Release Day Blitz : Very Twisted Things - Ilsa Madden-Mills
RELEASE BLITZ
Very Twisted Things
A Standalone Briarcrest Academy Novel #3
Author:
New York Times best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills
Introductory price of $2.99
on release day for 24 hours only!
A beautiful violinist
who lives next door…
The obsessed rock star
who watches her...
And the one night she
bares it all.
Description:
Vital Rejects front guy Sebastian Tate never imagined his
YouTube music video would go viral, sky-rocketing him to acting success in
Hollywood. Okay, maybe he did. After all, he’s a cocky dude who knows
he’s hot-as-hell, and it was only a matter of time before his stars aligned.
But life in Tinseltown is never what it seems.
After being cheated on, Sebastian’s only rule to falling in love
is simple: Keep Calm and Don’t Do It. Spying on his mysterious new
neighbor with binoculars seems innocent enough, but quickly escalates into an
erotic game between two very unlikely people.
Twenty-year-old Violet St. Lyons is a world-renowned violinist
who's lost her mojo on stage. She hides away in a Hollywood mansion, trying to
find her way through her twisted past in order to make her future.
He’s the life of the party with girls chasing him down for his
autograph. She’s the introvert with a potty mouth who doesn’t even know who
he is.
When they meet, stars collide, sparks fly, and clothes come off.
Yet, giving his heart to a girl isn’t Sebastian’s plan; falling for a guy who
craves attention isn’t Violet’s.
Welcome to Briarcrest Academy—Hollywood style—where sometimes
the best things in life are VERY TWISTED THINGS.
Violet
“Fairy dust is not real. This I know.” —from
the journal of Violet St. Lyons
Boom!
I, Violet St. Lyons,
who once believed herself the luckiest girl in the world, was born on the same
day that the Violette–Sells comet was discovered. My parents, two avid
stargazers, said it was a sign of how special I was and promptly named me
Violet. They claimed my life had been blessed with fairy dust.
At the very least,
comet residue.
I’d foolishly believed
it for eighteen years, until the moment of my death.
Which was now.
Boom! Another explosion
rocked the plane and metal ripped away as a section of the aircraft to my right
vanished. Luggage flew through the air. People disappeared. The mom with the
baby who’d sat in the aisle across from us—gone. The redheaded flight attendant
who’d been collecting trash—gone. Disembodied screams echoed from the
surrounding passengers as my own scream took up most of the space in my head.
Air sucked at us viciously from the outside as a tornado of people banged
around the space and one by one got pulled out into the swirling abyss.
I watched, helplessly
transfixed, as I sat between my parents, gripping each of their hands as the
plane we’d boarded six hours earlier for Dublin spiraled toward the Atlantic
Ocean. I was going to die. My mother was already dead, a twisted piece of
shrapnel sticking grotesquely from her chest as her head lolled around her
neck. Blood had already soaked her shirt, yet I refused to let go of her hand.
She’d be okay. We were always okay. We were the St. Lyons family of Manhattan,
an icon of old money wealth with deep political ties. Page six of the New York
Times featured pictures of us on a monthly basis. We couldn’t die on a
plane.
Reality dawned as we
plummeted. The yellow breathing apparatus dropped and dangled in my face,
taunting me with its pointlessness. Fire and black smoke boiled in front of us
where the cockpit had been, and my mind recognized that the pilots had to be
dead. Just a few minutes ago, they’d come over the intercom and announced that
the plane was making its descent into Dublin Airport exactly on schedule.
Then the first
explosion had gone off.
Bits of debris flew
around, narrowly missing me. My elderly father grabbed my hand and squeezed,
his face drawn back in a horrible grimace.
Paralyzed in my seat,
we spun like a drunken top, and a part of my brain noticed the sun was rising,
its pink tinge lending a soft glow, catching the reflection of clouds and
making them silver-lined. The rocky coast of Ireland glittered in the distance.
Mocking me. We’d been headed there to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.
Just then my violin
case flew past my head from the overhead compartment and crashed against the
wall of the plane. Shards flew. I shuddered and wanted to vomit. God, help us.
We were here because of me. Our deaths were my fault. I spared a glance at the
diamond promise ring Geoff had given me before we’d left.
Would the Mayor of New
York’s son go on without me?
The air was turbulent
yet thin, and my chest tightened as dizziness pulled at me. I resisted. Had to
stay awake. Had to be with my dad. I was younger, stronger, faster. My eyes
went to the gaping hole in the plane. Had to think ahead. Plan. Water would fill
up the plane on impact, ensuring we’d sink rapidly.
My fear escalated as
the ocean rushed at us, its surface choppy and ominous. I took in a giant
breath and braced myself. We hit at an
angle, the plane a torpedo as it sliced into the sea. Daddy disappeared,
ejected by the impact, and I yanked on my seat belt, unclicking it to go after
him. Heart thundering, I sent a final look at my mother. I wanted to take her
with me, but she was gone.
Water
everywhere, bubbling and gurgling as it filled up the plane. Salt water stung
my eyes. People
floated by, some alive as they
floundered for the opening. I kept my gaze off the dead ones. Focus. Get
out. Only seconds left.
I swam from my seat and fought my
way out of the large hole in the plane, lungs exploding. Burning. I’d been
under too long.
