Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43681 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
She never expected to fall for the tattooed bartender with a filthy mouth who shares her proclivities and tastes.
Gunner Shaw grew up with a guitar in his hand and a love-hate relationship with the country music dynasty life he was born into. Forever the outsider, battling a past which haunts him and working for a future he’s unsure he even wants. Until sinfully scandalous pop star Cash saunters into his bar, making him crave depraved acts that would scandalize his small little town.
One night of primal need unleashes new passions and pushes unconventional boundaries, opening a world of possibilities.
*Broken Strings is a stand-alone*
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Prologue
Cash
International pop sensation Cash Leigh is nothing more than a slut.
Okay, so she didn’t call me a slut. I believe the words she used were “promiscuous jezebel.” The wife of a prominent reverend turned politician wouldn’t dare utter the word slut. Two weeks ago, the woman was using one of my songs to push her husband’s senate campaign—a campaign I wanted nothing to do with. But when you don’t have the rights to your first three albums, you don’t get a say in how the songs are used and by whom.
“Come on, Cash. You can’t just leave it all behind,” my manager, Pete, says as he unpacks everything I’ve been throwing into the bag.
I follow him, picking up everything and shoving it into the ridiculous fuchsia suitcase with sequins all over it. I’d prefer a plain black suitcase if it were up to me, but Cash Leigh vomits pink everywhere she goes.
Pete grabs the end of a black Neil Young hoodie and tugs to pry it from my grip. “It’ll blow over. You know how they are. As soon as they sniff the stench of another scandal, they’ll move on, and all this will be yesterday’s news.”
“I’m not sticking around to let the leeches feed off me anymore. If this were DiCaprio, people would’ve already put it behind them. It’s ten times worse for women. Don’t deny it. Apparently, we’re supposed to stay virgins until we marry some jerk and cook and clean for an ungrateful dick for the rest of our lives.”
Pete tilts his head and gazes at me as if I’m road kill on the side of the highway.
The action enrages me. I tug hard on the sweater sleeve and whip it out of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve hated this shit for years. I wanted to make music that mattered, and instead, I was packaged into a cookie-cutter pop singer to make being a woman palatable to the masses. This shit has been killing my soul for years. There are only so many times I can get up on stage and shake my ass or sing meaningless lyrics about how I need a man.” I put the sweater back in my bag.
“Cash, you’re at the height of your career. You have five number-one hits. We need to keep the momentum. We still have to give the label an answer about when we’re going back into the studio. If you get back to work on the next album, I’m sure all this will be done with when the record drops.”
“What isn’t getting into your thick skull, Pete? They busted me on tape, living out a rape fantasy. No one is forgetting anything.”
“Everyone has already forgotten about the latest Tammy Livingston scandal.”
“I’m not a nepo baby internet celebrity who made a sex tape and married one of the richest rap stars in the industry. She wasn’t America’s sweetheart, caught on camera doing unsavory things. I’m sure the Karens have already worn out their pearls from clutching them so hard.”
I shake my head. Poor Pete. After twenty years in the industry, he’s still green around the gills when it comes to double standards. In the music business, men can do anything, say anything, and act without sounding alarms. A female has a bad hair day, and it’s the end of her career.
They caught me on tape fucking a thrusting dildo machine and licking a paid hooker’s shoe while he called me a slut. I should count my lucky stars that it wasn’t worse because that guy was tame. To be honest, they’re all tame. I say harder, and all they do is pull my hair. I tell them I want to be degraded, and the only word they think to use is “slut.” It’s anticlimactic. You’d think a professional sex worker would get the job done. It makes me wonder what a girl has to do to be fucked like a rag doll and humiliated like trash.
“No one is going to let this go. I mean, look at what happened to poor Britney, and she’s done nothing near as bad as those tapes.”