Bitter Taste

Bitter Taste

A New Adult Romance Collection

Ashley Jade Daniela Romero Eden O’Neill Lucy Smoke A.J. Macey L.A. Cotton Atlas Rose Raven Scott Jerica Macmillan LK Farlow R. Holmes Bri Blackwood E.M. Snow

Coffee and Characters

Hiya!

Bitter Taste is a Preview Collection of New Adult Dark, Bully, and Enemies to Lovers reads.

It’s perfect for readers struggling with a book hangover who don’t know what to try next and want a taste of what steamy reads are out there.

Many titles are available now for you to get your binge on and a few are brand new not yet released so you’re getting a sneak peek at some epic magic still to come.

I hope you enjoy!

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons is entirely coincidental or beyond the intent of the author.

The Words © Ashley Jade 2021

The Savage © Daniela Romero 2021

Brutal Heir © Eden O’Neill 2020

Sweet Possession © Lucy Smoke & A.J. Macey 2020

Blurred Lines © L.A. Cotton 2021

Finley’s Claim © Atlas Rose & Raven Scott 2021

Anyone But You © Jerica Macmillan 2021

Sweet Little Nothing © LK Farlow 2021

Immoral Confessions © R. Holmes 2021

Devious Game © Bri Blackwood 2021

Crown of Thorns © E.M. Snow 2021

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

Contents

The Words

Ashley Jade

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The Savage

Daniela Romero

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Brutal Heir

Eden O’Neill

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Sweet Possession

Lucy Smoke & A.J. Macey

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

About Lucy Smoke

About A.J. Macey

Stay Connected

Blurred Lines

L.A. Cotton

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Finley’s Claim

Atlas Rose & Raven Scott

Prologue

Code I

ANNA

Code II

ANNA

Code III

FINLEY

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

More About Finley’s Claim

Anyone But You

Jerica Macmillan

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Sweet Little Nothing

LK Farlow

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Connect With the Author

Immoral Confessions

R. Holmes

Prologue

Chapter 1

Tarnished Vow

Devious Game

Bri Blackwood

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Also by Bri Blackwood

Crown of Thorns

E.M. Snow

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Thank You

The Words

Ashley Jade

"Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future."

― Oscar Wilde

Chapter One

Phoenix

Four years earlier…

Come here you little shit.

I haven’t been a little shit since the seventh grade. Not that he would know. 

Brushing him off, I walk the five steps down the tiny, narrow hallway leading to my bedroom. 

I’m twisting the door knob when a glass bottle hits my back. 

It’s empty. Always fucking empty. 

Because Vance Walker would never waste a drop of booze. 

Seeing red, I turn around and grab him by his dirty shirt. You’re drunk. 

And you’re worthless. He swings his fist, but his coordination is fucked so he misses and stumbles back. Bastard. 

The goddamn irony. Only because you made me one. 

My mind flashes back to a time when my life wasn’t a train wreck. Before the alcohol and drugs. Before this piece of shit trailer in this shit-hole town. Before the affair. Before the abuse. 

Before she left us. 

I should hate her for it…but I can’t. 

She saw the opportunity for freedom—a chance at a life where cracked ribs, broken noses, and bruises weren’t an everyday occurrence—and she took it. 

Even though it meant leaving her seven-year-old son behind to fend for himself. 

I look into his hazy, glazed over blue eyes—eyes I inherited from him—wondering how he let himself slip so far down the rabbit hole. 

Once upon a time, my father was a legend. Or at least on the verge of becoming one. 

People said he was the next Jimi Hendrix. Hell, some even claimed he was better. 

He also had a gorgeous wife who loved him and a son who looked at him like he was a hero. 

Once upon a time—he had it all. 

And then he lost it. 

I refuse to make the same mistake.

Chapter Two

Lennon

I’m downing my second bowl of Captain Crunch when my father strides into the kitchen, patting his pockets. 

Have you seen my keys? 

I point to the island where they’re in clear view. Over there. 

Ah. Walking to the marble island, he grabs them. Thanks, monkey face. 

