Clutch Read online

  Other titles by S.M. West

  Playlist

  Dedication

  1. Stupid

  2. Crazy

  3. Unique

  4. Brave

  5. Sorry

  6. Dirt

  7. Ride

  8. Goosebumps

  9. Tease

  10. Cartwheels

  11. Centered

  12. Nasty

  13. Promise

  14. Tension

  15. Right

  16. Longing

  17. Connection

  18. Smitten

  19. Balls

  20. Flush

  21. Somersault

  22. Miss

  23. Disappointment

  24. History

  25. Twists

  26. Addicted

  27. Fear

  28. Worthless

  29. Disdain

  30. Lust

  31. Bloom

  32. Smartass

  33. Apprehension

  34. Ballistic

  35. Venom

  36. Killing

  37. Greedy

  38. Inevitable

  39. Together

  40. Priceless

  41. Detour

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by SM West

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work by not contributing to piracy and purchasing a copy for those you wish to share it with.

  Cover Design by:

  RBA Designs

  http://rbadesigns.com/

  Edited by:

  Leanne Rabesa

  https://editingjuggernaut.wordpress.com/

  Melinda Utendorf, M.Ute Editing

  http://www.mute-editing.com/

  Proofread by:

  Bex Kettner, Editing Ninja

  http://editing.ninja/

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Juliana Cabrera of Jersey Girl Design

  www.jerseygirlandco.com

  Cover Photo:

  Regina Wamba ©MaeIDesign and Photography

  http://www.maeidesign.com/

  Red

  Made to Love

  Blue

  Listen On Spotify

  “Cool Girl” – Tove Lo

  “Black Sheep” – Gin Wigmore

  “Itch” – Nothing But Thieves

  “Into the Storm” – BANNERS

  “Raging” – Kygo and Kodaline

  “Soundcheck” – Catfish and the Bottlemen

  “Like I Would” – ZAYN

  “September Song” – Agnes Obel

  “Butterfly” – Crazytown

  “You’re the One” – The Black Keys

  “Can’t Feel My Face” – The Weekend

  “To Build a Home” – Cinematic Orchestra

  “Touch” – Little Mix

  “All We Know” – The Chainsmokers

  “You and I” – Ingrid Michaelson

  Find some inspiration for Clutch on Pinterest

  To those who believe family comes from the heart, not only blood.

  Clutch – verb: to grasp and hold tightly; to seize; snatch.

  Flighty. Stupid. That’s what my sisters think of me.

  I’m tired of being misunderstood.

  With a suitcase in hand and the ocean as my beacon, I’m charting my own path.

  Yet, barely a day on the road, I almost crash and burn.

  Running into Silas Palmer, a sexy-as-sin rock star, changes my life.

  Silas makes me feel … Exceptional. Aimless.

  He’s always known his course.

  And even now, when he’s abandoning fame and fortune, he knows what he wants.

  Me.

  But life is never that simple.

  Love is vivid. I never wanted the pale version. Love is full strength. I never wanted the diluted version. I never shied away from love’s hugeness but I had no idea that love could be as reliable as the sun. The daily rising of love.

  Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

  “Why are you so stupid? I could’ve told you Cody would cheat on you. Pansy, don’t be so stupid.”

  Ivy’s condescending, nasal voice plays on an endless loop in my head from our conversation last night. Stupid—that’s what they all say I am.

  Running my hand over the smooth leather steering wheel of my sister’s Mercedes-Benz, I snicker. Who’s stupid now, huh? Okay, it’s maybe not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s well-deserved. She wouldn’t help me. She told me I could only stay the night, said I was on my own after that. My sister.

  She refused to let me crash until I got back on my feet, so she has no one to blame but herself. She keeps telling me to take matters into my own hands and get my life in order. Well, I’ve taken the first step.

  She’ll say it’s classic Pansy, flying by the seat of my pants—and truthfully, it’s the only way I roll. I’m sure I’ll pay for my latest plan—I always do—but for now, I don’t care. I had no choice, other than sleeping in a shelter, and that would be rock bottom.

  Not that I’m better than anyone who needs to use one; I’m not above that. At this point, though, a shelter would break me. I’m already at my lowest with Cody cheating and throwing me out of his place, and now my sister too. It’s difficult to accept that I’m alone.

  My mother is probably rolling over in her grave. She believed in family and being there for each other, though Ivy apparently missed that lesson.

  Instead, the fact that she’s successful makes her think she’s better than me. I’m shit on her shoe, something disgusting she needs to get rid of. My heart feels like it is being squeezed, as I’m unable to remember a time when we were close.

  If Poppy were here, I would have gone to her for help. She’d take me in no matter what. Sure, she’d call me naïve and stupid, but she’d let me lick my wounds and rebuild my pride rather than kicking me when I’m down.

