High Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by LP Lovell

  All rights reserved

  This book is an original work of fiction. All of the names, characters, sponsors, and events are the product of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. Any similarities to actual events, incidences, persons, deceased or living, is strictly coincidental.

  Any opinions expressed in this book or solely those of the authors.

  High

  Copyright ©2016 by LP Lovell

  Published in the United States of America

  Ebooks are non-transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of LP Lovell

  Editing: Indie Editor Jones

  Proofreading: Kerry Fletcher

  Cover Design: SM Piper

  Photographs and model: Uncovered Models, Clarissa Perry Photography: Jonathan Kemp

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - A Love So Tragic by Stevie J Cole

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  The Author

  Addiction and love. Two sides of the same coin.

  Cocaine triggers a chemical reaction in the brain, a release of endorphins that create a sense of euphoria, happiness, invincibility. Love replicates this reaction, so in effect, falling in love is like being high.

  Love is its own drug.

  So, when you fall in love, is it love, or is it simply the instinctual addiction of human nature? And if so, then surely we are all addicts because love is undoubtedly that which we covet most. Love is the most destructive drug of all.

  Holy shit, my head! I open my eyes and groan as the light scorches my retinas.

  “Fuck.” I grumble, pulling the duvet over my head. I hear a very deep, very masculine laugh next to me and I freeze. Don’t breathe, don’t move. I try and work my way through my non-existent memory, trying to remember something, anything…the lay out of the room I’m in even. Can I make a break for it before he catches me? Well, I don’t even know where the fuck I am, let alone which direction to run. Plus, I don’t do running before 2 PM, and judging by the pounding in my head, it’s not, which means I’ll have to do the awkward morning avoidance.

  And of course, he’s bound to look like a badger’s arsehole. Damn, why my drunk brain cannot fathom the basic laws of attraction I will never know. Right, here goes. One. Two. Three.

  I throw the duvet back and spring up out of the bed, ready to make a break for it, at least to the nearest bathroom. I wince against the bright light and stagger sideways, cracking my hip on some stupid piece of furniture.

  “Fucking shit!” I brace my hand on the wall, breathing through the pain.

  “And here was me thinking you were a lady, Duchess.”

  Oh, so we’re onto pet names already? No, hell no! That voice though…it’s so deep and husky and ovary twinging. I still don’t look at him. This is a technique I’ve developed. When you find yourself in such a position, get up, find clothes, go to the bathroom, all without looking at him. That way I won’t have to vomit in my mouth later when I think about the fact that I let him in my vagina, and possibly sucked his dick. God knows my entire mouth tastes like ball bag right now. Then when I’m ready, I just have to make a break for it, bee line to the door and run. Denial is your friend.

  My head is pounding so loudly I don’t even hear him approach, and I jump when his hand brushes my hip. My bare hip.

  “You should be more careful.”

  I don’t know why, but his voice draws me in, and I open my eyes to see a chest, a very bare, very muscular chest. Well, kudos to me, the guy has a body. What’s the betting he’s got a face like the back end of a bus?

  I drag my gaze up—all the way up until I meet his face. Okay, seriously high fiving drunk Blake right now. He has that whole, sex and sin thing going on. He’s standing here in just his boxers, all those muscles just…muscling. Everything about him screams bad, dirty, amazing things. He drags a hand through his dark hair, bordering on messy, and damn I’d love to run my fingers through it, preferably while I sit on his face. And his face... He’s all man, yet savagely beautiful at the same time. Sharp cheek bones contrast full lips and a square jaw covered in a five o’ clock shadow. It’s the eyes that are the show stopper, though, a hazel so rich, they look gold. They remind me of honey and caramel and good, yummy, lickable things.

  And slowly my brain kicks back in. He’s hot. Really hot, and I probably look like I got run over. My breath tastes like balls so it must smell like I ate dog shit. Brilliant.

  “Fucking great.” I grumble, shoving past him to the bathroom.

  I slam the door and turn on the taps in the sink, drowning out his low chuckle on the other side of the door. I glance in the mirror above the vanity and if possible it’s even worse than I thought. My hair looks like something is living in it, and my make up now looks like I went for the crack whore effect. Oh, and I’m naked, except for a pathetic excuse of a thong that holds more resemblance to dental floss than actual underwear. Wonderful.

  I steal his toothbrush, because, I’m pretty sure I shared a damn site more than spit with him last night. Why stop now? I splash water on my face and wipe the panda eye makeup from under my eyes before dragging my mane of blonde hair into a messy bun.

  I hear my phone ringing in the other room, and open the door to go get it, but the hot stranger already has it. “Yeah, I’ll tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” I snap.

  He holds the phone away from his ear, an amused smirk on his face. “Milan said you’re late.”