You’d think someone with his talent would have come up with a better nickname for his daughter, but alas, I’m stuck with it. 

According to him, when I was born I looked just like a monkey—big ears and all. 

Instantly, there's a sharp tug on my heart and I put down my spoon. 

Unfortunately, it was the only positive memory associated with my birth for him, given my mom—his soulmate—died minutes later. 

Do you know where my—

Over there, I tell him, pointing to the notebook he placed on the counter next to the fridge. 

Relief washes over his face. Thanks. I have a meeting with Black Lung today. 

That gets my attention. Black Lung? I stifle the laugh working its way up my throat, because my dad definitely doesn’t fit Black Lungs’ fan base. Aren’t you a little…you know. 

He adjusts the thick framed glasses slipping down his nose. A little what? 

I’m not Willy Wonka, so I don’t sugar coat shit. You’re pushing fifty, dad. 

The confused expression on his face makes it clear he doesn’t get it. So?

"Have you ever been to a Black Lung show? Most of their fans are my age." 

Although I don’t know why because they aren’t very good. Even if my dad manages to work his magic and write them some hit songs, it won’t fix their biggest problems. 

The band’s lack of harmony.  

And the lead singer’s lack of…well, everything.  

He shrugs, not looking the least bit concerned. Their manager sought me out. Not the other way around. 

No surprise there. Age aside, my dad is still the greatest songwriter since his personal favorite, John Lennon. Who—surprise—he named me after. 

Besides, he continues, popping his collar. I’m still hip.  

It’s on the tip of my tongue to point out that only old people use terms like hip, but I’ve insulted him enough for one day. 

Knock em’ dead, pops. 

He winks. If I do that, they won’t cut me a check. His eyes drift to the clock above my head. Shoot. I’m late, monkey face. Gotta go. Bending down, he kisses my cheek. Have a good day at school. 

I stifle a groan because it’s impossible for me to have a good day at Hillcrest High. The place has been my personal version of hell since the moment I walked through the doors. 

"Try not to join any mosh pits. You don’t want to break a hip." 

Very funny. He ambles to the front door but pauses before opening it. Dammit. Where’d I put my keys? 

I pick up my spoon. In your pocket. 

I tug on the bottom of my blouse as I walk toward the brick building flooding with students. I really wish I’d purchased the top in a bigger size so it would stop riding up. Lord knows the last thing anyone wants to see is my stomach peeking out. Drawing a breath, I try to suck it in, but it’s no use. I could inhale until my lungs explode, but my belly will still extend beyond the waistband of my size eighteen jeans. 

Jealousy blooms in my chest as I look around the parking lot, taking in every pretty girl with a toned, flat abdomen. 

The small town of Hillcrest might only have a population of four thousand and one, but there must be something in the water here because almost everyone is good looking. 

And that included my mom. 

According to both pictures and my dad, she was gorgeous, tall, and thin with the voice of an angel. However, I didn’t inherit any of those qualities from her. Well, other than my love of singing in the shower when my dad isn’t home. 

No, I’m the spitting image of my dad. Short, brunette, brown eyes, bad eyesight, ordinary looks…and stuck somewhere between chubby and obese. 

Take a picture, fatass. It will last longer. 

Sabrina Simmons. My arch enemy and the bane of my existence. The girl is such a bitch she makes Regina George look like Mary Poppins. 

Beautiful, popular, and the captain of the dance team—everyone at Hillcrest is obsessed with her. 

However, she hates me. 

Which, of course, makes everyone else follow suit. 

I quickly realize there are two choices. One—I could ignore her, which will only make it worse. Or, two—I could give her a taste of her own medicine…which will also make it worse. 

Basically, there are no good options here, so I go with the one that won’t make me late for class. I stride past her. 

Either your clothes shrunk or you’re getting fatter, she calls out behind me. 

Come on, we all know it’s the second one, Draven Turner, football team captain and Sabrina’s sometimes boyfriend adds. "The bitch is so fat when she steps on the scale it says, to be continued."  

