFuck me, D, whatâd you do now?â
Whatâd you do now was probably going to be engraved on her headstone, but
whatever. âI should be praised for what I didnât do. I didnât
dislocate the thumb of the hand that groped my ass. I came close, but I didnât.
Youâre welcome.â
âYolanda
never had this kind of trouble.â
âAccording
to you, my predecessor had to retire because her varicose veins and arthritic
hips made it impossible for her to do this job without the use of her scooter.â
âLook
around. Do I got room for a scooter?â
Annnnd,
there went the point, flying right over Mannyâs balding head. It was a wonder
he hadnât felt the breeze. âNo oneâs going to grope the ass of someone who just
became a great grandmother. Or if they do, theyâre total sickos,â she thought
it prudent to add. âYou donât want sickos in here, do you, Manny? What kind of
place are you running here, anyway?â
âEvery
conversation I start with you, I somehow wind up being the bad guy and feel
like I have to apologize for shit I didnât do. Orderâs up,â he added, slamming
the drinks on her tray and shooing a hand at her. âGet outta my hair before I
lose any more of it.â
âYou
got it, boss.â Checking her tray, Dallas scanned the bar with a critical eye.
The Dive wasnât the worst place sheâd ever worked, but it wasnât winning any
awards, either. Dark and moody with reddish lighting that tended to make
everything look like it belonged in hell, there were exactly fourteen tables
crammed into a space that had once been a carriage house, then a three-car
garage-slash-workshop. Manny had bought the building a decade ago, got himself
a liquor license and hung out a sign.
Since
that sign read âThe Dive,â Manny obviously hadnât been aiming for any Michelin
stars.
But
it wasnât horrible. Manny was a twenty-year Army vet, and that weird
meticulousness the military instilled in its soldiers had stuck. Everything in
the bar was old and worn, but absolutely spotless. Arguably the only piece of
junk to be found was a stand-up piano crammed in next to the snooker table.
Every time she saw it, her fingers itched to play. Sheâd played it only once,
but the poor thing was so out of tune it instantly sent her in search of a
tuning wrench and hammer. When Manny demanded to know what she was up toâand
sheâd explained sheâd once apprenticed at a piano-making workshopâheâd rolled
his eyes and called her a bullshit artist.
Sheâd
cop to being a bullshit artist. It was one of her many, many talents.
But
she still knew how to tune a damn piano.
There
were other attractions besides the piano. A flatscreen TVânot high-defâwas
placed over the bar and tuned into whatever boxing matches or baseball games
Manny could find. The snooker table was set up in what had once been some sort
of machine shop, and the faint scent of oil still hung in the air. The
â50s-style jukebox by the door had an amazing collection of records, from the
90s dating all the way back to the days of Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper.
Dallas
adored it.
At
the moment, The Ronettesâ âBe My Babyâ was warbling out as she counted heads. Several
stools at the bar were occupied by The Diveâs regulars. Imogene, who was
clearly sweet on Manny, nursed her one light beer. Then there was the trio of
ranch hands who usually came in smelling like theyâd mucked out every stall in
Texas. Then there was the grocery store manager from Abelâs Market, the
hardware store guy who learned not to make a pass at her early on, and
Bitterthornâs high school principal. She wasnât sure what the school board
would do if they knew the principal of their one and only high school got
semi-shitfaced every night at The Dive, but she wasnât about to tell anyone
about it.
Why
would she?
Itâs
not like she lived in Bitterthorn.
Besides
which, the customers at the bar werenât her problem. They belonged to Manny.
She had the table section, which was awesome tip-wise, considering The Dive had
good crowds just about every night. There was just one downside to her current
part-time jobâall the touchy-feely jerks who thought she was there to serve
them something else besides drinks. Thankfully, they were learning. After a
month of serving drinks at The Dive, just about every guy who walked into the
joint knew that while she might be the daughter of Delphine Faircloth, she
wasnât the freaky, home-wrecking woman her mother was.
Pfft.
Like that kind of crap was genetic.
Mr.
Grabby-Hands had taken his wounded thumb over to a corner table, looking sullen
as he muttered to his snickering, bearded friend. In the far corner her
official babysitter, Gus Anders, kept his nose in his bookâa Larry McMurtry
novel, by the look of itâand pretended he wasnât even there. It didnât surprise
her in the least that good olâ Gus hadnât lifted a finger when Mr. Grabby-Hands
did his thing. Watching over her to make sure she didnât run was one thing.