  “Shit.” I crawl across the bed and snatch the phone from his hand, sprawling across his lap as I do so. “Late for what?”

  “The photo shoot you said you would do.” Milly screeches.

  “Ow! Quietly.” The photo shoot for one of her weird artsy boyfriends. Apparently he got bored of taking pictures of her, now I have to fucking do it. “Why did I agree to this? And this early?�
�

  “Firstly, it’s ten thirty.”

  “Case in point. Do not expect me to look like anything other than absolute fucking shit before midday.”

  “Secondly, who’s the guy? He sounds hot.”

  “He actually is. Shocker. And how many times Milly? Do not let me wander off with strangers!”

  “Unless they’re hot.” She corrects.

  I glance at him. “Eh, the hot ones give you the clap.” She snorts and his lips twitch in just a hint of a smile as his eyes lock with mine. Damn he’s intense in a ‘my vagina feels like a tsunami just hit home’ kind of way.

  “Hurry up, bring coffee, and then tell me all.” She hangs up.

  I groan and throw the phone down on the bed before sitting up. “I need to borrow a shirt.”

  Five minutes later and I’ve managed to sort of make myself look okay. I have one of hot guy’s shirts on and have tied one of his belts around my waist. Dress shirt and stilettos, fuck it.

  I rummage in the bottom of my clutch until I find what I’m looking for, a small, clear plastic bag with a tiny amount of white powder in the bottom. The world’s best hangover cure. I check that the bathroom door is still closed before I pour it onto the bedside table. I can hear the shower running, and I can practically see the water cascading over those muscles now. The thought has me clenching my thighs together.

  I take out my driver’s license and a note, cutting the coke and then inhaling the small line. The effect is almost instant, like a shot of adrenaline ripping through my veins. I close my eyes, a small smile pulling at my lips as I relish in the beautiful burn.

  When I open them, hot guy is standing in the doorway, covered in nothing but a towel and a few stray droplets of water which are tracking down his chest, into the gutter that lays between his abs.

  I stand, putting my card and money back in my clutch. “Well, thanks for the shirt, and…” I flash him a smile. “Other stuff.”

  His eyes narrow and his lips pull into a wry smile that makes my heart splutter like a blushing school girl, and trust me, those days are long gone. I move past him and he grabs me by the arm before he yanks me forward, pulling me flush against his hot body as he slams his lips over mine. I never believe in that bullshit where people say a kiss is amazing. To me, a kiss is just a sloppy, drunken dance floor prequel to a dirty fuck in a bathroom or the ever classy one-night stand. An orgasm can make you see fireworks, but a kiss, never. Until now.

  He kisses me like he’s fucking my mouth, controlling it, manipulating it. Manipulating me. I feel weak, and before I know what I’m doing, my hands are cupping his face, my nails scratching over his stubble. His hands roam my body, pushing under the short hem of his shirt and squeezing my arse as he slides his thigh between my legs, pressing it against my barely covered pussy. I whimper against his lips like a desperate slut, probably because I’d give my left tit for a bit more friction right now.

  I never fuck a one-night stand more than once, usually because they’re so fucking awful I question how the fuck I ever got inebriated enough to find them remotely attractive. This one, though, he looks like something out of GQ magazine, and I could take a crack at that all day long.

  He kisses me until I feel like I can’t breathe, and then he pulls away. “Goodbye, Duchess.”

  I smile. “Bye, hot guy.”

  I stagger out of the hotel room and want to scream because I’m now so sexually frustrated I could hump the fucking wall.

  For once, I wish I could remember last night. I’m pretty sure that would have been at least a years’ worth of spank bank material.

  I catch a taxi to the address Milly gave me. It’s in Brooklyn, in some warehouse, loft thing.

  Some hippie looking dude opens the door. He looks like he needs a good wash and a haircut. Holy shit, I sound like my mother, and that is never a good thing.

  “The wanderer returns.” Milly shouts, and it echoes off the empty space. “What are you wearing? I can see your nipples.” She eyes my shirt with a cocked eyebrow as she approaches. Milan Morgan is my best friend. Crazy, bossy, loyal. I adore her. She places a hand on her hip, tossing her long dark hair over her shoulder. I smirk as I glance down at her sky scraper heels. It should be noted that she’s also wearing trackies. She’s short, it’s her thing. No matter what the outfit.

  “The shirt is hot guys. And my nipples want to be seen.” I hand her the coffee I picked up on the way over.

  She laughs. “You don’t know his name?” She asks incredulously.

  “Don’t sound shocked.”

  Hippie guy moves next to Milly, throwing an arm around her shoulder. “Oh, Blake, this is Noah.” I roll my eyes. Milly has the worst taste in men, artists, musicians, writers, you name it and she’s on it. This one looks stoned out of his face. Not that I’m one to talk, I’m still a little buzzed from the blow I took this morning.

