Title: The Truth of Tristan
Lyons
Series: Legendary Rock Stars
#4
Author: L.B. Dunbar
Genre: Rock Star Romance
Release Date: July 27,
2015
Blurb
Heartbreaker.
I
understand why I have the nickname. Hey, what can I say? I like women. All
women. It doesn’t matter what shape, size, or color. I’m even into sharing.
I’ve done it all, seen it all, but I’m at an all-time low. Who wouldn’t be? My
best friend is missing. My uncle’s an asshole. I don’t know who I am without The
Nights. We are a band of brothers, soldiering through the world with our music.
Only, our faithful leader is gone, and everyone else in the band is falling for
the oldest trap: love. Love is a lie. It is painful. It is hurtful.
I
need a break. I want to be alone. I'm not prepared to share the exclusive home
on the Island. I'm not prepared for her. I don’t know who she is or why she's
here. She tells me to call her Ireland. I tell her my first name only.
Originally, I don’t want to believe she doesn’t recognize me. Bass guitarist
for The Nights, come on? After a while we both play the game. Secrets are
another form of lies, aren't they?
Our fantasy will crash to reality too soon. Secrets catch up to you. The
truth has to be told. It confirms what I already know: love is a lie.
Until her.
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Excerpt
The
Truth of Tristan
Lyons
excerpt © L.B. Dunbar
I
wanted to know who she was.
Scratch that, I didn’t care who she was. I wanted
to know how she got in the
house. Damn these fangirls, sometimes. They knew no shame.
“Hey,”
I said grabbing her upper arm.
“How did you get in here?”
She
seemed caught unaware of my
approach and screamed loudly, pushing at my chest
hard enough, the sheer
surprise forced me to let go of her.
With
her hand on her chest and her
breasts rising and falling in great agitation, I
was able to see her big blue
eyes and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
Her chin length blonde hair
fell forward as she bent to clasp her knees and
catch her
breath.
Standing
up almost as quickly as she
bent over, she spoke to me through delicious
looking pink
lips.
“Who
the fuck are you?” she
growled.
“Who
the fuck, are you?” I
returned.
“I’m…”
“You
know what, never mind. You
need to go,” I said, cutting her off and reaching
for her upper arm again. “I
don’t know how you got in here, where you came
from, or how you found me, but
you need to go.”
I
began to tug her toward the
front entry, her feet sliding in her flip-flops
across the tile flooring. She
pulled back, and the force made her skid on an
angle across the slippery
surface as I dragged her. She continued to glare at
me quizzically, leaning away
from me.
“I
don’t know what you are
talking about?”
“Did
you follow me, is that it? See
me in the airport?”
“What?”
“Okay,
I love you too, now you need
to go. Okay?”
“What
are you talking
about?”
“Don’t
pretend you don’t know who I
am?”
“I
don’t.”
I
stopped, still holding firmly
to her arm. Something in her voice sounded like
she was being
serious.
“I’m
Tristan.”
She
blinked, confusion clearly on
her face. I was thoughtful for a moment. It was
the innocence in her blue
eyes, and the fact she looked like she might cry.
Something wasn’t right with
this scenario.
“Trist
– an,” I said slowly, as if
she had some type of hearing impairment.
“Who?”
I
narrowed my eyes at
her.
“What
kind of music do you listen
to?”
“Country,”
she answered so quickly, she
didn’t even blink an eye or stop for thought. On
top of that, she said it in
such a way that showed she was thoroughly confused,
and almost disgusted with me,
for even asking such a ridiculous question. She wrinkled
her
nose.
“Look,
I know the owner, and you
shouldn’t be here.”
“I
know the owner,” I repeated,
“and you shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m
not leaving,” she said,
pulling at her own arm again and sticking out a hand to
press against my chest as
leverage. I had tugged my shirt off at some point
while I was passed out, and
her warm hand felt good on my air-conditioned cool
skin. Her hand was tiny, I
noticed. All of her was thin.
“I’m
supposed to be here. Alone,” I
emphasized again.