Helping her was another.
Not
that she needed help.
And
she had no intention of running. She was exactly where she wanted to
beâBitterthorn, Texas, her birthplace, and the backdrop of all her crazy,
wake-up-screaming nightmares.
Her
attention slid back to Grabby-Hands and his buddy. Their glasses were empty,
which meant one thingâfate hated her, because life was nothing more than a
never-ending string of shit she didnât want to go through, but had no other
option.
So
what else was new.
Gritting
her teeth, Dallas held her tray in front of her like a shield, glanced at
Gusâwho slumped even further behind his bookâand headed in their direction just
as the door squeaked open. When the general volume suddenly fell so that only
the TV and jukebox could be heard, Dallasâs stomach clenched. Not now,
she silently prayed while continuing toward Mr. Grabby-Hands. I donât need
this hassle now.
âThe
fuck do you want?â Grabby-Hands looked up from his sullen examination of his
thumb, which Dallas had pushed back sharply against its socket the moment the
perv had made contact with her ass. She hadnât applied enough pressure to pop
it out of joint, but he was acting like heâd been crippled, the pussy.
âI
see your glasses are empty.â Gamely trying for a neutral tone, Dallas was still
smart enough to stay out of reach. âNeed a refill?â
âFuck
you,â Grabby-Hands rejoined. Clearly, being captain of the debating team wasnât
something that was going to be found on his résumé.
âUh-huh.
How âbout you?â Turning to his bearded friend, Dallas raised her brows. âWant a
refill?â
âUm,
yeah, I guess. Iâll haveââ
âFuck,
no, he donât want nothing from you, bitch. Weâre ordering nothing until you
give me a fucking apology.â
Forget
the debating team. It was a wonder this dude could tie his shoes. âIf youâre
not going to order anything, hit the bricks, pal. The sign on the door of this
fine establishment says No Loitering. If youâre not drinking, youâre
leaving.â
Grabby-Hands
made a weird choking sound. Sheâd bet her tip money that heâd just stopped
himself from asking what the word loitering meant. âWeâll order
something when you apologize.â
âApologize
for what?â
âFor
almost breaking my thumb, you dumb cunt.â
What
a baby. âIt wouldnât have happened if youâd kept your damn hands out of
dangerous places, fool. So I guess Iâm sorry youâre so stupid you didnât expect
any consequences when you shoved your hand up my skirt and groped me. Howâs
that for an apology?â
âYou
fucking whore.â He shot out of his chair like he worked on a spring, and Dallas
braced herself, flipping her tray, edge-out, so that she could smash it against
his Adamâs apple. But before he reached her, a huge, muscle-padded arm shot out
from behind her, and an equally huge hand planted itself in the middle of
Grabby-Handsâs chest in a textbook stiff-arm.
What�
Grabby-Hands
bounced back like heâd hit a wall made of rubber. He flewâholy crap, flew!âback
into his chair, sitting back in it so hard it would have tipped over backwards
if it hadnât been braced up against the wall.
âYou
keep your ass glued to that fucking chair, you little weed, or I swear to
Christ Iâm gonna see how far I can shove your beer mug up your ass,â came the
feral baritone voice Dallas had been hoping against hope she wouldnât hear. But
when had she ever been cut a break? Long ago, some unseen jerk in charge of her
fate had decided she was going to be the butt of every joke in the universe.
Big laughs for everyone.
Except
her.
âWhat
theâŠâ Grabby-Hands flailed like a muppet in the nearly tipped-over chair, before
grabbing the edge of the table to stabilize himself. âWho the fuck you think
you are?â
âKillian
Brody.â One stride of those long legs brought him into the space of
Grabby-Hands, a man who Dallas suspected might be the stupidest human being on
earth. âAny other brilliant questions, asshole?â
If
it had been quiet in The Dive before, that name dropped it into mausoleum-like
stillness. Even Dallas found herself holding her breath, and she again glanced
at Gus, only to find the older, bowlegged man beating a hasty retreat out the
nearest exit. No surprise there. She didnât remember much about her birthplace
of Bitterthorn, Texas, but even she knew not to mess with a Brody. Worse yet,
Killian wasnât just any Brody. He was the Brody. The biggest. The
oldest. The smartest. And, oh yeah, the baddest of all the infamous
Brody brothers. He was the visionary whoâd rocketed the family from
millionaires to billionaires in less than a decade. Crossing him was akin to
shoving oneâs head into the mouth of a hungry lion. Depending on his mood, he
was a benevolent god among men or the Devil himself, bent on ruining lives
without even trying.