Their little group erupts in laughter and I want nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. 

Whoever said ignoring a bully was the best course of action was either a fucking idiot, or someone who never experienced true torment. 

The fact we’re graduating in a month and they’re still making fun of me is honestly absurd. 

Absurd and scary. I used to tell myself all this fat shaming bullshit would end after high school, but now I’m beginning to think that asshole kids grow up to become even bigger asshole adults and society is doomed. 

One thing’s for sure, though. I’m sick and tired of being their punching bag. 

I spin around. Draven’s arm is slung around Sabrina’s slim shoulders, making it clear they’re back together again. 

I might not be able to attack their looks, but I can still hit them where it hurts.

Wow. My smile is every bit as fake as Sabrina’s extensions as I recall the latest drama circulating around Hillcrest. I thought after you caught Sabrina screwing Phoenix in the parking lot during prom you’d be done with her for good. I hike my purse up my shoulder. "But look at you two…back together again. I guess true love really does exist." 

The group goes silent, but it’s clear by the anger illuminating Draven’s face and the daggers Sabrina’s glaring at me that my work here is done. 

I’ve barely turned around when the happy couple starts yelling at each other.

Truth be told, it’s not like I can blame Sabrina for hooking up with Phoenix Walker. 

He’s as gorgeous as he is mystifying. 

He doesn’t hang with the popular crowd, but he’s definitely not in Loserville, either. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, you can’t help but listen because there’s something about his deep, raspy voice—about him—that puts you under a spell. 

The second he walks into a room, he sucks all the oxygen out of it and commands your attention. 

God must be a comedian listening in on my thoughts because goosebumps break out along my flesh and my temperature rises. 

Don’t look. 

But I can’t help myself. I’m a masochist. 

My mouth goes dry and the earth tilts on its axis when I turn and piercing blue eyes hold me hostage. 

I bet even in the dark he could look right through me. 

Dressed in black from head to toe, he leans against his beat-up Toyota Camry, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His dark blond hair is long enough to fall into his eyes when he moves, making him appear even more enigmatic. A cigarette hangs from his full lips…affirming he doesn’t give a fuck about school policy or the possibility of getting into trouble. 

We’ve never spoken, but I’ve watched him over the years. 

I know he lives in the Bayview Estates trailer park. 

I know there’s only one person at school that he considers a friend—Reese Storm. 

I’ve seen the way he sizes people up when they approach…silently determining if they’re worth his time. 

The cruel mask he wears when everyone is looking. 

The torment in his eyes when they’re not. 

We’ve never uttered a single word to one another…

But sometimes I feel like nobody knows him better than I do.

Chapter Three

Lennon

"I need to see you after class, Lennon." 

Twenty pairs of curious eyes look my way. My stomach twists because those are words you never want to hear from a teacher. Especially one month before graduation. 

I scan my brain as Mrs. Herman turns back to the board and continues her lesson about Renaissance literature versus that of the middle ages. I’ve been an A student since the first grade. Heck, I would have been Valedictorian if David Paul hadn’t scored a one hundred on our last math test, beating me by two points. The bastard. 

I’m not sure what’s going on, but it has me on edge. So much so I barely concentrate during the remainder of class. 

After everyone’s cleared the room, I approach her desk. Is everything okay? 

She purses her lips, studying me intently before she smiles. I just wanted to personally tell you how proud I am of you for getting into Dartmouth. You’ve always been a hard worker and I’m so happy you’re coming out of your shell and thriving. 

I’ve never been good at receiving compliments and right now is no exception. Oh…um. Thanks. 

To be honest, even though I had applied to a few Ivy League schools, my plan was to attend the local community college. 

The thought of my dad being alone at home while I’m hours away doesn’t sit well with me. However, he assured me he would be fine, and as much as he would miss me, he’d be upset if I missed the opportunity of a lifetime just because I was scared to flee the nest. 

He insisted it was time to spread my wings, but not to worry, because he’d always be there whenever I needed him. 