  I’m justifying my actions because deep down I’ll regret it once Ivy gets a hold of me. She’s at a medical conference for the day and won’t discover that I “borrowed” her car until tonight, giving me a nice head start.

  Shaking off my guilt, I glance around the top-of-the-line sports car. It is one sweet ride. Though it’s decked out with satellite radio, I want my jam. Rummaging through my purse with one eye on the road, I find my phone. Syncing it with the Bluetooth while driving will be tricky, but I’m up for it. Pretty soon my tunes will be blaring out of this wicked stereo system.

  Juggling driving and unlocking my phone, I enter my password as the car hits what could only be a pothole. For a moment, the bounce causes my butt to lift off the seat, and I release an oof as my abdomen connects with the steering wheel. Ouch.

  The jostling causes my foot to push on the accelerator, and th
e car charges forth and swerves as I lose my grip on the wheel. In those seconds, everything slows. I’m veering for the side of the road where a hitchhiker is walking, and like a missile, the car’s locked on its target. Where the hell did he come from?

  He glances over his shoulder, and our eyes meet. I’m heading straight for him. Without hesitation, he dives into the thick brush.

  Grabbing the wheel, I slam on the brakes, and the piercing screech of grinding metal reverberates throughout my body as the car comes to a stop. Throwing it into park, I run toward the man now extracting himself from the thick thorns and brambles.

  “Why the fuck are you trying to kill me?”

  His long, sandy blond hair is in disarray, strands falling from his bun, and leaves and debris cling to his short, dark blond beard. With his hands on his hips and his defined chest heaving, livid blue eyes pin me to the spot.

  “I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I was…” I trail off. This is all my fault; if only I’d been paying attention. “I was stupid, and I’m so sorry.” Great, now I’m calling myself the one word I detest. I’m not stupid.

  He starts to brush the dirt from his clothes, and I lunge to help him, but he bats my hand away. ”Stupid—that’s for sure! Stay the hell away from me.”

  I should be used to being called stupid by now, but I rear back from the sting of his bitter words. He has a right to be angry, scared, or even in shock—it did seem I was gunning for him. Marching past me, his death glare is another jab to my usually impenetrable armor. He’s intent on getting away from me.

  “Uh, do you want a ride?” I call after him, wanting to make this right.

  “Fuck no.”

  Fucking crazy woman. I can’t get away from her fast enough. Running is an option, but it’s hot as hell out here. I wish I’d had my phone on me when those idiots threw me off the bus, and I also have no water. Shit. In this desert heat, I’m parched.

  Glancing over my shoulder every so often, I check in case the maniac appears. Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, the silver Mercedes slows to a crawl beside me. The redhead rolls down the window.

  “You need a ride?” She smiles as if she didn’t almost run me down. She’s crazy.

  “No. Get away and leave me alone.”

  She stops the car—in the middle of the road. Lunatic. Shaking my head in disbelief, I keep walking, ignoring her, hoping she’ll go away. Getting out of the vehicle, she runs to catch up.

  “I’m really sorry. Come on, you need a ride, and I’m going your way. I took my eyes off the road for two seconds, and I’m sorry. I promise to drive within the speed limit, keep my eyes on the road, and obey all traffic signs. Please let me make it up to you.”

  Damn, I do need a lift. I’ve been trying to hitch a ride for the past two hours with no luck. Who knew world-famous rock stars could strike out while hitchhiking? I thought cars would be lining up -- turns out I was wrong. Now, do I chance it with psycho woman or keep trekking along this hot, dry highway?

  I turn on my heel, and the hopeful hazel eyes of the auburn-haired stranger nail me. It’s hard to keep my gaze on her cute face when her long legs are showcased in tiny jean shorts. It doesn’t help that her button’s undone, exposing a tease of her tanned midriff and black panties. Her tight, threadbare t-shirt and well-worn cowboy boots finish off her youthful, fun vibe.

  A warm, soft breeze sweeps her long locks into her face. Brushing the strands away, she nibbles on her lower lip. She appears forlorn, like she’s the one destitute on the side of the road.

  My resolve is crumbling with the innocence radiating off her. She may be wacky, but not in a fear-for-your-life sort of way. My guess is she’s just scattered and wasn’t trying to hit me.

  Besides, I do need a ride, and I have no cell phone. It’s one long-ass walk to get to the town where the bus is; best-case scenario, it’ll take me the entire night.

  “Eyes on the road and no talking,” I order.

  “Yes, I promise. I’m Pansy.” She extends her hand.

  With a curt handshake, I contemplate lying about my name, but she doesn’t appear to know who I am. She’s a stranger, and we likely won’t be together long enough for her to figure it out—if she hasn’t already.

  “Silas,” I introduce myself as I head for the car, thinking this ride might be the beginning of my final hours on this earth. I have no clue what I’m in for with this crazy chick.

  We drive in silence for maybe ten minutes—though I might be generously exaggerating—before she starts talking, or more like rambling.

  “So, Silas, where are you headed?”

