Something to Believe In
Ella Fox
Release Date: August 16, 2016
The newest Rock Star
Romance by Ella Fox Releases on August 16th!
Add Series to your TBR on Goodreads
Blurb
A rock star with millions of adoring fans.
A country girl with a broken heart.
Rock star, Tyson Allen, is the hilarious, in-your-face bass
player for one of the world's most popular bands. Behind his funny-guy exterior
hides a tragic past full of unbearable horror. After turning to drugs and
alcohol to numb the pain, Tyson hit rock bottom on a New York City sidewalk.
For several minutes, Tyson Allen was gone--dead. And now, he's trying to
rebuild a life he nearly lost. He found a way to move forward and live life—a
way he was comfortable with. All was going according to plan until he met the
new assistant for his band.
In an instant, everything changes.
Daisy Hammond has a slew of her own tragedies. And the last
thing she needs is a crush on one of America's rock legends. But unlike Tyson,
her kind and generous heart refuses to push people away. Working with the band
isn't easy as Tyson doesn't want anything to do with her. Despite his
standoffish and rude demeanor, Daisy can't deny the pull she has for him.
Determined to stay away from the bass player with an attitude, she goes about
her business without getting in his way. But one night, their desire for one
another erupts. Now it's up to Daisy to pull Ty out of his shell before the
tour ends and they go their separate ways. Will she find a way to break down
Ty's walls before it's too late?
Excerpt
Prologue
Rock bottom was an
alley in New York City where I, a strung out junkie asshole, pissed myself and
twitched like a bitch as I lost control of my body. It seemed fitting
considering how I’d lost control of everything else. My path had always been
leading me to a busted piece of concrete beside a filthy dumpster of rank
smelling garbage.
For me, being a
junkie was all about one thing—the fucking sound that defined my life. It was a
return to home, but getting there was a raging bitch with sharp claws and
razor-like teeth. It hurt like a motherfucker and broke what was left of my
spirit piece by miserable piece, but I did it anyway. Pay to fucking play, I
thought. Honestly, back then I’d have shot up battery acid if it meant I’d have
five goddamn seconds of peace.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
I could feel my
heartbeat of course, but when I was high, I could hear it, too,
thump-thump-thumping in my ears. It was a steady series of bass notes that
reminded me of better times. Of home. Of
safety and laughter. Later my home became the stuff of nightmares, a prison of
terror and mind-fucking cruelty that could never, ever be forgotten. That part
of my life I was able to tap into without drugs, since it lived and breathed
inside of me every minute of every day—until I started shooting up. Once that
shit hit my veins I’d cruise to numb before floating off. It fucking sucked, especially the aftermath,
but those few seconds of nothing were like an oasis in the desert of my
life. It was killing me, but I didn’t
care. Of course, I’d been banking on my lifetime
not being very long at all.
Which is why I wasn’t
even a little upset as I twitched on the sidewalk and sensed death hovering
over me.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Ba-dum.
I hadn’t just raced
toward my own demise; I’d also been busy inviting it in. Hell, I’d all but sent out engraved
invitations and by my estimation, death had been passing me over for far too
long.
As I twitched on the
pavement, ready to have it all be over, I felt something around me shift.
I knew she was there
because I’d smelled her Loves Baby Soft perfume. When she spoke, she was right next to me,
close enough for me to feel her hand when it covered mine. I also felt her head
as it set down on my chest, just over my heart.
“I love this sound,”
she murmured.
For a moment, her
sweet voice warmed the coldest place inside of me. My eyes were at half-mast as I tried and
failed to let her know I remembered how much she loved the sound of a beating
heart. It wasn’t something I could ever forget.
“Dad always said the
rhythm of the heart was musical.”
My heart, which I
imagined was like a sandbox made of broken and worn down glass, cracked in my
chest. I wanted to respond, but words were too difficult to form. My tongue
wouldn't cooperate.
“I know what you’re
doing, and you have to stop,” she whispered.
“This isn't okay. It’s almost too late.”
God, I hoped so.
Ba…dum.
Ba…dum.
Ba…dum.
“It doesn't sound
good.”
