On the outside, Jet is a typical rocker, an arrogant lead guitarist who unapologetically lives a wild lifestyle. But on the inside, he’s battling demons and using the stage to escape the troubles of his past and the addictions of his present. Until the night he sees Violet standing at the back of the room. She brings his life into focus. She knows his secrets. She’s the girl he can’t forget, and the one thing he craves more than his addiction.
But can they ever hope to have a future when their very foundation is nothing but lies?
Despite my better judgment, I do it. I look up and up and up until I reach a blue so fathomless I feel like I could dive into and never reach the bottom. Like I could drown and never even know it.
But I can’t do that. I can’t dive in. Not with a guy like this. I’ve seen what someone like this can do to a person—turn that which was once whole and capable into nothing more than scattered pieces of wreckage and ruin.
“I’m Jet,” he offers softly, his eyes never leaving mine.
Jet. Even his name is sexy, which makes me more uncomfortable.
Ridiculous! my rational, level-headed, slightly bitter side scoffs. It pipes up with its less bedazzled perspective, reminding me that guys like this are nothing more than predators. The love ’em and leave ’em type. And he’s obviously worse than most, as evidenced by his attendance here. Apparently, he’s got a real problem.
I give him a tight smile as I straighten away from him. “Violet. Nice to meet you,” I say, hurrying to continue. “Excuse me please.”
I slip on my familiar, no-nonsense persona like a protective shield, like the armor that has kept me from harm all these years. It has never failed me before; I don’t expect it to now.
My head is high, my spine is rigid, and my imperviousness is firmly in place as I move past the dark and damaged stranger. With every step I take, I determine to put him out of my mind and never think of him again.
Until he speaks once more. His words make dents in my breastplate like armor-piercing rounds.
“It’s short,” he calls from a few steps behind me.
Confused, I turn.
Knowing I shouldn’t, still I turn.
“My name. It’s short.”
“Short for what?”
I watch as he moves toward me, narrowing the space I only just created. He stops within inches and bends slightly forward, one side of his mouth pulling up into a self-deprecating grin. “Jethro.”
And, just like that, he’s human. And vulnerable. And slightly imperfect. And even more dangerous to me than he was before.
About the Author:
For more about M. Leighton, visit her website at www.MLeightonBooks.blogspot.com or follow her on Twitter@mleightonbooks.