As anxious as the thought of leaving makes me, deep down I know he’s right. There’s more to the world than Hillcrest and I can’t wait to start exploring it. 

I feel compelled to say something in return before I take off, so I utter, You’re a great teacher. 

At that, she frowns. I’m not so sure about that anymore. 

Well, this is awkward. 

Arranging her pens in a straight line on her desk, she sighs. There’s a student who’s been giving me a great deal of difficulty. I believe he’s motivated to do well, but no matter how many times I stay after school to give him extra help, I just can’t seem to get through to him. I’ve suggested that he would benefit from hiring a tutor so he can pass the upcoming final, but he can’t afford one. Her brows knit together. As of now it’s highly unlikely he’ll graduate. 

I’m not sure why she’s telling me this, but my heart goes out to whoever it is. 

Unless it’s Draven. That shithead can kick rocks. 

That really stink—

I’ve seen you help other students, Lennon. You’re patient and kind…even when they don’t deserve it, and you have a way of turning on the lightbulb for them. I know I have no right to ask you to take on something like this—especially for free—but I really feel for the kid. His home life— As if sensing she’s said too much, she clamps her mouth shut. "Him not graduating will do him far more harm than good. However, in order to avoid that, he needs to pass the final in addition to completing an extracurricular project to further boost his English grade." 

Oh, boy. This is a lot to think about. It’s not that I don’t want to help, but it sounds stressful. Not to mention…time consuming. 

Not that I have a social life or anything. 

Is it just English that he needs to pass, or are there more subjects he’s struggling with? 

I’ve spoken to his other teachers and while his grades aren’t great, he’ll squeak by in those classes. It appears English is his weakest subject. 

Given English is my best, it seems I might be able to do some good. 

Part of me wants to decline and not get involved, but I know if I don’t at least try to help it will gnaw at me. 

I have some time after school and on the weekends. I swipe my books off my desk. I can’t promise my tutoring will make him pass, but I’m willing to give it a shot. 

She lights up. That’s wonderful. Thank you so much, Lennon. She looks around her empty classroom. There’s a faculty meeting after school today, but I can leave my classroom unlocked for you to use so you two can get acquainted and set up a schedule. 

 Sounds good. Thanks. I’m heading toward the door when it occurs to me that I don’t even know who it is I’ll be tutoring. Who’s the student? 

She looks up from the pile of papers on her desk. I’m not sure if you know him since you two aren’t in the same class, but it’s Phoenix Walker. 

It feels like someone pulled the rug out from underneath my feet. 

Oh. 

She blinks. Is that a problem? 

Not unless she considers my stomach bottoming out, my sudden case of sweaty palms, or the inability to draw air into my lungs a problem. 

Nope. Everything’s fine. 

Just fine. 

Maybe I should tell Mrs. Herman I came down with mono. 

Or malaria. 

I could say there’s an emergency at home. 

Or that my goldfish died. 

I tug on the hem of my shirt as I walk down the empty hallway, silently cursing myself for ever agreeing to this in the first place. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

I was hoping my nerves would have subsided throughout the day, but they’ve only gotten worse.

And now here I am…ready to tango in the lion’s den. 

Not that Phoenix is a lion. 

He’s more like a lone wolf. 

Especially with those icy blue eyes and his don’t fuck with me or I’ll tear out your jugular with my teeth demeanor.

I’m relieved when I find the classroom empty. Arriving first gives me the upper hand…and some extra time to chill the fuck out. 

Placing my bookbag on the long table in the back, I plop down in a seat. 

Five minutes soon turn into ten and there’s still no sign of him.

Relieved, I pack up my stuff while humming one of my favorite songs, Cryin, by Aerosmith.

Music has always been my first love. Whenever I’m stressed or sad or nervous...it’s there with open arms. Wrapping me up like a warm blanket on a cold day. 

It’s not long before my humming turns to full on signing. I’m belting out the line about love being sweet misery when I see a tall form enter the classroom in my peripheral. 

Oh, God. 

I freeze. The only sound I can hear now is my pulse thrumming in my ears. 

