Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
The fame, the crowds, the fans, the spotlight.
I just wanted it all to go away.
I've been on top of the country music charts for twenty years.
And I was ready to give it all up.
I was ready to give up on myself.
Until she walked into my life like a ray of sunshine lighting up my dark world.
Lola Lively.
The hottest new thing in country.
The hottest thing I'd ever seen.
With a voice so full of life it made my dead heart beat again.
I should stay away.
I'm too old, too jaded, and too damn wrecked.
But from the second I laid eyes on her, I knew I didn't have a choice.
I knew I had to have her.
I knew she was already mine.
I may be almost twice her age, but I'll be her first.
Her only.
Her forever.
She saved my life.
Now I'm gonna give her mine.
Lola has been in love with Cash Edwards since the moment she first heard his deep, raspy voice drawling out of her speakers. But when she meets him in person will she be able to handle this hot, Over-The-Top, possessive alpha?
SAFE age-gap romance, no cheating, and a sweet HEA.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Cash
“Cash, they’re waiting for you!” my manager Bret shouts as he bangs on my door. I can hear all one hundred thousand of them out there, roaring like an ocean as I roll my eyes and slowly get up. “Cash! Get the fuck out here! CASH!!”
I take one last swig from my bottle and one last haul from my cigarette before crushing the butt into the ashtray.
“Don’t fucking do this to me again,” Bret shouts in between pounds on the door. “Or you can find yourself a new goddamn manager!”
I open the door to his red puffy face. “You’ve been saying that for the past twenty years.”
“Yeah,” he says as he turns around with a grunt. “So, you can imagine how fucking fed up I am with your bullshit.”
The crowd is going nuts. They’re screaming out there, waiting for me. Fucking idiots.
“What is this shit again?” I ask as I follow Bret to the stage. We’re not going the same speed at all, so he has to double back.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He clenches his jaw and grabs a fistful of his hair, looking like he’s going to rip it out. The poor fuck. It hasn’t been easy being my manager for the past two decades. I should fire him to put him out of his misery. It would be the humane thing to do. He’s definitely made enough money off me over the years to retire in luxury. Maybe he’s a masochist who loves the pain. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll get bored roaming around his mansion with no one to scream at. Or maybe he’s just addicted to me.
“This is the goddamn Tennessee Country Festival,” he says, staring at me like I’m a total moron.
“We’re in Tennessee?” Shit. I thought we were in Texas.
“Yes, we’re in Tennessee!” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “The biggest country festival in the world! Three days! Over fifty artists performing! Over one hundred thousand people in attendance. Hello?!?”
“We need Cash on stage now,” a severe-looking woman says as she comes running over. “He was supposed to be on seven minutes ago and it’s throwing everything off!”
“He’s going on now,” Bret says, trying to calm her down. “Sorry about that.”
A member of my crew hands me my guitar and I throw it over my shoulder like it’s a part of me. After all of these years, it feels like an extension of my body. Like another limb.
I walk up the steel steps and get a glimpse of the crowd. So many of them. They look so happy. So excited. I can’t remember the last time I felt like that.
Bret grabs my black shirt just before I’m about to step on stage. “You have the setlist?”
“Shit, no.”
My band is already on stage. The bass guitarist is looking at me like ‘What the fuck?’
“Here,” Bret says as he hands me a cue card with the songs on it. I take one glance at it and want to throw up.
The same fourteen songs. Over and over and over and over and fucking over again.
I hate these songs. I fucking loathe them.
Sometimes I wish I would go deaf so I wouldn’t have to hear them ever again, but I know that’s not true. Every single note is burned into my brain and they’ll still be playing on repeat until the wonderful day that I die.
Until then, it’s Up Shit’s Creek and Hometown Hunny on repeat for me.
I sigh as I turn back to the stage.
“Cash!” Bret calls out. I turn to him. “A little enthusiasm this time. Please.”
I grunt and then shuffle onto the stage.
The crowd is deafening. Over one hundred thousand morons screaming at me.
Shut the fuck up, I want to scream. All of you.
I stand in front of the mic and they get even louder. I hope those rain clouds in the distance come this way and drench them all. Now that would be a show.
I clear my throat into the mic and they holler like chimps.
“Hello, Tennessee,” I say. More screaming. “I’m Cash Edwards and this is Broken Rancher.”
The drummer, Mike or Mark or whatever the fuck the new guy’s name is, starts playing and a tsunami of screams from the ocean of idiots comes surging at us.
I grin, wondering what would happen if instead of singing I start railing into them. Telling them exactly what I think of them. These fans are a curse. They’ve ruined my life. I can’t even get a pack of cigarettes without getting mobbed by a dozen recording phones shoved into my face. I’m a fucking prisoner. My life is a joke.
I got no one. I got nothing. Yeah, I have cars and houses and far too many fucking watches for someone with only two wrists. Why are people always giving me watches? I can’t even go into a business meeting without coming out with a goddamn new shiny gold watch. I don’t even wear watches.