And,
of course, he was her kidnapper.
Grabby-Handsâs
eyes widened to the point where she half-feared theyâd pop out of their
sockets. âK-KillâŠâ
âMy
bothers call me Kill. Youâre not my brother.â He leaned down to semi-whisper
the words to Grabby-Hands, and Dallas was sure she wasnât the only one who
shivered at the lethal sound. âYouâre nothing, weed. Nothing but a
piss-poor excuse of a man who has to bully women just to feel even a little bit
superior, so donât think a piss-poor weed like you gets to say my name.â
âBully?â
The idiot shook his head in protest, clearly oblivious to the fact that keeping
his mouth shut was his safest bet. âY-you got it all wrong, man. That crazy
redheaded bitch attacked me outta nowhere. Suddenly grabbing my thumb and,
like, shoving it so hard I thought she was gonna break itââ
Killian
stilled. âDid you say⊠thumb?â
Oh, boy.
âYou
idiot,â she sighed, and actually felt the faintest hint of pity for
Grabby-Hands. âNow youâve done it.â
âYeah,
see, me and my friend were just minding our own business, not bothering no one.
Then without any warning, that fucking ginger cunt comes up to where we were
playing some snooker and she, uh⊠Um, she somehow gets a hold of my thumb,
right? And then sheââ
The
tall tale Grabby-Hands was spinning didnât get a chance to go any further. With
a muted roar, Killian grabbed him by his shirt frontâand a fair amount of skin
as well, if the way Grabby-Hands screeched was any indicationâpicked him up
like a wrestler readying a body slam, and headed for the door. One kick had it
almost flying off its hinges before Killian tossed the man through it and out
into the parking lot.
âYouâd
better go, too,â Dallas drawled to Grabby-Handsâs friend, who was sitting so
still it was like Elsa had come along and frozen him to his chair. âUnless you
want to be airmailed out of here like your pal.â
She
got out of the way as the man did an impressive dash straight from his seated
position.
Wow.
Not bad.
If
sprinting out of a chair ever became a thing, that dude would definitely win a
medal.
âItâs
called a finger-lock or a thumb-hold in self-defense, you fucking weed,â she
heard Killian bellow at the man whom she assumed was now splattered all over
The Diveâs parking lot. âThe only reason she wouldâve gotten a hold of your
thumb was if you put it on herâexactly where the fuck it doesnât belong.
You took your dirty fucking hands and you put them on her. That means
you need to get the fuck out of Bitterthorn and never come back, weed, because
I will never let you rest here. If I ever see your sorry ass again, Iâll
bury your piece-of-shit body where no one can fucking find it.â
âNice,â
Dallas muttered, shaking her head before wandering back to the bar to slap her
tray down in front of Manny. âDeath threats where everyone and their dog can
hear them. A real brain trust, that one.â
âFuckinâ
Brodys donât care, D. Theyâre like kings of the world, but like any patriotic
American, I hate the idea of kings.â Manny sent a surly look at his poor,
abused front door even as Killian headed back through it. âYouâre paying to
have my door fixed.â
Killianâs
black glare put Mannyâs to shame. âI paid for the table I broke last week,
didnât I? Iâm good for it.â
That
clearly was not the best thing to say to pacify Manny. âYou keep cominâ in here
breakinâ my shit, Brody. I know my dinky little bar ainât nothing to the likes
of you, with your fancy mansions and your airplanes and your fuckinâ
jillion-dollar parties. But this dinky little bar is where I rule, you
got that? When you show up, people leave and I lose moneyâand usually some
furniture. Youâre bad for business, and Iâm tired of it.â
âIâm
not the one whoâs bad for your business, Espadero.â Still wearing an expression
that suggested murder was his favorite hobby, Killian slid onto a barstool.
