Trent Donavan is the golden boy of the rock world. As lead singer of Three Ugly Guys, he’s every fangirl’s dream, and with his newfound fame the women flow as readily as alcohol and drugs. There’s no doubt women are Trent’s preferred indulgence after a successful show.
That is, until the feisty little blonde joins the tour.
Lexi Marx loves music. It runs in her blood and flows through her soul. As the illegitimate daughter of a rock legend, she’s determined to make it in the music industry on talent alone. So when her agent scores her the opening act gig for the next 3UG tour it seems her hard work, hopes, and dreams have finally come to fruition.
Until she spends time with the band. More accurately, Trent Donovan. She’d feel better if that arrogant manwhore of a lead singer would stop hitting on her with his dreamy eyes, witty comebacks, and voice that melts the most jagged of hearts.
But Trent is determined to prove to Lexi he’s not such a bad guy, and as music binds their friendship, Lexi’s left with the most confusing of emotions. Could this be love or an uninvited distraction? She can still have it all, if only her heart doesn’t lead her off track.
Enjoy this excerpt from lead singer of Three Ugly Guys, Trent Donavan from Kacey Shea’s rock star romance, Detour:
The dive is actually charming inside, with its retro fifties décor and twenty-four-seven breakfast menu. The crowd is popping for a weekday lunch, and with its location in the heart of downtown I take that as a sign the food will be good.
A no-nonsense waitress leads us to an empty booth near the back.
“This okay?” Her tone dares us to suggest it’s not . . . and end up with spit in our meal.
“Perfect. Thanks.” Lexi slides into the seat across from me. The waitress points to where the menus are nestled between the table and a dish of creamer, sugar packs, and other condiments.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll have a glass of orange juice,” Lexi says and then glances at me. “And I don’t need to see the menu. I’m ready to order. If you are?”
“Yeah.” I’m surprised, since most people scan the menu before deciding on their meal.
“A stack of plain pancakes. Please,” she says.
“You want the half or the full?” our server asks without looking up from her notepad.
“Full, please.” Lexi smiles.
The waitress pauses to glance at Lexi and raise her brows. “Mmm’kay. And for you?” She nods my direction more than asks.
“Same. Except coffee for me.”
“’Kay.” She turns and leaves without a backward glance.
“I don’t know how you do that,” I say.
“What? I can eat a lot of food. Especially pancakes. Don’t judge me by my size.”
I grin. “Not that. I’m talking about ordering orange juice.”
“You don’t like OJ?” she asks as if I’m the crazy one.
“I do. But you have no idea the pulp situation. Does it have none, or extra? How can you order a glass without knowing the level of pulp?”
She laughs and at that moment our server comes back to set down our drinks. “Pancakes’ll be up shortly.”
“I take it you’re not a fan of pulp.” Lexi observes and takes a sip from her drink.
I eye her from over the brim of my mug. “That obvious?”
She laughs and sets down her glass. “You’ll be happy to know there’s a low pulp situation going on. We’re safe here.”
“Thank God!” I bug my eyes and delight in the way her lips lift in a comfortable smile. Not forced or guarded. I like this Lexi. “Hey, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since we met.”
Her shoulders straighten just the slightest and I can’t help but kick myself for chasing away some of her ease. “You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want. Just call me curious.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes but her lips twitch up with the trace of a smile. “Shoot.”
“Why Marx?” The words leave my mouth and I instantly regret the question.
Her eyes drop and her jaw hardens with her frown. She studies the patterned Formica table and traces her fingertips along the silver plated fork and spoon atop her paper napkin. Fuck. She was just starting to open up. Talk to me. Now she’s like ice. I should apologize. Or make a joke. An inappropriate one about her luscious breasts. Yes, then she’ll get angry. Angry I can do.
“Don’t laugh,” she warns.
My gaze snaps up to watch her still playing with the silverware. “Okay.”
I reach my hand across the table and set my fingers next to the napkin. “Pinky promise.” I wiggle my finger and her lips soften as though she wants to smile. “I won’t tell a soul.”
Her pinky slides along mine, and the soft brush of her tiny finger against my much bigger one kicks up my pulse. Her hands are so delicate and skilled, and fuck if my dick isn’t already making my tight jeans irritably uncomfortable. She squeezes her finger and I barely lock mine with hers before she pulls her hands back into her lap.
“I was a child. I can’t be held responsible.” She glances around the room before her gaze settles back to me. “But I had a major crush on Richard Marx.”
“The singer?” I press my lips together because I’m certain there’s a smile stretching across my face.
Lexi’s glare confirms my suspicion. “Not a word. You promised.”
“I won’t. It’s cute. What were you, like five?”
“More like twelve.”
“But you’re only twenty-three, right? Wasn’t Marx big in the late eighties, early nineties?”
“Yeah, well, my mom loved his music so we listened to it a lot.”
“You’re telling me your stage name is a shout out to the guy who romanced millions of women with his piano and soft rock ballads, all from a little childhood crush?”