She
didn’t respond, so I added, “I
think I’ll just call the owner myself, to see
where the mix up
is.”
“No,”
she blurted, stopping in her
physical struggle against me. Her eyes opened even
wider, if that was possible,
and her face was suddenly full of something I
couldn’t read. Her blue eyes
brightened in a frightening sort of way. Was that
fear? Good, she should be
afraid.
“Please.
I swear. I’m allowed to be
here. You don’t need to call Isa.”
She
had me. I didn’t really know
who Isa was, and the girl sounded confident enough
that I let her call my
bluff.
“If
there is a mistake, and you
were scheduled to stay as well, I won’t complain.
As a matter of fact, I won’t
even be in your way. You won’t even know I’m here.
I plan to keep to
myself.” Her eyes were
glassy, and again I worried
she was about to cry.
I
released her arm and she
pulled it back quickly. She fisted the hand of that
arm, holding it against her
chest. She began rubbing her upper arm with the
opposite hand. I noticed again
that she was thin, as were her breasts. I didn’t
care for small chested girls.
I didn’t care for her.
“Well,
I’m Tristan, whom you claim to
not know, and you are?”
“I’m…Ireland.”
“Ireland
what?”
“Just…Ireland.”
I
shook my
head.
“So
this is how we’re going to
play it? Fine, my Irish Isle. What are you doing in
the
Caymans?”
She
looked at me for a moment,
then leaned toward me and sniffed. She held the
disgusted expression on her
face and wrinkled her nose as she pulled
back.
“Probably
the same thing as
you.”
“Drinking
myself into oblivion?” I
laughed, crossing my arms over my bare chest
defensively.
“Hiding,” she
replied.
Author
Bio
L.B. Dunbar loves to read to the point it
might be classified as an addiction. The past few years especially she has
relished the many fabulous YA authors, the new genre of New Adult, traditional
romances, and historical romances. A romantic at heart, she’s been accused of
having an overactive imagination, as if that was a bad thing. Author of the
Sensations Collection, Sound Advice, Taste Test, Fragrance Free, Touch
Screen, and Sight Words, she is also author of the Legendary Rock
Star series, beginning with The Legend of Arturo King. She
grew up in Michigan, but has lived in Chicago for longer, calling it home with
her husband and four children.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I’d like to say I was always a
writer. I’d also like to say that I
wrote every day of my life since a child.
That I took the teaching advice I give my former students because
writing every day improves your writing.
I’d like to say I have my ten-thousand hours that makes me a proficient
writer. But I can’t say any of
those things. I did dream of
writing the “Great American Novel” until one day a friend said: Why does it have to be great? Why can’t it just be good and tell a
story?
As a teenager, I wrote your typical love-angst poetry that did
occasionally win me an award and honor me with addressing my senior high school
class at our Baccalaureate Mass. I didn’t keep a journal because I was too
afraid my mom would find it in the mattress where I kept my copy of Judy
Blume’s Forever that I wasn’t allowed to read as a twelve year old.
I can say that books
have been my life. I’m a reader. I loved to read the day I discovered “The
Three Bears” as a first grader, and ever since then, the written word has been
my friend. Books were an escape for me.
An adventure to the unknown. A love affair I’d never know. I could be lost for
hours in a book.
So why writing now? I had a story
to tell. It haunted me from the moment I decided if I just wrote it down it
would go away. But it didn’t. Three years after writing the first draft, a sign
(yes, I believe in them) told me to fix up that draft and work the process to
have it published. That’s what I did. But one story let to another, and
another, and another. Then a new idea came into my head and a new storyline was
created.
I was accused (that’s the correct word) of
having an overactive imagination as a child, as if that was a bad thing. I’ve
also been accused of having the personality of a Jack Russell terrier, full of
energy, unable to relax, and always one step ahead. What can I say other than I
have stories to tell and I think you’ll like them. If you don’t, that’s okay.
We all have our book boyfriends. We all have our favorites. Whatever you do,
though, take time for yourself and read a
book.
L.B.
Dunbar
Author
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