Immediately the people already sitting at the bar vanished like Houdini
impersonators. âDo yourself a favor and fire Dallas Faircloth. I promise youâll
never see me again.â
âJust
like a man,â Dallas gritted out, pumping up the fury so the despair that had
been threatening to devour her for weeks now didnât sink its dark, paralyzing
teeth into her heart. âBlame me for your bad behavior, just like Grabby-Hands
did. Come to think of it, the resemblance between you and that loser is
striking. Are you guys related?â
That
swung his ominous attention her way, and she had to lock her spine in place not
to cower. At first glance, Killian Brody was every womanâs dream. With his
curling black hair waving almost to his massive shoulders, both ears pierced
with green-colored studs, and another green-studded barbell piercing in his
left brow right through a wicked looking scar, he was certainly the type of man
she would have gone for. Several inches over six feet, built like Superman on
his best day, a close-cropped beard that framed perfect lips, and eyes that
matched the dark green of the body jewelry he preferred, he was just about
perfect to look at. When heâd walked into the Sugar Land music store where
sheâd been working as assistant manager, sheâd taken one look at him and
wondered how she could talk him into the storage room without getting fired.
Then
heâd introduced himself, a frigging Brody, and it was all she could do
to keep from throwing up on his highly polished custom-made boots.
From
there, things had gone downhill. Fast.
âYouâd
better explain yourself, woman,â Killian said in that almost-whisper that made
her think all he wanted to do was scream like a demon. âWhat makes you think
Iâm anything like that fucking little weed?â
âFirst
of all,â she said, leaning against the bar to look him right in the eye, when
all she really wanted to do was flee in terror when he spoke in that scary-soft
tone, âthe weed blamed me for not enjoying the oh-so manly way he slimed his
disgusting hand up my skirt to pinch my ass so hard Iâm going to be wearing his
filthy mark on my skin for at least a couple days. And just now, when your
shitty behavior was pointed out to youââ
âAy,
Dios mio, donât make it worse, D,â Manny groaned.
ââinstead
of manning up and proving youâve got some kind of spine, your automatic default
response was to blame me. For what, by the way? For being here at The Dive? For
existing? And secondly⊠Howâs your thumb, Brody?â
The
massage Killian had absently been giving the joint at the base of his thumb
came to an abrupt halt. âMy pointâyou wouldnât get touched by unworthy
slimeballs like that if you werenât working here.â
âThere
you go, blaming me for existing again.â
âDamn
it, thatâs the last thing Iâm saying,â he muttered, shaking his head. âYouâve
got the whole victim thing down pat, donât you?â
God, the arrogance⊠âWhat Iâve got down pat is the truth. Do you even know what
that truth is?â
âThat
your idiotic life choices have led you to work in this shithole?â
âFuck
you,â Manny snarled.
âThe
truth,â Dallas pushed on, refusing to rise to the bait, âis that I wouldnât
have gotten touched if I were still in Sugar Land working my job in the music
store where you found me, and not in fucking Bitterthorn. Thatâs
the truth.â
Abruptly
he shot to his feet, causing her to jump back and out of harmâs way. His eyes
narrowed at her, as if her involuntary movement somehow offended him, before he
dug into his back pocket for his wallet. âYouâre here in town until youâre no
longer needed. End of discussion. For the door,â he added to Manny and tossed some
bills onto the bar. It didnât surprise her one bit to discover he walked around
with hundred-dollar bills the same way she walked around with quarters and
dimes. âIs she working tomorrow?â
âShe
can answer for herself,â Dallas snapped while Manny scooped up the cash.
âYeah,
she is,â Manny said, shoving the money into his pocket without ever taking his
eyes off Killian. âAnd the next night, and the night after that. You might
chase away all my customers, but the moment youâre gone they come back, better
than ever. Your family isnât as popular around here as you think, Brody.â
âThat so?â Killian sent a glance around the room. The few
patrons who had remained avoided making eye contact, but the hostility in the room
was palpable. âItâs funny how you think any Brody man would ever give a shit
about that, Espadero. See you tomorrow night.â
***
Ta-da! Talk about a rocky start! How will Dallas and Killian get themselves onto a smoother path? Is it even possible? Find out in just THREE DAYS, when BRUISED releases Thursday, May 23rd! *happy dance*
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