Don’t look. 

I kind of have to though, given he’s here to see me. 

When I finally muster the courage to angle my head, I find him propped against the doorway with his hands in the pocket of his jeans and a sly smirk on his face. 

Awesome. 

Don’t stop on my account. 

His voice is crushed velvet wrapped in silk and gravel. 

Luckily, mine comes out sounding way more in control than I feel. You’re late. 

He strides inside like he owns the place. Had to take care of something. 

I have to stop myself from asking what that was because it’s none of my business. 

He stands, hovering over me like an impending storm cloud as I take a few books and folders out of my bag. Mrs. Herman said you’re having some trouble in English class. 

I feel like a moron because duh, that’s why he’s here, but I have no idea how to get the ball rolling because he’s not exactly Mr. Talkative. 

After what feels like an eternity, he joins me at the table, but still remains silent. 

I decide to try a different tactic. What days and times are you available? I’m usually free after school and on weekends. 

I mentally smack myself because I just made myself sound like a loser. 

He leans back in the chair with his legs spread and a pissed off expression on his gorgeous face. As if it’s my fault he’s here. 

Opening a folder, I take out the essay we’re supposed to read and analyze, and a list of questions about it. Okay. We can set up our schedule later. I slide the paper across the table. I’ll give you a few minutes to read this and then we can—

Do nothing…because he’s walking out of the classroom. 

I sit there stunned for a few moments because the audacity. Here I am trying to help him so he can graduate and he just up and leaves without so much as a thank you or a fuck you. 

Irritation simmers in the pit of my stomach and I storm out after him. 

I’m tired of people mistaking my kindness for weakness. Tired of assholes thinking they can just walk all over me because I don’t look like an Instagram model or wear a size two. 

Tired of accepting shitty behavior that I don’t deserve.

Phoenix is gone by the time I reach the end of the empty hallway. I debate running out to the parking lot, but why bother? If he doesn’t want my help—and he’s made it crystal clear he doesn’t—I’m not going to waste my time.  

Gritting my teeth, I make my way back to the classroom so I can collect my things and go home. I’m approaching the door when the melodic sound of the piano fills my ears. The notes are familiar, but it still takes my brain a second to realize it’s a stripped-down version of the song I was singing earlier. 

And then I hear it. 

My heart stops cold before awakening with a great big thump that sends everything inside me spiraling. 

There are good voices.

And then there are once-in-a-lifetime voices. 

The hypnotizing kind that holds you hostage and demands every ounce of your attention…every piece of your soul.  

The kind that makes you follow the sound like a moth to a flame. 

A craving you can’t ignore. 

My skin prickles as I enter the band room where I find Phoenix sitting at the piano with his eyes closed and his head tilted toward the ceiling as he sings. 

Although singing seems like the wrong word for what this is. 

It’s like he’s siphoning every note into his bloodstream so he can spin it into something even more beautiful with his vocal cords. 

I feel like I’m watching a spiritual experience…a metamorphosis take place. 

His low, raspy voice envelops me like a thick fog. I couldn’t take my eyes off him even if I wanted to. He’s utterly mesmerizing. 

Like he was born for this.   

The song ends and I’m not sure he even realizes I’m standing there. 

Not until he snarls, I don’t want your help. 

I should be insulted with his rejection and the harsh edge to his words. Instead, I blurt out, You come alive when you sing. 

I don’t get a response, but it doesn’t matter. I take a step in his direction. "Your voice…watching you do that… Inching closer, I inhale a deep breath. You have a gift, Phoenix." 

I don’t even realize I’m next to him until I hear the legs of the piano bench scrape against the wood floor and he stands, towering over me. 

He’s like the sun. The energy radiating off him pulls you in and you can’t help but get closer. Aching to feel the heat on your skin. To make contact with something so powerful. So beautiful. 

Even if it burns you.

I don’t want your help, he says again. 

His low, raspy voice is a turbulent current of water, pulling me under. However, it’s the haunting, desperate look in his eyes that’s my undoing. 

