Chaos
Mayhem #3
By: Jamie Shaw
Releasing July 21, 2015
Avon Impulse
Blurb
From
the moment she saw Shawn Scarlett perform at a school talent show, Kit Larson
has loved two things: the guitar, and the gorgeous, green-eyed boy who inspired
her to play. But one careless night in high school shatters her hope of ever
being more than a notch on his bedpost.
Six
years, two bands, and one mostly-mended heart later, Kit’s about to make her
rock star dreams a reality as the new guitarist for Shawn’s band, The Last Ones
to Know. He may not remember their reckless night together, but Kit has never
forgotten… and she’s determined to make him eat his heart out.
The
release of their new album means a month cooped up on a tour bus, sleeping
inches away from the ridiculously sexy musician she’s never quite gotten over.
And as Kit gets to know the real Shawn—not Shawn Scarlett, the rock god, the
player—their attraction becomes too hot to resist. But the past is paved with
secrets, and when they finally surface, Kit could lose everything: the band,
the music, her dreams… and Shawn.
Link to Follow Tour: http://www.tastybooktours.com/2015/06/chaos-mayhem-3-by-jamie-shaw.html
Goodreads
Link: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/23149165-chaos?ac=1
Goodreads Series Link: https://www.goodreads.com/series/136893-mayhem
Born and raised in South Central
Pennsylvania, Jamie Shaw earned her M.S. in Professional
Writing before realizing that the creative side of writing was her calling. An
incurable night-owl, she spends late hours crafting novels with relatable
heroines and swoon-worthy leading men. She's a loyal drinker of white mochas, a
fierce defender of emo music, and a passionate enthusiast of all things
romance. She loves interacting with readers and always aims to add new names to
their book boyfriend lists.
.Excerpt
It takes me an hour to drive to Mayfield. An
hour of drumming my fingers against my Jeep’s steering wheel and blasting the
music so loud that I can’t hear myself think. My GPS interrupts the eardrum
massacre to give me directions to a club called Mayhem, and I park in the side
parking lot of a massive square of a building.
With my Jeep in a spot and my ignition
turned off, I drum on my steering wheel a few more times before smacking the
heel of my palm against my glove compartment. It pops open, a hairbrush spills
out, and I use it to tame my wind-tangled locks.
Earlier this week, the name of Shawn’s
band—The Last Ones to Know—popped up on one of my favorite bands’ websites. I
blinked once, twice, and then pushed my nose toward the screen to make sure I
wasn’t seeing things.
They were looking for a new rhythm
guitarist. After doing a little digging, I found out that their old one, Cody,
got kicked out of the band. The website didn’t say why, and I didn’t care. There
was an opening, and everything in me told me to send an email to the email
address listed at the bottom of the online flyer.
I typed the email in a daze—as if my
guitar-loving fingers wanted to be in the band even more than my spaced-out
brain did. I wrote that I had been in a band in college but that we broke up to
go our separate ways, I sent a YouTube link to one of our songs, I asked for an
audition, and I signed my name.
Less than half an hour later, I received a
reply overflowing with exclamation points and an audition time, and I wasn’t
sure if I should smile or cry. It was a chance to make all my dreams come true.
But in order to do that, I’d have to face the dream that had already been
crushed.
These past six years, I’ve tried not to
think about it. I’ve tried to erase his face from my mind. But that day, with
that email in front of me, it all came back in a rush.
Green eyes. Messy black hair. An
intoxicating scent that seemed to linger on my skin for days, weeks.
I give my head a little shake to clear
Shawn from my mind. Then I finish brushing my hair and take one last glance in
my rearview mirror. Satisfied I don’t look nearly as messy as I feel, I hop
onto the asphalt and haul my guitar case from the backseat.
Now or never.
After a deep breath of city air, I begin
making my way around the concrete fortress casting shadow over the parking lot.
Unforgiving rays of afternoon sunshine wrap themselves around my neck and send
beads of sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. My combat boots hit the
sidewalk step by heavy step, and I force them to keep lifting and falling,
lifting and falling. It isn’t until I’m at a massive set of double doors that I
finally stop long enough to let myself think.
I raise my hand. I lower it. I raise it
again. I flex my fingers.
I take a deep breath.
I knock.
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