BookBrewerLucyKevinSPARKSFLYApril252011 Page 11

  And Krista did, indeed, look fabulous as the maid-of-honor.

  ~ THE END ~

  More books by Lucy Kevin...

  GABRIELLE

  A love triangle about a good boy, a bad boy…and an ancient legacy that comes with its very own curse.

  Bonus material: This ebook contains 5 songs written by Gabrielle & Lucy Kevin. All songs written for this book are available on:

  YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/GabrielleLucyKevin

  iTunes: http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/gabrielle-ep/id427761572

  Please enjoy the following excerpt for GABRIELLE © 2011 Lucy Kevin...

  PROLOGUE

  You probably don't think they exist anymore. At least, not in America. But they do.

  My grandmother was one. So was her mother.

  And when I turn 18, evidently it’s my destiny to become one, too.

  But last fall I hadn’t heard about the curse, I hadn’t met Dylan or Bradley...and I had no idea that I was about to make the most difficult choice of my life.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was the last one at my high school to see him.

  All afternoon I’d been sitting at a piano in a tiny practice room in my school’s basement, working on a song. Earlier, as I’d walked down the hall, I’d heard a plethora of sounds coming from the other practice rooms: the vibrant alto of a cello, a soprano trilling carefully up a scale, hard-driving percussion.

  Ninety-nine other students were enrolled at the City School for the Arts. We had to do math and history like everyone else, but the school’s core focus was on creating. As a child, I’d learned to knit and cook and sing long before I knew how to multiply. Over the years, I’d been taught everything from painting to ballet to clothing construction to music, but songwriting was where my heart had always been.

  Senior year had begun six weeks earlier and I needed to get working on the five songs that were going to be my application for the Berklee School of Music. With my current song as it stood, a few random—and by random, I mean bad—piano riffs and no lyrics whatsoever, I figured I had a great future going for me in data entry.

  Usually, I loved those hours in the tiny composition rooms, hunkered down over a dusty piano, sweating out the notes, chasing that beautifully breathless feeling that would grip my lungs, squeeze them tight, and send my heart racing when my fingers found a great melody or I stumbled upon a great lyric. When I first started writing songs, and it was all so fresh—before I really had a clue about good or bad—there had been times when I could practically see the perfect combination of notes and beats and words line up in front of me, squeaking into my subconscious through the path of least resistance.

  Realizing how hunched and tight my neck and shoulders were, I closed my eyes and worked to calm my breathing using the meditation techniques the school taught all of us. When I felt centered again, I put my fingers on the keyboard and tried to let the song ring through me. But the perfect notes and words seemed as elusive as they’d ever been.

  I’d tried to start a hundred different songs over the past few weeks, but each one was more insipid than the next and the phrase trying to drink from an empty well was starting to make way too much sense to me.

  The truth was, I’d made it to seventeen without ever crying into my pillow all night about a broken heart or sneaking off to throw up or cut myself like some girls in my class. In fact, the only real emotional pain that I had to mine—never knowing my father and losing my mother when I was a little girl—wasn’t anything anyone would want to hear a song about.

  Which was good, because I didn’t ever plan on going near it.

  The practice room walls felt like they were closing in on me. But I hated to give up. Maybe if I took a short break, something brilliant would come to me before I went home for dinner. Scooting off the piano bench, I locked the door, grabbed my iPod out of my bag, and stuck my earphones in.

  I had one secret release: a small cache of classic heavy metal songs. Choosing a Metallica song, I put it on repeat and started picking out the chords on the keyboard. I’d never played a song like this before—my previous range being classical to stage to pop—and I was surprised by how good it felt to play into this kind of musical darkness. I might not have experienced monsters under my bed or any of the harsh untruths the singer was screaming about, but it was a huge rush to get to feel it vicariously.

  The song took hold of me, playing me instead of me playing it, and I let loose on the piano, letting the chords crash through my fingers, up my arms. I screeched out the words in a way that would make my vocal coach weep, but I didn’t care. It felt so good to give in to anger and pain, even if they were someone else’s words and music, to let the raw fury in the song obliterate the empty spaces inside me. My eyes shut tight as the song played on repeat—again and again I rode the harsh wave.

  And then, suddenly, I realized I wasn’t alone anymore. A stranger was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, staring at me.

  My hands shaking, I yanked out my earphones just in time to hear him say, “Jesus. Who the hell are you?”

  No one had ever heard me completely let go like that before and I felt as if he’d seen me naked.

  Judging by his expression, I’d clearly shocked him. Horrified him with my caterwauling. I’d been trained in a myriad of professional techniques. But what he’d heard me do to the Metallica song was as far from trained as you could get.

  And then I remembered the door. I had locked it.

  “How did you get in?”

  His mouth—it was a beautiful mouth, I was surprised to notice, full yet masculine—moved slightly, as if he would smile. But he didn’t.

  “Locks are easy.”

  I swallowed, realizing how small the room was. Just big enough for the baby grand and the person playing it. Sitting on the piano bench, my back was against the wall and I was glad for the cool, hard surface to prop against as I worked to compose myself.

