Wreck Read online

  WRECK

  DirtSlap Series

  By

  Ashlynn Pearce

  WRECK

  WRECK Copyright © 2015 Ashlynn Pearce

  Digital Edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Published by: Whimsy Notions Press, LLC

  Cover artist: pickymeartist.com

  Cover Models: Lance Jones and Alexandria Rose

  Photography: Mayday Photography

  Editor: Alicia Dean

  Formatting: BB eBooks

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Whimsy Notions Press, LLC.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Use of artists and song titles are done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way be seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  Dedication

  To my man…for always being there. I love you more every day.

  To my writer girls…

  Linda, Nichol, Silver and Jennifer ~ You are the best and always have my back. Your always there to lend an ear and advice and keep me on track. Never letting me give up. LY!

  Writing Wenches ~ Ya’ll are one awesome writing group and I’m so thankful to be a part of it. You support, encourage and give without hesitation. No drama involved. You rock!

  To every person who reads my stories.

  Thank you.

  It’s been a long road getting back and I cherish that you’ve taken the time to buy and read my books.

  Love and happy reading/writing!

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Coming Soon: Krush

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The white house with the chipped paint and rickety porch screamed at Shelby Renner. Weeds grew tall in the yard, and the concrete steps were cracked and crumbled. Her heart ached. Tears crowded her throat and spilled down her cheeks. The last time she’d seen the house the paint was crisp, the yard well-tended. She should have come sooner.

  She’d called Gran often but had no idea she had been in such poor health. Not until she got that call she had died. Gran loved this home and wouldn’t have let it fall in such disrepair if she’d had a choice. Gran lied to her. She had been sick a long time.

  She paced the driveway, hands shaking. If the outside looked this bad, what would she find on the inside?

  She took a deep fortifying breath and walked down the cobbled path. Vines choked the rose bushes, and the sparse pink blooms got lost in the mess. Gran had taken such pride in her flowers, and it saddened her to see them in such disarray. The porch ran along the entire front of the modest house. She could almost see Gran sitting in the old wooden rocker, a smile on her face.

  She sucked in her lower lip. You can do this. On leaden feet, she forced herself up the steps. She opened the wooden squeaky screen door, unlocked the main one, and went inside.

  She froze in the doorway. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling, and a thick layer of dust coated everything. She covered her mouth in horror. Gran was a neat freak. This…this was heart-wrenching.

  Shelby’s gaze landed on the little white doily on the recliner, and she fell back against the door. Gran would rest her head right there while napping.

  Shelby sank to the floor and leaned against the closed door. Sobs tore at her heart as she curled into a ball. The pain washed through her, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  Curse her mother and stepfather for not letting her visit more.

  Curse them for taking her away from here to begin with.

  She rose to her feet and dropped her purse and keys on the side table near the door. Gran willed everything to her. The land, the house, all its contents, and the meager account she’d lived on. Much to the ire of her mother, Camellia, Shelby insisted she needed no help from her to sort through things.

  Camellia could care less about anything that belonged to Gran. After years of living under Camellia’s and John’s thumbs, Shelby was more than ready for a break. At twenty-two, she could make her own decisions, and school could wait.

  Too bad she hadn’t had the guts to stand up to them sooner.

  She walked through the house, amazed how nothing had changed. Except for the boxes, time stood still. The same lace curtains on the windows, the same little towels hanging in the kitchen. All faded and dusty but still the same. The little knick-knacks and Gran’s porcelain collection of tiny cats sat in the hutch, just like they always had.

  She swallowed her tears. Falling apart was not going to get her through this. She wandered through the home she’d lived in until she was ten. So many happy memories. She went upstairs and stepped into her bedroom. Her assortment of unicorns still littered the room as though waiting for her to come back.

  Ugly cries hit hard as she sat on her bed and bawled.

  A week later found her in a bigger mess than when she started. No small feat to tackle all that was crammed into each nook and cranny. One thing it did do was put some perspective on her overbearing parents. She didn’t want to return to Houston where her every move was scrutinized. So even though she hated confrontations of any kind, especially ones involving her parents, she called her mom.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Darling. Do tell me you’re on your way home.”

  “About that—”

  “Yes, I’m talking to Shelby.” She spoke to someone in the background. John, no doubt. “She’s coming home.”

  Shelby closed her eyes. Her mom was already putting words in her mouth, and she’d hardly said anything.

  “No, Mom. I’m not.”

  “What?” Camellia’s screech had her pulling the phone away from her ear. “Yes you are. You’re getting married remember?”

  Shelby slumped in a chair and clenched her hair. “I need to go through Gran’s stuff. It’s important.”

  “What’s important is your wedding,” Camellia said, her voice cutting. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of finding you a fiancé just so you’d be off wallowing in that God awful city. You will come home, Shelby Renner.”

