Copyright © 2020 by J.M. Stoneback
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons , living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Najla Qamber
Editor: Contagious Edits.
Proofreader: Gem’s Precise Proofing
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Title Page
Copyright
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Books by J.M.
About the Author
Stalk Me
Sadie
Thump, thump, thump, thump.
My heart goes haywires in my chest and is ready to splatter against my ribcage.
Where is it?
Where is it?
Where is my fucking diary?
I yank the oak desk drawer open, pulling out paperwork. My skin burns. Burns to the point I want to rip off my sea-green romper and lacy bra and panties. Burns to the point that I want to rip my flesh off my bones. Anxiety chews on the inside of my gut. I’ve hated small, crowded rooms ever since I was a little girl, and this tiny room feels like I’m in a cramped closet. The pale white walls make my flesh crawl. I need to get the hell out of here, but I need to find my diary. It has everything in it. A list of sex poems I wrote.
My bucket lists.
Events that are supposed to happen in the next month or so.
My diary is one of the most important things in my life. People rely on their phones and tablets for everything, but I’m old-fashioned and rely on pen and paper. My life is crammed in that little dairy. It went missing in action right after my meeting with The Wakening of Gods, a band I’m currently managing.
We’re at the State Farm Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia for their last performance. I’ve been on tour with The Wakening of Gods for three months. Three months of babysitting a bunch of grown men who act like children that can drive you to pop a Xanax. After I finish managing them, hopefully, my dad will see all the hard work that I’ve been putting into this company and make me CEO of Sacrifice Records. I’ve been gunning for it since I graduated with my business degree from Harvard last year. Sacrifice Records is one of the top labels in the United States. My great grandfather started this business, so it’s been passed down from generation to generation. My dad is ruthless and cutthroat as the CEO, just like the music industry. He’ll be stepping down in the next couple of months for retirement, and hopefully, he won’t give the position to my brother.
I move to the next empty drawer, then I bend down on all fours. My romper rides up my ass cheeks as my curly jet-black hair falls over my shoulders.
“No, no, no, no. It has to be here. It’s the only place I had it.” My words bounce off the wall. I crawl on the gray tiles, to the indigo couch tucked away in the far corner, getting my hands and knees dirty. I’m greeted with dust mites, a few used condoms, chewed bubble gum that stuck to the floor.
Gross. I’ll just have to buy another diary. I hope no one has read it because I wrote some filthy things in there.
“You keep bending over like that in front of me, you’ll find yourself fucked against the floor, Thumbelina.” A deep smoky tone threatens the air and his words are little ants marching up my spine.
My heart skips a beat like a rock skipping over a pond, and my nipples harden against my bra. I hurry up and get off the grainy floor and stand face to face with the man of my wet dreams.
Felix Sawyer is the drummer and he’s known for his awesome solo performances. He’s known as the broken god, and he’s broken as a shattered glass. That fire-breathing ex of his did a number on his heart by sleeping with his ex-manager. I don’t know the full story, but the tabloids and gossip blogs made a mockery of the incident, and I never asked him about it. Because I don’t ask people about their business if I don’t know them personally.
Once the world sees a flaw in celebrities, they treat them the way Cinderella was treated by her evil step-sisters—with cruelty and abuse. People can’t handle their gods having human traits.
I love, love, love their music. Angry and sad. Dark and cold.
This guy is walking lubricant. His eyes are the color of mud and deep, deep, deep, as a bottomless pit, but they’re hard, lethal, dangerous. And his cheekbones are sharp. So sharp that you can hone a blade on it. His skin is smooth as stone and the color of golden sand. A few strands of his copper hair float in front of his forehead, and two nose rings glint in his nostrils. Tattoos written in Hebrew snake up to his right chest. He’s built like a Viking, thick muscles and tall as a skyscraper. Six foot five or six. Who knows? Either way, my five-foot-four frame wants to climb him like a tree. Every time I’m around him my stomach turns into goo. Felix is gorgeous as a thunderstorm. Beautiful from far away, but up close, he’s deadly, dangerous, and chaotic, sweeping women off their feet with his charm.
He yanks his stained white shirt over his head, and my gaze zeroes in on his chiseled abs. A delicious a line of hair rails down to his jeans that hang so low on his narrow hips, that fine strands of pubic hair peek above his jeans.
My breath is unsteady as ocean
