Title: The Forbidden Muse
Series: Inferno Falls, #2
Author: Aubrey Parker
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Genres: New Adult, Romance
Publication date: November 10th 2015
BLURB supplied by Xpresso Book Tours
Gavin might just be the music that Abigail yearns for … if only his painful past will allow him to love again.
Just a few months after arriving at Inferno Falls, Abigail can’t see the light at the end of her tunnel. No one can complain about being overworked and broke when the rest of the country’s the same way, but that doesn’t make it any easier when Abigail has to live the story every day. It’s not the work or the meager lifestyle she minds. Abigail wants something more…something inspired…something raw.
Gavin is a grieving musician trying to re-find his inspiration. He’s mourning a crushing loss, and life has become too mundane, too typical, to give him the material for songs that used to come so easy. What could he expect to find in Inferno Falls that would truly stir his heart? After all, he’s been shattered by love too many times to find any comfort in a woman’s arms.
The song begins…
Strings play the moment they meet in Abigail’s section of the Nosh Pit, Inferno Falls’ latest and hippest restaurant, and their pulses thunder like a drumbeat from the moment their eyes touch. Abigail feels a stirring in her heart she never expected, while Gavin goes home to pour his inspiration into music.
But despite their obvious harmony, Gavin’s past won’t let anyone get too close. And after years of heartache, Abigail doesn’t have time for anyone who seems like they’re just playing around. Together they’ll have to learn to sing in chorus, or let the stage lights fade and bow out of each other’s lives for good.
PURCHASE LINKS
TEASERS
EXCERPT
He’s on a stool in the stages’s middle, just like last
night. He’s monopolizing the entire thing, plopping down, acting like the place
is his personal studio.
He looks up. I don’t have time to look away, and our eyes
meet. Now that I’m trapped, I refuse to look away first. I got the upper hand
at the end of last night, I think, but Gavin ran off with his skank, so it’s
possible he thinks he won. If I’m weak, he might come over and talk to me
again, and I don’t want that. So I hold his gaze, and eventually he looks down.
Not shamefully, though. He puts his fingers on the strings and strums, as if I
barely warrant notice, or a nod, or a smile, or a hello, or any kind of
acknowledgement at all.
I turn back to my bottle chore, but now and again I sneak
glances at Gavin. His bearing is obnoxious. The way he’s sitting, the way he’s
holding the guitar, the brooding way he refuses to look up and seems lost in
the soul of the music — it’s all so obvious. A show. Nothing but
posturing.
I’ll bet he even works on this — not the music he plays,
but the way he uses his body to convey an image of the tortured artist. His
floppy, vaguely hipster sweater hangs down over faded blue jeans. He’s still
unshaven, but the stubble looks exactly the same length as yesterday. His hair
is still a mess, but again it strikes me as a contrived mess, like he’s
mussed it for effect.
He probably takes video of himself then plays it back
like a coach reviewing past games.
Was I moody enough? Or could I lift an eyebrow
or shake my head slowly, to be more sultry, to get more girls excited?
It’s not working on me, that’s for sure.
I look back. Gavin’s head comes up. Again, he looks right
at me as he plays. It’s a mock-sad look. Or maybe a dirty look. Something
designed to manipulate me.
There was probably a point where he could have made nice.
There’s even a part of me, buried beneath a surprisingly thick wall of
resentment, that thinks I might be being unreasonable. Since last night, I’ve
had no new Gavin inputs — nothing new he’s had a chance to do wrong. Still,
I’ve grown increasingly annoyed with him, and as I listen it’s hard not to
consider the possibility that he’s done nothing new, and that I’ve been
building my case in his absence. All it’s taken for him to seem more repugnant
since last night was to know he exists.
But the longer we don’t speak, the further we move from
possible resolution.
He could have said hello when he came in, before he
started playing. I wouldn’t have run to him and given him a hug, but it might
have dulled my edge.
He could have given me a smile, without saying a thing.
Smiles can say a lot. I’d probably have taken his as, I’m still a weasel and
I want to get into your panties, but it would have been friendlier than
this.
What is he trying to prove, rehearsing in the main room?
There are only four or five people in here at any time, and he’s directly
across from me, out of all of them.
Does he need us to hear his brilliance? How amazing he is
on the guitar, playing his … his …
I don’t know the tune he’s been strumming over and over
since he sat down. That’s not surprising. I may have Googled him this morning,
and I may have listened to every Firecracker Confession tune I could find on
YouTube — even a bootleg of their unreleased album, Brutal Design — but
I don’t know all of his songs.
I do see, now, that most of what he plays is recycled
Firecracker content, though. But this isn’t any of that. Last night, I’m pretty
sure his entire rehearsal and set was just the YouTube songs, stripped of
lyrics and played acoustic.
I may have listened to every Firecracker Confession song
twice this morning, then hit a few more between shifts. I don’t know everything
he’s ever done, but I don’t think this was ever on YouTube.
I have to admit it’s catchy, though I can tell he’s still
playing with its shape. There’s little beyond the hook, but I can sense it
fleshing out a bit with each replay. As I stew with my back to Gavin, turning
bottles that have already been turned, I find myself wanting to hear it again.
And I can almost hear words, though he’s not singing any.
The words are in my head. The kind of refrain my idle brain will attribute to
just about any rhythm — a recurring pattern of footsteps, the predictable drip
of rain from a leaky gutter.
The repeated chord progression stops, and the room seems
too quiet. I take a few seconds before I turn to see why, sure that Gavin will
be walking over, wanting to bug me as he did last night before and after
showing his true colors. Good. I’ve been rehearsing witty, cutting
responses all day.
But he’s not even looking in my direction. There’s a
young guy onstage with him. A kid in a hoodie with short, bristle-cut hair. He
looks about my age, maybe midtwenties. But even the motions of his hands as he
talks to Gavin tells me that his words have a maturity beyond his years. And, I
suspect, that I’m witnessing a discussion these two have had many times before.
I’m staring too long and don’t want Gavin to look over
and take my look for interest, so I spin and head toward the back room, hoping
to find someone to ease my mind of all this confused, disturbing emotion.
I walk away, realizing I’m humming Gavin’s tune.
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