  “I thought you promised no talking,” I remind her.

  Her pink, bow-shaped lips puff out a sigh as she confesses, “I suck at no talking, especially when I’m nervous.”

  Her being nervous leaves me queasy. Fuck. Who knows what disaster she could cause with her nerves frazzled? I imagine a major pile-up shutting down the highway for hours. I better ease her anxiety.

  “Next town.”

  “What?” She’s puzzled.

  “Where I’m headed, the next town.” By design, my answer is vague. “I need to get there fast.”

  “How fast?”

  Shit, why’d I say fast? “The sooner, the better, but no speeding or driving like a madwoman.”

  “Ha. Funny.” She chuckles. “There’s a shortcut ahead that’ll save us about an hour. The road’s desolate, a lot less traffic.”

  I like the sound of that. “Fine.”

  Anticipating my return to the tour bus is both a relief and a burden. I want to explain to the band. I’m hoping since they have had time to cool down, they’ll be willing to hear me out, but the real question is if they will listen to what I have to say.

  “Why were you hitching?”

  Sighing, I scrub my hand down my face. She isn’t going to shut up. “It’s a long story, and I’d rather not get into it,” I say, hoping my clipped tone will do the trick. No such luck.

  “Just curious, because I can’t figure out why the lead singer of Trojan would be hitchhiking.”

  Shit. She’s smarter than she acts. I had no clue she knew who I was. “When did you figure it out?”

  “I knew you looked familiar when I first saw you, and then it hit me as we were talking.”

  This broad puzzles me. If she knew who I was, I’m surprised she didn’t try to take a picture, ask for an autograph, or maul me—which happens more often than I like to admit. “Why didn’t you say something or go all fangirl?”

  She grimaces before glancing back at the road. “Well… I’m not a fan.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I laugh. I love how blunt she is. It’s a welcome change from all the ass-kissing.

  “Okay, I can appreciate that. So, if Trojan isn’t your kind of thing, what is?”

  “Um, I’d rather not say. I don’t want to insult you or tick you off. You’re talented, and millions of people around the world love you guys. It’s just not my thing. Besides, why do you care about what I like? You have countless adoring fans.”

  Again, I laugh at her candidness. “True,” I respond unapologetically.

  Fame comes with a price, though. In the beginning, I lived for all that shit, the fame and the glory, but now that’s what I want to get away from. It’s why I dropped the bomb on the guys. It’s why I find myself in this car with a pretty, quirky, and possibly crazy woman.

  “I do want to know who I’ve lost one potential fan to,” I jest.

  Rolling her eyes, she smirks. “My all-time favorite rock star is Eddie Vedder, and before you say anything, I’m twenty-seven, and my older sister introduced me to Pearl Jam. It isn’t the band, per se; it’s him.” Her voice is dreamy, the gifted musician obviously on her mind.

  “Good choice. Who else?”

  “I’m more a Civil Wars or Lumineers kind of girl.”

  Nodding, my gaze lingers on Pansy longer than it should. I find her direct nature refreshing, and she’s definitely interesting, though I’
m still a bit leery. She’s unpredictable.

  She’s also cute, with creamy skin and a light sprinkle of brown freckles on her cheeks and her small, upturned nose. Together with her doe eyes and dewy glow, she appears younger than she is. I’m guessing she isn’t wearing any makeup, except for a light pink gloss on her pretty bow lips.

  Normally, I wouldn’t look twice. She’s too fresh, too bright, too innocent for me—but right now, I can’t stop myself from staring. I’m enjoying the view. Always being on tour doesn’t lend itself to having a girlfriend, so I’ve gotten used to the groupies.

  I tend to gravitate toward the in-your-face type of woman—it’s easier to get off and get out. I cringe at that pathetic truth; if I’m honest, it disgusts me.

  “You know what? There is one song of yours that I like,” she adds. “Actually, like is too tame a word—I love it. I was so surprised to find out it was a Trojan song.”

  Feigning she’s stabbed me in the heart, my hands clutch my chest. “Stop, woman, you’re killing me. This is brutal. You’re worse than our harshest critics.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Well, you can’t leave me hanging. I must know which song you love.” I grin.

  “‘Only.’ It’s so poetic and moving, and every single word speaks to me. I totally understand how it is to feel alone all the time.”

  Her confession is both unsettling and uplifting.

  “I wrote that song.”

  A strange tingling sensation fills my chest. Her reverent tone moves me. The song never did as well as we’d hoped, a departure from our more upbeat rock tunes. While the critics loved it, fan reception was lukewarm.

  It’s a personal song, one I wrote around the time I started questioning if I still wanted to be the lead singer of one of the hottest rock bands in the world. It can be a lonely life—it’s tough to be thirty, in your prime, and all alone.

  “Did you?” Contemplating, she regards me, not the rock star, but me, Silas Palmer, the guy. “It’s beautiful.”