But I need it.

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The Savage

Boys of Richland: Book One

Daniela Romero

The Savage is a new adult contemporary romance that deals with sensitive topics some may find triggering. It is recommended for mature readers 17+

Chapter One

Cecilia

I’m one of the lucky ones. Or so I’ve been told.

I sure as hell don’t feel lucky. But according to my parents, my therapist, and the doctor who bandaged me up, I am. Lucky, that is.

Why?

Because I didn’t die.

I should have. That was the plan. It was a well-thought-out one, too. Thoroughly researched. All of my i’s dotted. My t’s crossed. Yet, I somehow failed. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.

I didn’t consider that the location I’d chosen wasn’t nearly remote enough for things to go off without a hitch. Had the cut been deeper, had I bled out faster, maybe it would’ve worked. It should have. I put in some serious thought and effort here.

The campus pool closes at seven every night. The locker rooms are empty by seven thirty. I planned everything out perfectly, but what I didn’t plan for was him. He was a variable I never could have seen coming. The nameless boy who had to go and ruin everything.

It took so much nerve to make that first cut. Even more to make the second. Do you know how stressful it is to slit your own wrists? I had to Google how to do it. I watched videos online that explained how long and how deep to drag the blade across my wrists. I made sure the razor blade was clean and sharp. Not that I was worried about an infection or anything, but I wanted to do it right, ya know?

I’ve always been a model student. I follow directions and I usually get things right the first time around, but that day, I messed up. All because of him. He shouldn’t have been there.

No one was supposed to find me until morning when the custodian re-opened the pool. But he was there and he did find me.

Which means I’m still here. I don’t know if or when I’ll try again. A part of me feels like it’s inevitable. I made the first attempt because I saw no other way out. Nothing has changed since. Well, some things have. But none of them for the better.

My parents watch me more, as if I'm a ticking time bomb seconds away from going off. Lucky me. And I go to therapy now. Twice a week. Not that it helps. I understand the reasoning behind seeing a shrink. In theory, if I open up, it’s supposed to help. At least, that’s what Jane, my therapist, tells me. But to be frank, that’s a load of bull.

I don’t need to talk about what happened. Not my trauma and not my attempted suicide. I know what happened to me. I know what I did. I’m not in denial. I am very cognizant of everything I’ve been through.

I’m a realist, and talking about it won’t change anything. It still happened. I still can’t do anything about it. Case closed. Time to move on.

What would really help is everyone leaving me the hell alone.

It’s been a month since he-who-has-no-name came to my unrequested rescue, and in that month, I moved out of my dorm room and back home with my parents. That wasn’t my choice either, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being committed for thirty days to make sure I’m no longer a danger to myself.

I promised the ‘rents I’d stay home for one semester. Long enough for them to assure themselves I’m okay, and I’ll stick to that. I hate liars, and despite everything that's happened, I refuse to become one. But, when the semester is up, all bets are off. If life is better by then, great. Not that I’ll be counting on it.

Every day, it gets a little bit harder to breathe. A new piece of me I don’t even realize exists until it’s too late withers away and dies inside me. But, I made a promise. One semester. I can give my parents that much at least.

They didn’t ask for a head-case daughter. They’re good parents. The best I could have asked for, to be honest. Mom was a stay-at-home mom when I was younger, and growing up as an only child, I received all the love and attention a kid could possibly need. Dad works a ton, but he’s always made time for me. He used to go to the football games just to watch me cheer. They really are the best.

But they have no idea what happened this summer. They can’t even begin to understand why I’d try to kill myself, and after seeing how hard they took my first attempt, I don’t have it in me to tell them. Not now. Probably not ever.

I know if I try again, I have to make it to the other side. None of us can handle this emotional rollercoaster again. The doctors. The therapists. The worry and uncertainty. I sure as hell can’t.

I tug on the strap of my messenger bag and turn the corner, heading for my first class of the day. It’s been a month, and yeah, I know I said it already, but reminding myself I’ve made it an entire month makes surviving the day