Title: Lukas (Ashes & Embers Series Book 3)
Author: Carian Cole
Front Photography and Model: Joel Hicks
Back Photography: MHPhotography
Model: Marissa Hagood
Cover Design: Kari Ayasha of Cover to Cover Designs
Storm’s younger cousin.
Vandal’s little brother.
You’ve met him in the background.
The sweet one.
The nice one.
The one they can all rely on.
The good one.
He’s a tattoo artist. He plays metal and classical music – on the violin.
He’s got a body built for sin.
In comes Ivy. She’s a 36 year old single mom who hasn’t dated in 18 years.
All she wanted was a tattoo.
She got a helluva lot more
Being good has never been so bad.
I have a passion for the bad boys, those covered in tattoos, sexy smirks, ripped jeans, fast cars, motorcycles and of course, the sweet girls that try to tame them and win their hearts. My debut series, Ashes & Embers, follows the lives of rock band members as they find, and sometimes lose, the loves of their lives.
My first novel in the Ashes & Embers series, Storm, was published in September of 2014 and book 2, Vandal, will be published February 2015 with several more of this series planned throughout 2015.
Born and raised a Jersey girl, I now reside in beautiful New Hampshire with my husband and our multitude of furry pets and spend most of my time writing, reading, and vacuuming.
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Follow Okay Creations on Facebook
Caden Carlisle is a world-renowned superstar with good looks, million dollar movie deals and women throwing themselves at him wherever he goes. He has it all… but wants nothing more than a normal life without the paparazzi and glitz.
Brooklyn Holloway is an up and coming starlet with a solid head on her shoulders and her eyes wide open. It’s all about art for her and she isn’t looking to star in blockbuster films. She’s perfectly happy keeping a low profile and doing indie projects with a message.
When fate throws the two of them together on set; both are unprepared for their undeniable connection. Cade is drawn to Brook’s down-to-earth wholesomeness and she can’t help the irresistible pull of his good looks, sense of humor and chivalrous ways… So, when he begins to think he’s in love with her, resisting is next to impossible, despite being committed to someone else.
Only when filming ends and the world’s fascination with celebrity invades their bubble, can they decide if the emotions they felt on set were scripted, or forever.
I felt the walls were crashing in around me. I tried to push against his chest, but he only held me tighter, his arms going around my back.
“Go back to your… girlfriend!” I said the words softly, but inside I was screaming. His eyes were wide, and he was breathing fast when he looked at my tear stained face
“Brook, this is so fucked up! Please listen to me. Until twenty seconds ago, I thought you were with David!” His voice was thick with pain, as he tried to stop my struggles.
My useless struggles quieted, and defeat filled my voice. “Cade, I beg you, please let me go. Don’t make a scene that neither one of us can afford. We don’t need the rags telling the wrong story to the world. Please, I just gotta get out of here.” I struggled against him again, and this time his arms dropped to his sides. He stood in front of me, staring in stunned disbelief.
“Please don’t follow me.” I turned and ran out to the street.
Barnes and Noble ~ Smashwords ~ iBooks
I’m a single mother of one daughter, Olivia. She’s amazing in every way.
I was born in the Midwestern United States and educated at a private university where I received a Bachelor’s degree in Marketing and Business Administration.
I’ve always been creative with art, music, theater and writing. I decided to write a story as a way to build a network for a business venture. The reader support of my stories and my overwhelming desire to find out where my characters would take me, soon had the writing morphing the business. No one was more shocked than I. When readers began nominating my work for online awards, it took my breath away and only made me love it more. It soon became clear that writing was, and should be, my focus.
Facebook ~ Twitter ~ Website/Blog ~ GoodReads ~ Pinterest ~ Tsu
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.
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.
“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.” —from the journal of Violet St. Lyons
I, Violet St. Lyons, who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least, comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head. Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand. She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan, an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the New York Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a plane.
Reality dawned as we plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face, taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first explosion had gone off.
Bits of debris flew around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed, his face drawn back in a horrible grimace. Fear and then horror flickered across his face as he saw Mother, but there was no time to comfort him.
Paralyzed in my seat, we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising, its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance. Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us. We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left. Would the Mayor of New York’s son go on without me?
The air was turbulent yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant breath and braced myself. We hit at an angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared, ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her with me, but she was gone.
Water everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung my eyes. People floated by, some alive as they floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This was drowning.
My body twitched. I grew disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands floated in front of me.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No fairy dust.
Two years later
“She was music with skin.” —Sebastian Tate
I tapped my foot.
What was taking her so long?
From my backyard patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material flashing around her long legs as she moved around her patio. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her patio, which faced us. Weird. But she didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness went over me.