  “How about this. You plan it. You’ll do a much better job than me. I’ll be there when I need to be.” Even if Shelby were there, she wouldn’t get a say in anything anyway. Maybe this way she could get her mother off her back. Because telling her how important Gran’s home was wouldn’t make a difference.

  “Oh, that’s brilliant, darling. You are so right. You have no taste for these sorts of things. It will be spectacular!”

  “Sure. I’ll call again soon. Bye.”

  Shelby hung up, and tears stung her eyes. What a farce.

  How could her mother push her buttons from hundreds of miles away? It showed just how pathetic she was. She rubbed at the pain between her eyes.

  She eyed the porcelain calico cat. “Sorry about that, Ginger. Hopefully, I won’t have to talk to her again anytime soon.”

  She reached into the hutch and pick
ed up the figurine. Its tiny eyes stared up at her, its little paw raised as though asking for something. This one had been Gran’s favorite, and she had heard many one-sided conversations between them. Tears blurred her vision.

  “I miss her too,” she said quietly and put it back in the hutch. “If I’m staying here, I need a job.”

  She sighed and shook her head. No way in blazes was she asking her mom for money.

  Her feet hurt, and securing a job in downtown Nashville looked grim. Every place she went took one look at her, heard her Texas accent, and automatically assumed she was here to sing. Telling them she wanted a waitressing job just got her laughed at. They would sweep her from head to toe and say, “Sure, honey.”

  By the time she reached a place called Booseys, she squared her shoulders and marched to the bar. Tall and lean with a scraggly goatee, the bartender looked down at her. She paused. Although she had gotten over the initial shock of the type of people who ran bars, this guy looked more unsavory than the rest.

  “What you drinking, doll?”

  “Nothing. I want a job—”

  “Not hiring,” he interrupted then turned his back on her.

  Heat hit her cheeks at the condescending tone.

  “I don’t want to sing. I can’t sing a lick even if I wanted to.” Her words came out in a rush as he kept walking away. “I’m only here because my grandmother died. I need a job. I sure as heck don’t want to ask my mother for money.”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth. Her emotions got the best of her, again. Stuff she should keep to herself always tumbled out. Sick with embarrassment, she spun on her heel to leave as quickly as possible. She didn’t want to hear his laugh or worse, see his pity.

  “Doll, hold up.”

  She stopped just short of the exit.

  “Turns out, we have a gig tomorrow night. A new band, I think it’s gonna be hopping. Can you handle a crowd?”

  She turned around hesitantly and took two steps to peer into his face. Was he serious? He flung a towel over his shoulder and eyed her speculatively. No humor, no pity, just a question.

  “I worked at a restaurant near a college campus in Houston. It got busy.”

  He paused for a moment, then nodded. “We can try it tomorrow night, see how it goes. I’m Mick, owner of the place.”

  She offered a tentative smile and shook his hand. “Shelby.”

  “Lila,” Mick shouted, and a tiny little red head skipped over to the counter. He motioned to Shelby. “She’s your new coworker, at least for tomorrow night.”

  “Terrific!” Lila turned an impish smile at her, slid so they bumped elbows, then faced Mick. “What’s her name?”

  “Shelby, and don’t scare her off. I gotta take care of some paperwork so I’ll send Angel out.”

  “How can little ole me scare anyone?” The girl’s bright blue eyes—beautiful in an odd creepy way—widened innocently.

  Mick snorted in reply as he walked off.

  “Bad ass name. I love those cars.” Lila nodded. “So where you from?”

  “Texas.” She hated when people made reference to her name. The car was cool. Being conceived in the backseat of one when your mom was sixteen wasn’t.

  Lila laughed. “Of course you are. That accent is almost as bad as a Tennessee or Georgia one.”

  Another small girl, with short, cropped, black hair came out of the back. She laid a shirt in front of her. Her porcelain skin made her storm-blue eyes stand out in her tiny face. “Mick said we have another waitress.”

  Lila didn’t seem to even notice the girl’s cool demeanor. “This is Shelby, Angel. She’s gonna help out tomorrow night.”

  “Of course. Be here at six.” Angel frowned, narrowed her eyes, and looked her up and down. The girl turned to bartend for the next customer.

  “Is she my boss?” Shelby asked quietly. If so, she didn’t think she’d work here long.

  “No. Don’t worry about her. She’s just pissy about Thrand.”

  Angel’s eyes swung towards them and narrowed.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Angel. You know damn well he was never into you.”

  Angel didn’t respond, but her pale face turned pink.

  “She’s Mick’s daughter. Anyway, I can’t wait to work with you. Should be awesome. I better get back to it. See you tomorrow.” With a waggle of her fingers she was off helping customers.

  Shelby watched for a little while so she could get a feel for what was expected. It didn’t look too hard. Take orders, place them at the bar, then deliver the drinks. Pretty simple.