  “Hey, so what shots do you want?”

  “I’m an erotic artist.” He drawls slowly. “But, my art work is very exclusive…”

  I smile. “Oh. Don’t worry about that. In fact, there are a couple of magazines in England that would probably pay you good money for the shots.”

  “More than a couple.” Milly mumbles. I laugh, imagining my father’s puce face as he looks at his naked daughter’s picture slapped all over some tabloid. Gold.

  I do the shoot for Noah. I look like shit, but that seems to be the look he wants. Milly back brushes my hair and smudges my eye makeup. Apparently the look they’re going for is desperately troubled…and naked.

  When we’re done, Milly kisses him goodbye.

  “Thanks, Blake.” He grins. “Don’t ever let it be said that you British girls don’t know how to have fun.”

  I laugh. “We redefine the word.”

  “So, where are we going tonight?” I ask Milly as soon as we get in the back of the town car.

  “Oh, tonight is going to be amazing. Stone invited me to their gig.”

  I wait, but she says nothing. “Okay, who is Stone, and what gig?”

  “I swear you listen to nothing I say. Stone, the guitarist from Pandemic Sorrow.” I don’t listen because she dates a lot of weird men.

  “Nope and nope. Between, Noah the hippie, Julian the poet, and god knows who else I can’t keep up.”

  “Pandemic. Sorrow. Big rock band. They’re playing at Madison Square Garden.” Okay, never heard of them, but they must be a big deal if they’re playing Madison.

  “How do you know him?”

  She shrugs, a small smile playing over her lips. “I met him back at that gig in Miami. Remember, Note? The live music bar?” I frown because no, I do not remember. “You went off with that surfer guy for like three days after…”

  “Oh, yeah. Bahamas, a fuck load of shrooms. Good times.” She sighs. “So you met him in Miami. And why are you now seeing him in New York?”

  She shrugs, grinning. “We connected. He liked my accent, I liked his pierced dick and the rest is history.”

  “Ah, I haven’t done pierced dick since that time I had my tongue pierced and got it stuck on Cam Robinson’s Prince Albert.”

  She snorts. It was awful. I had to go to A&E, and really what can you say to explain what was possibly in your mouth that could rip your fucking tongue piercing out? I thought I was going to look like one of those freaky people with forked tongues and tattooed eyeballs.

  “Anyway, the rocker…You haven’t seen him since Miami?” I ask. “Just checking, seeing as you’re making this sound like some love story.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Once. When he’s in town, I see him, and when he’s not, I see Noah and Julian.”

  “And every other emotionally damaged weirdo you can find.” I add, checking my phone.

  “Life is a party…”

  “Just keep dancing. Or fucking. Whichever.”

  “Tomato, Tomato.” She grins and tosses her long, dark hair over her shoulder before sliding her enormous sun glasses onto her face.

  I would
never tell her, but her rock star parties are my favourite. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. What’s not to love?

  I watch from behind the metal railings, right in front of the stage, as the lead singer practically fucks his fans with his voice. What is it about rock stars? It must be the arrogant bad boy thing. I’m not into the groupie thing, and yet he has even me ready to throw my knickers at him.

  The crowd goes wild, crushing us against the railings as they press forward, probably hoping to catch a drop of his sweat. Milly informed me that this pussy magnet is, in fact, Jag Steele, and Stone is his brother.

  They’re on their last song when Milly starts dragging me through the crowd, which pretty much becomes a full contact sport as I have to elbow my way through people. The security guard lets us back stage with barely a glance. And as soon as we set foot in the back stage area I feel positively over dressed, a fucking achievement let me tell you.

  “Jesus, these bitches make me look like a fucking nun.” Okay, I’ll rephrase. I’m practically dressed like a nun compared to them.

  Milly laughs. “Welcome to rock groupies. They come pre-stripped, and they’ll get on their knees for a signed tit.” She says in a sing song voice.

  “Hey, I’ve been known to get on my knees for a signed tit.”

  “My signed tit, your knees, it’s different.”

  “Uh-huh.” And for a certain Irish actor, I would get on my knees again, as long as he talks dirty to me in that accent.

  The band comes off stage, and I wait for Milly to do her thing. The way Stone says her name, ‘Milan’, it’s like he’s rubbing his dick all over it.

  The singer walks straight out the back, ignoring everyone, and the bassist…the bassist saunters past me like he owns me, dragging his eyes over every inch of my body until I feel like he’s stripped me naked and came on my tits. It’s quite a skill.

  “Blake, this is Stone.” Milly introduces us, eyeing me in warning.

  I’ll give it to the Steele boys, the family has good genes, really good genes. He watches me through dark eyes rimmed with eyeliner. I’m not a fan of the emo look, but on him, it works. He has that brooding, misunderstood musician thing going on. Just how Milly likes them.