She was right. The sound was slow and unsteady. I heard the
concern in her voice, but couldn't find it in me to care about the state I was
in.
She expelled a heavy
sigh.
“What’s coming is
going to hurt,” she warned.
I dealt in hurt the
way some people dealt cards, so threatening pain was laughable. I was on a
first name basis with it, which meant it didn’t scare me in the least. It had been years since I’d felt anything
consistently other than agony. I tried to fake it sometimes, tried to pretend I
was experiencing happiness—but when I was alone, all of the subterfuge
disappeared. I wasn't happy and I didn’t
see how I ever could be.
Not with what I’d
seen.
Not after what I’d
lost.
Ba.
Dum.
Ba.
Dum.
Ba.
Dum.
The rhythm of the
beat was gone. In its absence was a
series of discordant thumps without rhyme or reason.
Suddenly, light
surrounded me. I was relieved because it surely meant my hell was almost over.
I wasn't even a little bit sad. The light
brought no warm feeling with it, and I thought I heard terse sounding voices,
but I didn’t let it upset me. Everyone
knew when you saw the light, you were meant to go toward it.
Finally, I thought, I
was going home.
“It doesn’t work this
way,” she told me. “Doing this—you don't
get to go where you want to go. It’s not your time.”
I wanted to answer,
but I couldn't open my mouth. Why wasn’t it ever my time? Why couldn’t I make
the choice?
“Nothing can change
what happened,” she said firmly. “Stop trying to check out of life, Tyson.”
My mind was screaming
in agony and I wanted to tell her she didn’t know what it was like to have gone
through what I did. She didn’t know how
it felt to be so horribly alone.
“I’m always with
you,” she assured me. “We all are. Stop chasing death and start living—if not
for yourself, then for me. For us.”
I think I whimpered
then, like a small boy hiding from monsters beneath his bed.
“Help is here,” she
announced.
I felt her lips
against my cheek, and it made me want to cry. I didn't want help—I needed it
all to be over. It felt like the end was close—I couldn't hear my heartbeat
anymore.
“You’ll never see me
again if you don't fight,” she told me. “Stop trying to kill yourself and
realize that life is a gift.”
If I’d been able to,
I would have cursed. It sure as hell didn’t feel like a gift to me.
“Because you're
letting the pain win,” she said sadly. “This is your last chance. Take it.”
I wondered how she
knew that, but then I lost the ability to form coherent thoughts since my body
felt like it was on fire. Pain slashed
through my veins like razorblades being chased by molten lava, and no area of
my body was immune. Even my eyelids felt
dry and scorched. I wanted to scream my
lungs out, to beg for it to end, but I couldn’t move. The Loves Baby Soft smell
of her faded away, replaced by an acrid stench that burned my nostrils.
I thought I was in
hell. Regardless of whether I could go
home or not, I didn’t think I had the wherewithal to withstand the amount of
pain ricocheting through my body like a thousand bullets. My ribs and chest hurt so badly, I wished I
could just stop feeling. I’d foolishly
believed my utter lack of care or concern about my life meant death would be
easy.
It wasn’t.
Death, I found, was
brutal business.
The torture seemed to
last an eternity and through it all, I was unable to communicate. My eyes stayed closed, and my mouth wouldn’t
form words. I couldn’t even lift a
hand. If I’d been able to, I would’ve
shoved whoever was touching me far, far away.
Being fried from the inside out was hell on earth and I wondered why the
fuck it wasn’t stopping.
How the hell could
she have called what was happening to me help?
Right then the only
thing I knew for sure was that if being helped hurt that much, I preferred to
go without the aid.
About Ella Fox
Ella Fox writes like
a woman possessed whenever she gets the chance!
She is the author of The Hart Family
Series, The
Renegade Saints Series and The Catch
Series.
When she’s not writing, Ella indulges the gypsy in her blood
and travels the country. Ella loves
reading, movies, music, buying make-up, reading Tmz, Twitter and pedicures… not
necessarily in that order. She has a wild sense of humor and loves to
laugh. Her favorite thing in the world
is hanging out with her family and watching comedy movies.
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