FEVERISH Teaser

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(Anticipated publication date January 2014)

Clayton “Jet” Smith stretched his arms. Holy sh*t, were they sore. It took him a few seconds, as he stirred from sleep, to remember why. It was the crazy sh*t he and that stacked blonde had been up to last night. Jesus, the things some women did blew his mind. Last night would be one he’d never forget…but did she give him a hell of a workout.

He chuckled quietly thinking about the broken end table in the living room. His cleaning lady would give him hell about it, but it wouldn’t be the first broken thing in his house she would have had to dispose of. He’d give her another bonus.

He froze. Waitaminute. He was pretty sure the blonde was still here, in his house, probably in his bed.

And he couldn’t remember her name.

F**k.

He rolled onto his back slowly, his eyes mostly closed so he could feign sleep if need be. Just a little farther. Yep. She was still there. She was still asleep, though, so he let out a breath of air. He needed to think through the amber haze of last night’s whiskey to remember her name.

It was something semi-exotic. Carmen? Lucia? Anja? Hell, there was no way he was gonna remember. Maybe he could pretend to be asleep forever and she’d just give up on him and leave.

No. That hadn’t worked with the last girl. Maybe instead he’d just go somewhere instead and she’d get tired of waiting for him to return. Or he could call his cleaning lady and ask her to come over to make sure the girl left.

Nah. Mary hadn’t appreciated it the last time he’d asked her to do that, even though he’d doubled her weekly salary.

Shit. Well, maybe he could just make nice and kick the girl out without saying a name. He could get away with it, right?

Damn straight. He was f**king Jet Smith, lead guitarist of one of the best goddamned bands on the planet. She should just be happy he let her suck his dick.

Clay almost winced even thinking that. He loved women. He really did. But he hadn’t felt anything for one in a long time, not since Valerie Quinn. Well, she wasn’t Quinn anymore. In fact, she was on her second marriage. Did he regret losing that woman? Yeah, part of him did, but he’d known they weren’t right for each other. He’d known it since spying her expression upon seeing what she’d referred to as his “Wall of Shame.” Part of Val would always be sweet and innocent, and Clay hadn’t feel right soiling her with his sordid urges. He loved her and part of him always would, and he knew that was why it was hard for him to find any other woman satisfactory.

In fact, most women anymore were like Carmen Lucia Anja here, a great night in the sack (out of the sack, actually), someone to pass the time with in a spectacular way, but Clay couldn’t visualize the future much past a few days.

That was okay, he’d told himself. He was still young. His band was enjoying a short hiatus after touring for their third album and he was, for all intents and purposes, famous. True, most people still didn’t recognize him, but he couldn’t go out in public without someone figuring out who he was. That made it all worthwhile.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were missing something. Part of him felt empty and, even though he knew what it was deep down, there was no way in hell he was going to acknowledge it out loud and he certainly wasn’t going to meditate over the matter. Instead, he was going to enjoy himself. He was thirty-two now, still young. His only child was in school now, but even that didn’t mean he was old. No, his age didn’t have anything to do with that gnawing feeling in the back of his head. It was…

Carmen Lucia Anja stirred next to him and turned her head. She had a big smile on her face. Her teeth were white and she was pretty in her own way, but her platinum blonde hair looked fake in the sunlight streaming through the curtains. The two centimeters of black roots didn’t help. Her black mascara and eyeliner were smudged under her eyes. Up close, in bed, in natural light, he realized that Carmen Lucia Anja was actually his age. How the fuck had that happened? He usually liked them a few years younger—not much, but a little.

Her voice should have purred, but it was raspy. “My God, Jet, you are a tiger.” One corner of her lip turned up in a smile and she sat up. The sheet fell off her breasts. Those boobs were obviously fake. They were the size of cantaloupes. He couldn’t even look at them now. He’d almost suffocated between them the night before.

He almost shook his head, remembering that. He smiled and glanced at the clock on the nightstand behind her. Jesus. It was two-thirty in the afternoon. That was f**king crazy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened before nine am. Enough was enough.