  Before I could, he asked, “How the hell did you do that?”

  Again, my gut went for embarrassment. For wishing I’d never downloaded the song to my iPod, that I hadn’t given in to the weakness of playing something different. Forbidden.

  A stammered reply was on the tip of my tongue when he continued, “Those chords with that song. You were playing minor, diminished.” He shook his head, looked down at my hands, still resting on the keys—gripping them, actually—and said, “It shouldn’t have worked. Nothing about it should have worked. But it did.”

  And then, through the crack of least resistance, it finally came. That breathless squeezing in my chest, the racing of my heart. But not from a song.

  From him.

  From what he’d said about me, about my playing.

  He shifted on the floor, and before I realized it, he was standing up and coming over to the piano. Without asking my permission, he slid onto the piano bench. I was too stunned to think to move over and make room for him. His thigh in his worn black jeans ended up pressing hard against my right leg.

  He was warm and it was the strangest thing, but I swore I could almost feel his heart beating through our legs.

  What was he doing, coming into my practice room and sitting so close to me like this? I didn’t know who he was, had never seen him before, hadn’t heard that there was a new student. I’d never given a second thought to my safety at school. Not when I’d known everyone here practically my whole life.

  But now, my heart fluttered with unease.

  At least, that’s why I told myself it was fluttering. That’s what I told myself the knot in my stomach was.

  Unease.

  Not interest.

  Or even something as foreign to me as desire.

  No one would ever describe me as bold or aggressive. But I wasn’t shy either. I knew how to express myself, how to ask for what I wanted. Still, instead of asking this stranger to leave me alone, or at least to introduce himself like a normal person, I found myself waiting.

 
To see what else he would do.

  To hear what else he would say.

  To see if he would look at me again like he had when I first saw him sitting on the floor...as if watching me had stolen the breath from his lungs.

  Waiting.

  Still waiting.

  I didn’t know if it was five seconds or five minutes until he raised his hands and arms to the keyboard, his long fingers moving to the exact spot where I’d left off in stunned surprise when I realized he was in the room.

  And then, there was no more waiting, because before I could take my next breath, he was playing. Playing hard and fast like I had been before, as if there had been no break between me and him, no exchange of words, no shifting of positions on the piano bench.

  He was playing as if the music had never stopped.

  My breath got caught in my throat and my heart pounded harder now, and faster too, until there was nothing left of me but the song he was playing.

  Silently, so softly that I almost couldn’t hear him, could only smell the rush of mint on his breath as the words left his lips, he said, “Play.”

  It wasn’t a request. Not an order, either. Simply the obvious progression of two strangers in a small room with a baby grand. Perfectly natural that four hands should end up on the ivory to wring out as much sound and sensation as possible. As if we had scripted it, my smaller hands found the bass notes, his larger fingers shifting up the keyboard into the mid-to-high regions.

  And when his voice came, it was like nothing I had ever heard before. Rich, but with an edge.

  Crackling not only with passion, but with knowledge, too, like a virtuoso who really knew how to use his instrument. I got lost in his tenor, let myself drown in the resonance of listening to a born singer. I played into his voice with my fingers on the keys, letting the piano be an accompaniment but nothing more to the real instrument in the room.

  So, I suddenly thought, as the temperature in the room rose up to meet the volume, this is what love at first sight feels like.

  Only that wasn’t quite right. Yes, he was good-looking. Very. But I’d met plenty of good-looking guys before now and none of them had affected me like this.

  He was drawing me in with sound. Weaving a spell around me with vibration.

  Using his hands and his voice, he had me. Whoever he was.

  When the song finally ended, I found that I was panting. The muscles of my arms were sore, my fingers were still jumping from our playing. I wanted to ask him his name, and tell him mine. I wanted to ask where he’d learned to sing and play like that. I wanted to ask where he’d come from, why I’d never seen him before.

  But I’d never felt like this about a guy before. Never had butterflies move up from my stomach and explode across my tongue until they had it completely tied up.

  It was all I could do to sit there beside him and keep breathing in. Out. In. Out.

  “Next time,” he said into the silence, mint lingering again, “sing with me.”

  Before I could reply, he was gone.

  ...Excerpt from GABRIELLE by Lucy Kevin © 2011.

  * * * * *

  FALLING FAST (A romance novel about secrets, reality TV...and unexpected love) When Alexa is sent by a magazine to be an undercover contestant on the reality TV series "Falling For Mr. Right" she assumes the worst part of the assignment will be having to act like a brainless bimbo to try and win the affection of an arrogant guy who is out looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. Color her shocked when it turns out that not only are several of her fellow contestants intelligent, funny women...but that Brandon – aka Mr. Right - isn't at all the kind of man she thought he'd be. What's Alexa supposed to do when instead of digging up dirt for her cover story, she finds herself falling way too fast for the man she’s supposed to tear apart in her first big feature story?

  Please enjoy the following excerpt for FALLING FAST © 2011 Lucy Kevin...

  “You want me to do what?” Alexa Atkison said, her voice dripping with disbelief.

