Hey, y’all! I’m BA Tortuga, resident redneck and country music junkie. Hollis is a hard-core, country-fried rocker who’s had a few too many sausage biscuits and beers. His management has hired him a trainer. :-D
Without Hollis’ knowledge.
Much love, y’all.
About the Book
Acclaimed musician Hollis Lee is a little bit rock, a little bit country, and a lot in need of some TLC to mend the years of hardcore partying that threatens to ruin his career. Hollis’s manager, Charlie, has the perfect solution in mind.
Personal trainer Jeremy is even-keeled and nothing if not professional—which means doing his job, getting Hollis back to his fighting weight, and ignoring his fierce attraction to the rock star.
Turns out Hollis has a harder time resisting Jeremy than giving up sausage biscuits and cheeseburgers, but succumbing to temptation could end both of their careers. While Hollis is on tour, no one questions Jeremy’s presence, and that means plenty of time to sneak away for some steamy fun on the tour bus. But when an accident separates them, how will they sustain the relationship that’s starting to mean so much?
[zilla_button url=”https://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/books/living-in-fast-forward-by-ba-tortuga-8956-b” style=”blue” size=”large” type=”round” target=”_blank”] Available October 6th From Dreamspinner Press [/zilla_button]
Hollis went back to his bed and sat, head in his hands. His head was gonna explode.
Fucking Charlie Gill. If he hadn’t made a career for Hollis out of a decent voice and a desire to entertain, Hollis would fire the asshole.
That little trainer was just… perky. Obnoxious. Little dog yapping at the heels of a Great Dane. It was gonna kill him.
He flopped back on the bed, wanting a beer, a biscuit, and a bath. In that order. Maybe he still had some smokes tucked away… aha. Secret panel. Score!
He lit up, letting the smoke trickle out his nose, deciding he could wait until tomorrow to kill the little guy.
“Oh, I so don’t think so. You sing for a living, man. You want to hack through a song?” The cigarette was pulled right out of his lips, and a peanut butter sandwich was pushed into his hands.
Hollis stared. It was like a surreal universe he’d been dropped in. It seemed like his bus. Looked like his stuff. But it had to be Wonderland or something. “I want you to leave me alone.”
“You have an hour. Then we work out.” The little shit was lean but quick, scooting across the room to snag his smokes and get out of his reach just like that. “Wear something comfortable.”
“Christ. Get out.” He’d spend the hour sleeping. After he wolfed down the sandwich. He could hear the bastard whistling, the sound tuneless and irritating and grating. Pulling his pillow over his head, Hollis sacked out. If that was the only way he could escape, then so be it.
The pounding on the door woke him, the rhythm matching the pounding of his head. “Time’s up. Move, old man.”
“Fuck you, fucker. I’m sick.” He was going to eat that little fuck and puke him back up. That would be the best hangover cure ever.
“I told you, man. You said you’d get up. It’s time.”
“No.” He just wasn’t gonna do it. No way.
“Are you sure? You said an hour.”
“I know what I said!” Goddammit. He was a man of his word. It was the one honest thing he’d held on to in his whole fucking lie of a career. Hollis rolled up off the bed, wavering a bit before bolting to the little bathroom.
When he finished brushing his teeth, he came on out and grabbed some soft shorts. “Okay, you have a half hour.”
“Excellent. You have any exercise you like?” The little fuck looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, all in loose white clothes. Jackass.
“Sex.” There. Let the little fuck mull that over. Goddamn, his hands were shaking.
“Well, I don’t like you that well yet. How about weights?”
About the Author
Texan to the bone and an unrepentant Daddy’s Girl, BA Tortuga spends her days with her basset hounds and her beloved wife, texting her sisters, and eating Mexican food. When she’s not doing that, she’s writing. She spends her days off watching rodeo, knitting and surfing Pinterest in the name of research. BA’s personal saviors include her wife, Julia Talbot, her best friend, Sean Michael, and coffee. Lots of coffee. Really good coffee.
Having written everything from fist-fighting rednecks to hard-core cowboys to werewolves, BA does her damnedest to tell the stories of her heart, which was raised in Northeast Texas, but has heard the call of the high desert and lives in the Sandias. With books ranging from hard-hitting GLBT romance, to fiery menages, to the most traditional of love stories, BA refuses to be pigeon-holed by anyone but the voices in her head. Find her on the web at www.batortuga.com