  It also gave her a minute to glance around the place. A small raised stage sat at the back. Tables and chairs were scattered here and there, and the bar ran down the left side. Music played from the overhead speakers, but a band was setting up on the stage.

  Hopefully, she would be able to keep up tomorrow night. She did not want to job hunt again.

  The next night, she strode down Broadway. Memories of her and Gran walking along this very street lingered in her mind. She could hear Gran’s voice telling her story after story of all the places that lined the famous strip. Gran grew up in Nashville, so she knew everything there was to know. Or so it seemed to her as a child. Time had changed some things, but a lot had remained the same. Tootsies was still there with its neon sign, and the Ryman was still around the corner. And Saturday nights were still non-stop and jammed with people on the sidewalks.

  Booseys was just one in a long line of honky-tonks ready to serve up a drink and a country swagger. But she looked forward to doing something other than trying to make sense of Gran’s dusty old belongings. Even if she did have to work.

  Bouncers were in front of every bar, but she hesitated at the sight of the guy sitting at the door to Booseys. He was a heavyset man decked out in black leather with unruly hair and beard. Thick heavy rings finished off his scary appearance. He made Mick look tame. He locked eyes with her.

  “Shelby!” His booming voice made her jump. “I heard there was a new girl. No worries, doll.” He chuckled and patted her hand. “I’m only scary to those who deserve it. I’m Dooley, by the way.”

  She wanted to ask how he knew her and then remembered she wore a Booseys shirt. She managed a tentative smile and nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Let me guess. Texas, right?”

  “I never knew I had such an obvious accent.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. She wished she didn’t have a Texas accent. She would rather have lived her life with Gran. Perfectly content with a Tennessee one.

  “You’re a sweet one. But don’t worry, hun. I don’t bite.” The twinkle in his eyes had her blushing. He squeezed her hand in reassurance like he knew she needed it. “You have any trouble at all, just hunt me or Mick up. Got a feeling it’s gonna be busier than usual.”

  “Thanks, Dooley.” She turned and walked into the bar.

  She glanced at the stage and stopped. The band setting up appeared to be anything but country. The singer was huge, sported black, mussed, spiky hair, and tattoos covered both arms from shoulder to wrist. He wore nothing but black, had gauges in his ears and a lip ring. The rest of the band didn’t seem very country either. The drummer wore a black cap on backwards, with gauges. The other two looked normal. Sort of. One wore rumpled clothes and had messy sandy blond hair—like he just rolled out of bed. The other had shaggy hair that hid his face. She glanced at the crowd full of cowboy hats and saw more than one scowl directed toward the band.

  She understood their confusion.

  She spotted Lila waving at her and strode to the bar and picked up an apron lying at the end of the bar.

  Lila introduced Cassie, the girl standing next to her. She was stunning with long honeyed locks and a tall, curvy body. The girls were huddled together, and the stark difference in their looks had heads turning their way.

  The band, Cassie informed her, was DirtSlap—Ethan, the lead singer, Zak, the bassist, Ryan, the guitarist and Thrand, the drummer. Country with a l
ittle dirt, she was told.

  “You know a lot about the band,” Shelby said to Cassie.

  Lila sniggered. “She would. She’s banging the drummer.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes, and a blush hit her cheeks.

  Somehow that didn’t surprise her. “You work here?”

  “Yeah, but I’m taking pictures tonight.” She patted her camera bag. “Lila is the best. If you have any questions let her know.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Cassie walked toward the stage, knelt in front of Ethan, and snapped a picture.

  Shelby tied off her apron and paused, her eyes drawn back Ethan. He wasn’t cute really—just different. Used to private schools, people who reeked of money and dressed the part, she was unaccustomed to people like him—they didn’t exist in her world. He wouldn’t even be accepted in her circle. But very few people she’d met this week would. She’d seen her fair share of boots and hats, she was from Texas after all, but it was all country club scene. Not the rough and tumble type who worked hard enough to get dirt on their jeans. She worried her lower lip. Her perspective was shifting. Was her life in Houston even real?

  Shelby got to work waiting on tables and serving drinks and food. So far it was comparable to the college crowd on a Saturday night. That is, until DirtSlap started playing, and Ethan started singing.

  Struck dumb, she stared at him. Goosebumps spread over her skin. His voice was smooth, yet edgy. A Georgia accent and hard rock vibe. Country with a little dirt. A very apt way of describing them.

  The stage was small, but he used the space well. Holding the mic, he stood, feet planted wide and dominated it. The crowd went silent. They started their gig with familiar popular country songs. It sounded nothing like the original, but it worked.

  She forced herself to get back to delivering drinks. It wasn’t like she was a music junkie, she’d only been to a handful of concerts in her entire life. All of which were country, in the strictest sense of the word, but seeing a guy who looked like Ethan croon a George Strait song was hypnotic.

  It took all of about five songs before the place was so packed, she could barely move. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but even she was overwhelmed.