What was she doing?
Could she see me?
As if it were a fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping, hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron chains on me.
Dark and seductive notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song, only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate the strings.
Her body arched forward in a curve, seeming as if she might break into a million pieces before she finished the piece or climaxed first. Then, her robe slipped off her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered, vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out of the folds of the material, erect from the cool mountain air and deliciously bitable. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself just as an appreciative groan came out. Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her like it had me. Then, she bowed to the banana trees and gnomes in her garden, waving her hands in a flourish as she rose.
The entire event was surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She did.
Bam! She snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
And then …
Standing there in the moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up. Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio, expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by piece.
And didn’t that thought surprise me.
My gaze searched her patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
My eyes went up, trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one. Tears ran down her face, but they seemed more of a defiant act, her jaw tightly set, her shoulders hunched inward as if she’d held it in too long and was giving in, but not without a fight.
Violin Girl was trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did something completely crazy.
The lonely girl next door flipped me the bird.
© Ilsa Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things
New York Times and USA Today best selling 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.
Image by Cool Text: Free Graphics Generator – Edit Image
Rhiannon drew herself up to her full five feet plus two whole inches, lifted her pudgy chin and nose in the air, and walked into the conference room.
Inside, a black-suited security team stood behind five men sitting at a conference table. The seated guys looked like a staff meeting on Olympus: like the platinum-blond Sun God Apollo shone brilliant in his beauty beside radiant Eros, God of Love, who slept beside the seductive devil, black-haired Thanatos, who was the deification of Death, and two more blazingly beautiful demi-gods.
Rhiannon stopped hard, nearly catching her high heels on the carpeting.
Oh my God.
Those guys had been on the cover of last month’s Rolling Stone—all shirtless in the cover photo because they were beyond ripped, they were frickin’ shredded— because they had released two indie, MP3-only albums that had gone platinum.
The article’s headline was War Breaks Out over Killer Valentine because three major-label recording companies had launched a vicious bidding war for their next work.
Well, she wouldn’t have to worry about anyone looking at her on the stage.
by Missy Johnson
Publication Date: August 4, 2014
Genres: Contemporary, New Adult, Romance
Purchase from: Amazon • Nook • Kobo •
Add to Goodreads.
Synopsis: Don’t let my petite and innocent appearance fool you, because I’m one person you don’t want to cross. I’m Micah, the youngest member of Resurrection…If only they knew how young. My fake ID says I’m twenty-one.
And I will be…in four years.
What can I say? I blossomed early. Home sucked, so I left, determined to do something with my life.
Landing the gig as lead vocalist in the band was a dream come true. I’ve worked hard to make something of myself and nothing is going to ruin that for me.
Then He showed up.
He’s hot as hell and so into me. But he’s also twenty-five.
I don’t want to lie to him, but if the truth comes out I’ll lose everything, including him.
Missy lives in a small town in Central Victoria with her husband, and her confused pets (a dog who think she’s a cat, a cat who thinks he’s a dog…you get the picture).
When she’s not writing, she can usually be found looking for something to read.
This is the love story of Micah and Saxon. Micah had no choice but to take her life into her own hands at the age of 14, she had no one to guide her, comfort her or protect her. She made the decision to become an adult and save herself. She had no choice; she had to grow up fast. Music was her life and the one dream she wanted to make reality. Saxon Waite had everything, came from a wealthy family and he made it big as a rock star at a young age. It was too much for him to handle, he threw it all away. He lives with the guilt and pain of the destruction he caused. Micah and Saxon are both good-hearted and strong. Harry, Saxon’s cousin begrudges Sax’s fame and resents him; he adds fuel to the fire. Music brings them together, the common denominator.
The elephant in the room is Micah’s age, we the readers are aware of this from the beginning; just Micah and us, not even her best friend knows. How it comes to light in the story is very interesting, which gives us a peek at a piece of her past. The reasons why she lies about her age and her maturity had me cheering for her and I couldn’t blame her. Needless to say Saxon doesn’t take it very well. The battle between Saxon and Harry erupts around the same time, and Saxon is left a broken man, physically and emotionally. Decisions must be made.
This is one of those stories you don’t want to put down until you finish. Missy Johnson takes us through this beautiful story, with great characters; just the right amount of angst and without dragging or extending the drama. I loved the pace at which the story evolves. My heart was tugged a few times and some tears rolled down my face. Will we be getting more of Saxon Waite in the future?
Maria Rosie Poli – Rosie’s Book Heaven
Sand & Clay: http://amzn.to/1uEALl6
BARNES & NOBLE:
This link goes to a specific store with only Sarah Robinson’s books: