Full Tilt Duet
by Emma Scott
Table of Contents
Book 1: FULL TILT
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Dedication
Playlist
Part I
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part II
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Part III
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Sneak Peek
Book 2: ALL IN
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Playlist
PART 1
Prologue
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
Chapter 18
PART 2
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
PART 3
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Epilogue II
Disclaimer
Sneak Peek
Full Tilt #1
Emma Scott
Full Tilt
Copyright © 2016 Emma Scott
All rights reserved
Cover art by Melissa Panio-Petersen
Interior art by Vinduke
Interior formatting by That Formatting Lady
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, or used fictitiously to add authenticity, and are not meant as actual representations or actions of said persons.
I’d like to extend a huge thank you to the following people for their support, love, and solidarity. Each and every one of you had a hand in bringing this book to life.
L.B. Simmons, Robin Hill, Angela Bonnie Shockley, Maryam, Melissa Panio-Petersen, Nathalie Raven, Elaine Glynn, Jennifer Balogh, Kathleen Ripley, and my husband, Bill, for your incredible support, for taking the kids to give me time to write, and for believing in me.
Huge thank you to Colin Lenihan, M.D. for his medical expertise on the complex intricacies of heart transplants and chronic rejection. Any and all liberties taken with the science are mine to serve the story, though I have striven to follow Dr. Lenihan’s advice as closely as possible to present a realistic account.
Much gratitude to Gregory T. Glass who instructed me on the fine (and breathtaking) art of blown glass. Thank you for making Jonah’s skill and artistry come to life.
To my readers, the bloggers, my friends in this wonderful community…I honestly don’t know what I would do without you. You make this incredible, nerve-wracking, wonderful journey worth it, and I appreciate everything you do. You lift me up and share my voice, and for that I will be forever grateful.
And lastly to my editor, Suanne Laqueur. You take my messes and clean them up, you show me the hidden moments that are hiding and lure them out, and you give me the mental will to keep going when I’d rather bash my head against the wall of anxiety and frustration. I don’t want to do this without you. You are a universe.
This book was not easy to write. It was not the next story I sought to tell. But it would not leave me, despite the pitfalls and difficulty. It scared the crap out of me, to be honest, but begged to be told. Because I believe love stories come in all shapes and forms. Some people meet, fall in love, tragedy strikes, and they persevere together, maybe fall apart, come back, and find peace in the love they had. But what about those who fall in love when the tragedy is already looming on the horizon, in plain sight? What is love worth to those who are at the end of their journey instead of the beginning? Love can begin at any time, in any facet of life. That is the beauty—and hope—of this human existence. I hope this love story does justice to that idea.
I firmly believe in the concept of Happily Ever After. For everyone. No matter how or who or when they fell in love. Because that love existed, they felt it, and that is worth everything.
Love always wins.
This book is about brothers much as anything else. It is dedicated to my brother, Bob, who set me on this path—unwittingly—with one magical email and a suggestion. You set me on this journey, telling love stories—my calling—and changed my life forever. With thanks and love, this one is for you.
:
Lightning Crashes, by Live
Hurricane by Halsey
Chandelier, by Sia
Yellow, by Coldplay
My Heart Will Go On, by Celine Dion
Like a River, by Bishop
Free Fallin’ by Tom Petty
Chasing Cars, by Snow Patrol
Spirits, by the Strumbellas
Hallelujah, by Rufus Wainwright, lyrics by Leonard Cohen
Full tilt (n) (poker): Playing emotionally instead of rationally; making impassioned rather than logical decisions.
Fifteen months ago…
White light pierced my eyes. I struggled to keep them open, then g
ave in and let them fall shut again. I listened to the machines instead, let their sound pull me out of unconsciousness. The beeping pulse was my heart. My new heart, pumping slowly in my chest. Yesterday, it belonged to a twenty-three-year-old basketball player who’d been in a car accident outside Henderson. Now it was mine. Grief and gratitude danced at the edges of my awareness.
Thank you. I’m sorry, and thank you…
God, my chest. It felt as if an anvil had crushed me, smashed my ribs. A great swelling agony lurked underneath my sternum that had been cracked open like a cabinet, then stapled shut again. Somewhere within the deep, heavy ache was my new heart.
I groaned and the sound surged out of me, riding a current of pain.
“He’s waking up. Are you waking up, honey?”
I forced my eyes open and the light was merciless.
Maybe I’m dead.
The white of hospital sheets and stark fluorescents seared my eyes, then settled. Dark shapes took form. My parents hovered over me on my right. My mother’s eyes were wet and her hand reached to brush a lock of hair from my forehead. She adjusted the nasal cannula that was jammed up my nose though it probably didn’t need adjusting.
“You look wonderful, sweetheart,” she told me in a tremulous voice.
I felt like I’d been run over by a freight train, and before that I’d been deathly sick for weeks. But she didn’t mean I looked good. She meant I looked alive.
For her sake, I managed a smile.
“You did good, son,” my father said. “Dr. Morrison said everything looks real good.” He gave me a tight smile, then looked away, coughing into his fist to hide his emotion.
“Theo?” I croaked and winced at the deep bruise of pain in my chest. I breathed shallowly and looked for him on my left.
He was there, crouched in a chair, his forearms resting on his knees. Strong. Solid.
“Hey, bro,” he said, and I heard the forced lightness in his deep voice. “Mom’s pulling your leg. You look like shit.”
“Theodore,” she said. “He does not. He’s beautiful.”
I didn’t have the energy to give my brother a joke. All I could manage was a smile. He smiled back, but it was tense and hard. I knew my brother better than anyone. I knew when something was eating at him. Anger burned in him like a pilot light and now it was flaring hot.
Why…?
I cast my gaze around the room and then I knew. “Audrey?”
The air tightened and my mother jumped as if someone had poked her with a needle. Looks were exchanged all around me, like birds darting over my bed.
“It’s late,” my father said. “She’s…gone home.” He was a city councilman, and he’d turned on his politician’s voice, the one he used when he needed to tell an unpleasant truth in a pleasant way.
My mother, a kindergarten teacher and adept at comfort, swooped in. “But you should rest now, honey. Sleep. You’ll feel stronger after you’ve had more sleep.” She kissed me on my forehead. “I love you, Jonah. You’re going to be just fine.”
My dad took my mom by the shoulders. “Let’s let him rest, Beverly.”
I rested. I fell in and out of fitful, pain-soaked sleep, until a nurse tinkered with an IV in my arm and then I slept deeply.
When I awoke, Theo was there. Audrey was not. My new heart began to thump a dull, heavy pang. All the adrenaline circuits were reconnected, or whichever hormone it was that kicked in when something you thought might last forever was over.
“Where is she?” I asked. “Tell me the truth.”
Theo knew whom I meant. “She left for Paris yesterday morning.”
“You talked to her? What did she say?”
He pulled his chair closer. “Some fucking sob story. How she had a plan for her life and this…” His gaze swept the room.
“This wasn’t it,” I said.
“She couldn’t hack it…” He tore his hand through his hair. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head a little. “I’m glad you told me. I needed to hear it.”
“I’m sorry, bro. Three years. Three years you gave her, and she just…”
“It’s okay. It’s better.”
“Better? How the hell is it better?”
Already, my eyes felt heavy and wanted to close, to drop the curtain and let me sink back into oblivion for a little while. I didn’t have the strength to tell him that I didn’t hate Audrey for leaving me. I had seen it coming. Even sick with a rapidly failing heart, I could see how she twitched and jumped, eyes darting to the door, plotting an escape route from my illness and the life it would leave me.
It hurt—I felt every one of those three years we’d been together like a knife driven into my new heart. But I didn’t hate her. I didn’t hate her because I didn’t love her. Not in the way I wanted to love a woman—with everything I had.
Audrey was gone. Theo could hate her for me. My parents could marvel at her cruelty on my behalf. But I let her go, because at that moment, I didn’t know she’d be the last…
July, a Saturday night
I was drunk.
Why else would I have my cell phone in my hand, my thumb hovering over my parents’ house number in San Diego?
Drunk dialing, I thought. Not just for ex-boyfriends anymore.
I snorted a laugh. It came out more like a sob and echoed around the stairwell. I sat in the dark, narrow space, knees pulled up, trying to make myself small. Invisible. On the other side of the cement wall I could hear the muffled shouts and whistles of three thousand people waiting for Rapid Confession to take the stage. Our manager, Jimmy Ray, had given us the ten-minute cue a good twenty minutes ago and my bandmates were probably looking for me.
I took a sip from my Evian water bottle, three-quarters filled with vodka—because I’m clever like that—and contemplated my phone. I dared myself to call. I warned myself not to; to just put it away and join the band in the green room. We’d hit the stage, play for yet another sold-out show. I’d get hella famous, make some serious money and continue to screw a different guy every night.
Because, rock and roll.
What a joke. I wasn’t rock and roll. I looked the part, especially tonight in my miniskirt, thigh-high boots and bustier. My hair—bleached to almost white—curled around my shoulders in pin-up girl perfection. My lips painted red and my eyes lined in black. Tattoos decorated my skin, adding to the impression of a grunge rock chick, but they weren’t part of the costume. They were mine.
I looked the part, but I felt like a piece of glass, shattered and scattered all over. I didn’t know who or what I was anymore, but I glittered prettily in the spotlight.
I took another sip of vodka and nearly dropped my phone. I fumbled to catch it and when I lifted it up, I saw I’d hit that big green call button.
“Shit...”
Slowly, I put the phone to my ear. My mother answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Dawson residence.”
My heart dropped into my stomach. My jaw worked but I couldn’t make any sound come out.
“Hello?”
“I…”
“Hello, may I help you?”
She’s going to hang up!
“Hey, Mom. It’s me. Kacey.”
“Cassandra.”
I hated that name and hadn’t used it for years. But wrapped around those three syllables, I heard the relief in my mother’s voice. I heard it.
“Yeah, hi!” I said brightly, too loudly. “How uh…How are you guys?”
“We are fine,” she said. Her voice was hushed now, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “Where are you calling from?”
“Las Vegas,” I said. “Because we’re on tour. Me and my band? Rapid Confession? It’s a sold-out show tonight, our second night in a row. Actually, most of the shows on our tour have been sold out. It’s pretty great. We’re hitting the big time.”
“I am very happy for you, Cassandra.”
I heard my father’s influ
ence behind my mother’s words, turning her into a goddamn robot spouting lines she’d been forced to memorize.
“And our latest single? ‘Talk Me Down’? Well….” I bit my lip. “It’s number six on the Billboard Hot 100. And I…Well, I wrote it, Mom. I mean, my band and I wrote it, but the words…they’re mostly mine. And ‘Wanderlust’? I wrote that one too. It’s number twelve on the charts.”
Nothing.
I swallowed. “How is Dad?”
“He’s fine,” my mother replied, her voice almost a whisper now.
“Is…Is he there?”
My mom sighed, a tiny exhalation. “Cassie… Are you safe? Are you taken care of?”
“I’m doing good, Mom,” I said. “And I’m a success. This band… We’re a hit.”
God, I hated this. The pathetic tone of my voice, the bragging of the band’s accomplishments, begging my mother to feel happy for our success when I hardly felt a thing myself, except the need to be loved. It was like a hunger that was never sated. A desperate starvation twisted and twined into my guts, tangled in ravenous knots I couldn’t unravel.
I could never quell that awful appetite. Only drown it in alcohol for a little while and try to puke it out the next day.
“Mom? Please, just tell Dad…”
“Cassie, I have to go.”
“Wait, can you put him on? Or just…Can you tell him you’re on the phone with me right now? Just do that, Mom. See what he says.”
Silence. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said finally. “He’s been…cheerful lately. No upsets. I don’t want to disturb him.”
“Is he still mad at me?” I asked, my voice wavering. “It was four years ago, Mom. I’m not even with Chett anymore.”
Chett ditched me in Las Vegas four years ago, leaving me broke, heartbroken, and reeling. A cross-country tour, a record deal, countless one-night stands and two new tattoos later and here I was, a wayward kid again, begging her parents to forgive her.
I fought back the tears. “I told you this, Mom. But did you tell him? Did you ever tell Dad I was homeless and sleeping at the Y when he kicked me out? Homeless, Mom. I was fucking seventeen years old.”