My name is Hunter Jordan, lead singer of Hammered and no, I didn’t name my cock Manaconda.
Rolling Stone did.
On the front cover of their damn magazine.
I still haven’t lived it down. And now our record label wants to maximize the frenzy.
So, I have a brand new PR person–Kennedy McManus.
And she’s making me insane.
I don’t know whether to ignore her, yell at her, or push her up against the wall and kiss her smart mouth shut.
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Despite its inauspicious title, Manaconda proved to be a fun, sexy read. Hunter Jordan is the lead singer for Hammered. Hunter and the band has had success in the past, but one unfortunate cover on Rolling Stone magazine and Hunter suddenly found himself becoming a sensation not because of his music but because of his physical endowments. And I’m not talking about his biceps, ladies. Hence, Manaconda.
Tasked by their record company to control the situation in Kennedy McManus. But when Hunter and Kennedy are in the same room together, sparks fly and it complicates things for Kennedy because Hunter is her client and sleeping with clients is a big no for Kennedy. But Hunter is irresistible and Kennedy doesn’t seem to have any defenses against his charms.
What’s really enjoyable about this book was the chemistry between Hunter and Kennedy. Their attraction to each other burns so hot which leads to some pretty steamy sexy times between the two. And I ain’t complaining. The insta-lust worked big time for me because it was totally in character.
The book does end on a cliffie. Unfortunately for us, the next installment isn’t far behind.
“Maybe we should go back.”
I shook my head. “Maybe we can sneak around. Seems like there wouldn’t be any fans back
“Famous last words,” she muttered.
I strode out, gravel crunching under my boots.
“You know, I’m not a huge fan of this dragging me around like a child.”
I turned back to her, dragging her into my body. “Nothing child-like about you, Kenny.” I bent
down to her, our noses touching. “I just want a little alone time with you.”
A loud engine started up.
“There’s an elevator back there.” She pointed with her thumb. “I bet we could do a lot of things
in your room, my room—whatever.” She rose on her toes until our lips were a breath apart. “You
can give that whole seven thing a go.” She dragged her nail over my bottom lip. “I don’t believe
you’ll make it to seven, but I’m willing to let you try.”
“Oh, my God, that’s Hunter!”
The hiss of hydraulics and stomp of many feet did not bode well.
I closed my eyes. “Shit.”
“Please don’t be what I think it is.”
A trio of people in black shirts with our new album on the front were standing in front of a huge
bus. “Can you run in those things?”
She looked affronted. “I can do anything in heels.”
“I hope so.”
A woman in her twenties pointed our way. “Is that him?” she shrieked.
“This is where the fan club bus is parked.”
“They should be at dinner. Why aren’t they at dinner?” Kenny asked with rising panic.
“Guess it’s over.” I sprinted to the door we’d just come out of. “Son of a bitch.” I twisted the
handle but nothing. “It must have locked after us.”
She slapped the keypad. “Ya think?”
“Not helping.” I darted a look past the bus, along with the line of at least seventy people lined up
to board. Definitely couldn’t go that way.
“They’ll eat you alive.”
Three women broke off from the crowd and headed our way. As soon as they did, twenty more
followed. I dragged Kenny with me to the front of the bus and around the side. The bus driver
looked down at us and shook his head.
No help there.
The people that had boarded the bus were pointing at us as we ran to the other end. I shot by
another line of cars and zig-zagged around another bus and saw a familiar logo. “Thank God.”
“Where did he go?” Came shouts that were way too close.
“Where are we going?” she hissed.
I dragged her behind me as I ducked behind a black truck we used for our equipment. It has
been a stripped down stage, but we still had a lot of instruments between Keys’s pianos, the
entire percussion set up that Wyatt used, all the guitars, amps, and digital network we used—we
needed a truck no matter what.
“New plan.” I unlatched the back of the rig and lifted the rolling door. “Get in.”
“Are you freaking kidding me?”
I stared down at her. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”
She groaned. “I can’t get up there.”
I lifted her until her knee was on the base of the truck ledge. She scrambled in as the scraping
of heels and running feet got closer.
“Move it, Kenny.”
Her skirt rode up as she dragged herself inside. I threw her a soft whistle. She turned back to
me with murder in her eyes. I squashed down a laugh, rolling in after her, tugging the door down
behind me with a bang.
“I hate you.”
I just smiled into the dark.
About The Authors
USA Today Bestselling duo, Cari Quinn & Taryn Elliott, have been having a ton of fun with rock stars, but they also love a good MMA fighter story, oh and a suited guy. Can’t forget the suited guys. Getting these two authors together always includes some sweet & snarky moments, a lot of angst, and unlimited heat.
Oh, and let’s not forget the jaw dropping moments. They really love those.
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A ($25.00 eGift Card (Amazon, B&N or iTunes) & an Ebook copy of
THE OPENING ACT