  Alexa's editor, Jane, pushed her glasses up more firmly on her nose and looked pointedly through them at Alexa. “You’re the one who has been on me about doing the bigger stories. I’m dropping this one into your lap.”

  Alexa opened her mouth to argue and then realized her thoughts were better left unsaid, particularly to her all-powerful boss. So instead of shooting off at the mouth, she took a deep breath and tried, on the fly, to work out the best tactic for steering Jane toward a less objectionable story.

  “What about drugs? Or gambling rings? Don’t you have something scary and dirty that I could investigate instead?”

  “No,” Jane said, her lips tight. “I’m handing you this assignment on a silver platter. Once you sign the confidentiality agreement, we can discuss the details of your makeover.”

  Surprise registered on Alexa’s face. “Makeover?”

  “While the editorial staff agrees that you are a perfect fit for the assignment, it is, nonetheless, clear that you need professional help with your appearance.”

  Alexa looked down at her clothes. “What does my appearance have to do with this assignment?”

  Unsmiling, Jane replied, “Everything.”

  Alexa didn’t like being boxed into a corner one bit. Silently, she reassessed her options. Sure, Jane had offered her a huge story, and yes, she desperately wanted the chance to prove herself as a feature writer, as opposed to the fact checking and proofreading she had been doing for the past year, but she also had a healthy dose of self-respect which she didn’t plan on letting go of any time soon.

  Trying for diplomacy, Alexa cleared her throat and mustered up her most cooperative expression.

  “Look, Jane, I really appreciate this opportunity, and I’m more than willing to go the distance with it, but as I see it, all I need to do is get picked as a single-girl-in-need-of-a-husband by a bunch of dopey TV execs, make it onto as many episodes as possible, and scrounge up dirt on everyone involved, right?”

  Jane cut right to it. “I’m as disgusted by primping and makeup as you are, Alexa. But you aren’t going to be much use to us on this story looking like…” Jane’s words drifted off and she scrunched up her nose in just the way one did when blue cheese had been left out on the counter for too long.

  “Looking like what?”

  Jane sighed. “Looking like you do right at this very minute. The way you look every day, in fact.”

  Alexa tried not to let on just how much Jane’s brutal honesty hurt. But seconds later, when Jane uncharacteristically tried to soften the blow, Alexa knew she needed to work on her poker face if she was ever going to make it as a serious undercover journalist.

  “Don’t worry,” Jane said. “We’re going to get you a little help in the wardrobe department, and-”

  Alexa cut her off. If there was one word that she never thought she’d hear at ROAR, it was wardrobe. She had always thought such terminology was reserved for the offices of Vogue or Elle.

  “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  Jane pursed her lips, seeming to tally up all the problems in her head before listing them. “I’ve never seen you wear anything but jeans and a T-shirt, except for that awful suit your wore for your interview last year.” Clearly exasperated, she added, “Your shoes don’t even match!”

  Alexa swung her legs out from underneath the desk. When she inspected her feet, she was surprised to see a green tennis shoe on her left foot and a red shoe on her right.

  “I was a little distracted this morning.”

  “Try every morning. In any case, we’ve got you scheduled for the spa this afternoon.”

  Spa was another word that she never, ever thought she’d hear at ROAR. Alexa narrowed her eyes, suddenly suspicious. “This isn’t some kind of office practical joke is it? Last time I looked, I was working for the leading feminist magazine in the country.”

  Jane looked at her watch, making it clear that the conversation was over. “Your first appointment is in thirty minutes. Do y
ou want the assignment or not?”

  Alexa knew she had no choice: Her self-respect was going to have to take a back seat to her first ever byline. There was no way she was going to miss the chance to leap out of journalistic obscurity and onto the cover of a national magazine.

  “Where do I sign?”

  Jane smiled and handed her a pen.

  * * *

  “Hold on a second. You want me to be Mr. Right?”

  Joe Randell, the executive producer of the much-hyped Falling For Mr. Right reality TV show, leaned across the conference table as if he was letting Brandon in on a big secret. “You did apply.”

  Brandon Philips worked to wipe the stunned look off of his face. “Yes, I did,” he said, leaving off the pertinent fact that he had only done it to get back at his ex-girlfriend for dumping him because of his so-called “commitment issues.”

  Stalling for time to figure out just what the hell he had got himself into, he asked, “How many applicants were there?”

  “Thousands. But I knew you were our best prospect the minute you walked through the door.

  Your screen test confirmed that the camera loves you and your resume is excellent.”

  Brandon took a moment to digest the unexpected news. “If I signed on, what would you expect me to do?”

  Joe slid a copy of the Falling For Mr. Right contract across the table. “The show will air over a period of two weeks. This gives you fourteen days to decide who you want to marry among the thirty women we introduce you to.

  Brandon’s mouth went completely dry. How could he possibly fall for anyone that fast? He took a sip of coffee and kept his expression bland, waiting for his brain to click back into the ‘on’

  position. “How often would I be filmed?”

  Joe looked Brandon straight in the eye. “Brandon, I want to be completely upfront with you today, before you agree to sign anything.”

  Brandon nodded for Joe to continue.