“Don’t judge, okay. I was a kid.” Even she can’t hold back a laugh.
“Not judging, just finding the connection rather shallow for a woman who does everything with great meaning.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to compliment or insult me.”
I wink. “Compliment. Go with the positive.”
“You’re delusional.” She throws up her hands.
“Says the Marx diehard fan!”
“Look. It’s more than that,” she grumbles and when I tilt my head she shakes hers, her next words leaving her lips in a rush. “God, I can’t believe I’m telling you this . . . When I was a young girl I had this ridiculously famous rock star dad. One who was a horrible father. One who never remembered to call or visit, and who made my mom cry herself to sleep. One who made her waste her entire youth devoted to a man who didn’t give two shits about us.
When I listened to “Right Here Waiting,” I used to pretend that my dad wasn’t Richie Sands. That my mom had gotten it all wrong. I imagined my father was Richard Marx and he was singing that song to us—my mom and me. That he loved us.” She gave a short pause. “So as soon as I turned eighteen, I legally changed my last name to Marx.”
“Two big stacks.” Our server interrupts by setting down our plates with a clatter. “Refills?”
“Yes, please,” Lexi answers. However, I can’t seem to move my gaze from her eyes. The green shines a little too brightly under the florescent lights while she pours way too much syrup on her pancakes. She continues with her meal as if she hadn’t just shared something completely intimate and personal.
“Syrup?” Lexi holds the jug over my stack and I quickly grab it from her hands.
“I’ve got it, Sugar Tits! You’ll give me diabetes if I let you pour.”
“What? I like syrup with my pancakes!”
“I can see that.” I grin and douse my stack with a conservative amount before cutting a few bites with the side of my fork. “So, when you’re not basking in pancake griddle heaven, what other food do you enjoy this much?”
“Chinese, Thai, Sushi. I love them all. But there’s nothing like a stack of pancakes.” Lexi shovels in another mouthful. A groan of pleasure escapes from where her lips lock around the fork. Fork me. What I wouldn’t give to be a piece of cutlery.
“And don’t think I didn’t notice the sugar tits comment, either. That nickname ends here.” She points the fork in my direction before taking another bite.
My lips pull up with a big ass grin. “I don’t know . . . ’Cause that I didn’t promise.” I pop in a mouthful of pancakes.
She shakes her head, rolls those eyes, and takes a sip of juice. “Hey, Trent.” She glances down at her plate, using her fork to push around the sopping mess she’s made of a perfectly delicious breakfast.
“I never said thank you.” She lifts her gaze and those eyes pierce me with their sincerity. “Thank you.”
I lick my lips and take a big gulp of coffee. “You’re welcome. For what exactly?”
She smiles and taps her fork against the plate. “Why did you bring me on your bus in Oklahoma?”
That night fills me with sadness and I rub my hands through my hair. “To keep you safe.”
“That’s it? No ulterior motives?”
“Lexi, that night, I . . . There was no way I was letting you sleep in Big Betty. Not after what happened. What could have happened. No. I just needed to keep you safe. The best way to do that was in our bus. Simple.”
She scoops up her drenched pancake and brings it to her lips. Oh, those damn lips. “Well, then, thank you,” she whispers before the food goes inside her mouth and she does the groan again.
It’s all I can do to not pounce over the table, claim those lips, and join her in the sound.
“And thanks for not trying to get in my pants.” She grins, wider now, and I feel as though she’s playing some kind of mindfuck game. She’s gotta be on to me, inside my head, knowing I’ve been thinking unprofessional thoughts throughout this entire breakfast.
“Who says I’m not trying to do that?” I go with humor, always my best defense, and it works when she laughs aloud.
“You’re such a manwhore.”
“You got me.” I join in her laugher and pray my little obsession with her mouth dissipates the further into this tour we go. Lexi is a cool chick, more down to earth than I ever imagined, and she deserves the best. More than I could ever give, that much is true.
Pick up your copy to find out what happens next! Detour is available now from Amazon Kindle or read free with your Kindle Unlimited subscription.
Kacey Shea is a mom of three, wife, and indie author who resides in sunny Arizona. She enjoys reading and writing romance novels as much as her son loves unicorns, which is a lot.
When she’s not writing you will find her playing taxi cab to her children while belting out her favorite tunes, meeting friends or family for food and to share some laughs, or sweating it out in the gym. Kacey finds that picking up heavy weights repeatedly is good for her mental health as much as it is for the physical.
She has an unhealthy obsession with firefighters. It could be the pants. It could be the fire. It’s just hot. On occasion she has been known to include them, without their knowledge, in her selfies outside the grocery store.
Kacey one day aspires to be a woman hand model in a sexy photo shoot. You know, the woman’s hand raking across the muscular back or six pack stomach of the male fitness model. Yep, that hand.
Until that day comes she will continue writing sexy, flirty romance novels in hopes to bring others joy!
Kacey enjoys interacting with her fans so please feel free to stalk her on Facebook, Instagram or Twitter.