Daddy! I caught a glimpse of
his red shirt above me and kicked harder.
Up, up, up. Must get up. My arms
moved. My legs kicked. Excruciating pain. Ignore it. Almost there. So close
that I could see the daylight breaking through the water.
The hottest fire I’ve ever known
lit in my chest. Scorching.
Air. Just want to
breathe. Just get to the top. Please.
My body rebelled and I inhaled
and swallowed water, the burn racing down my throat making it spasm as I tried to
cough it out. I struggled but took in more and more, the cold liquid filling my
lungs.
Dark spots filled my eyes. This
was drowning.
Exhausted.
Done.
My body twitched. I grew
disoriented.
I let go of the fight. My hands
floated in front of me.
Oblivion.
Darkness.
No bright lights, no tunnel.
No heaven, no mother, no father.
No comets.
No fairy dust.
Sebastian
Two years later
“She was music with skin.” —Sebastian
Tate
I tapped my foot.
What
was taking her so long?
From my backyard
patio in the Hollywood Hills, I watched the odd girl next door with a pair of
high-powered binoculars. She flicked on her porch lights, and a low whistle
came out of me at the sexy red-as-sin robe she wore, its silky material
flashing around her long legs as she moved around. Her hair was down, too.
This was new. Where
were the usual yoga pants? The ponytail?
She looked like she knew someone watched, but that was
impossible since our outside lights were off. Even the light from the moon hit
our house at such an angle that she shouldn’t be able to see us just by
glancing over. She’d need a high-powered lens to know I was here.
Usually she played
facing her rose garden, but this time she walked to the right side of her
patio, which faced us. Weird. But she
didn’t play. She just stood there without moving. Staring toward our house. Uneasiness
went over me.
What
was she doing?
Could
she see me?
As if it were a
fragile bird, she positioned the violin under her chin and began playing, arms
bent and wrist poised, making the most exquisite sounds. And I don’t mean
classical like Beethoven or Mozart; I mean body-thrashing, blood-thumping,
hard-as-hell music that had me rooted to the ground, like she’d slapped iron
chains on me.
Dark and seductive
notes rose up in the air, and I got jacked up, recognizing a Led Zeppelin song,
only she’d ripped its guts out and twisted it into something electric. She
pushed the bow hard, upping the tempo abruptly, her movements controlled yet
wild. My pulse kicked up and my eyes lingered, taking in the slightly parted
toned legs and the way her breasts bounced as she jerked her arms to manipulate
the strings.
Her robe slipped off
her right shoulder, exposing part of her breast. Creamy and full, it quivered,
vibrating as she moved her arms. Her rosy nipple teased me, slipping in and out
of the folds of the material. I pictured my mouth there, sucking, my fingers
plucking, strumming her like my guitar until she begged me to—
Stop, I told myself.
Whoever Violin Girl was, she didn’t deserve me lusting after her while she was
pouring her heart out with music.
I zoomed in as far as
the binoculars would go, watching her surrender to the music as she bent and
swayed from side to side with her eyes closed, black lashes like fans on her
cheeks. Every molecule in my body focused on her, hanging on to each note she
pulled from her instrument.
She finished and kept
her head bowed for the longest time, perhaps letting the emotion wash over her
like it had me.
The entire event was
surreal, yet poignant as fucking poetry.
I let out a deep
breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell plays Stairway to Heaven with a violin? She
did.
Bam!
She
snapped her head up, her eyes lasering in on mine, making every hair on my body
stand at attention.
And then …
Standing there in the
moonlight, she untied her robe and spread apart the sides ever so slightly, her
movements seeming almost hesitant, as if she’d had to work herself up.
Unfamiliar jealousy hit me and I panned out and checked the rest of the patio,
expecting to see a lover. Whoever it was, I wanted to rip him apart piece by
piece.
My gaze searched her
patio, the backyard, her upstairs balcony. Nothing. No one.
She flicked her dark
hair back and stroked the lapels of the robe, her fingers lingering over the
lacy material. Suddenly the evening smacked of something more than just music. Her arms moved back and forth across the
front, opening the robe halfway and then closing it as if she couldn’t make up
her mind.
My eyes went up,
trying to read her face. Still as a statue, the only movement was her mouth as
it trembled, her full upper lip resting against the pouty lower one.
Violin Girl was
trapped in a cage of darkness.
It still didn’t stop
me from holding my breath, silently begging her to bare herself to me. She’d
already laid bare her music. Part of me needed the rest of her.
She jerked the robe
closed, making me groan in disappointment.
And then she did
something completely crazy.
The lonely girl next
door flipped me the bird.
©
Ilsa Madden-Mills 2015 Very Twisted Things
Author Bio
New
York Times and USA Today best selling author Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about
strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap.
She’s addicted to dystopian and all things fantasy, including
unicorns and sword-wielding heroines. Other fascinations include frothy coffee
beverages, Instagram, Ian Somerhalder (seriously hot), astronomy (she’s a
Gemini), Sephora make-up, and tattoos.
She has a degree in English and a Master’s in Education.
When she’s not pecking away on her computer, she shops for cool
magnets, paints old furniture, and eats her weight in sushi.
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