A Lush Reunion Read online

  About The Lush Series

  “Delicious and Intriguing”

  NYT and USA Today Bestselling Author Lauren Blakely

  Ten years ago Lush bassist Colin Douglas met the love of his life. Then she broke his heart. Now, in a small Texas town, in the midst of the breakup of his band, Colin has found Marsha, and he has no idea what to do with her.

  Marsha O’Neill hasn’t had it easy. Since losing Colin nothing’s gone right for this east Texas waitress—except for Sean, her six-year-old son. She’s worked hard to give Sean what he needs—the best of her. Then a hot bass player walks into her bar and she knows the world isn’t done screwing with her yet.

  What happens when life gives you a second chance? Can you learn to trust again, live again, love again? Colin and Marsha are about to find out that second chances don’t come easy.

  Reviewers are saying…

  I was so invested in the characters that I actually cried tears once the drama truly made itself known. I was absolutely wrecked by the hospital scene. It was probably one of the most evocative scenes I’ve read in a book this year. Laurence definitely has an art to crafting a story full of passion, love, and heartbreak. I can’t wait for the next one!

  The Book Chick Blog Reviews on Lush 1

  A Lush Betrayal is a MUST read. It is a story that completely consumed me. One that had me questioning my own beliefs.

  Heather, The REAL Housewives of Romance on Lush 1

  Selena Laurence does it yet again! She has a way of pulling you into her story and she doesn’t let go until she’s done. She does such an amazing job connecting you to the characters, that you forget that they aren’t real live people.

  Michele, Devilishly Delicious Book Reviews on Lush 1

  This a great story about love, forgiveness, and perseverance. I can’t wait to see who the next book is about; this is turning out to be a great series!

  A, Wicked Reads Review Team on Lush 2

  The character development in this book is exceptional. Walsh and Tammy are on two separate journeys back to each other, but we are able to fully see and identify with both. There is drama, pain, and tough conversations and it made me happy that the author did not shy away from them and make this is a “fluff” piece.

  Tiffany, Reading in Black and White on Lush 2

  I am beginning to think that Mike is my favorite Lush member by far. This book was full of drama, angst, steam, and tortured alpha males that make your heart bleed. Told in dual POV, this book will take you on a sexy and emotional roller coaster ride that will make you laugh, smile, cry, get mad, and totally swoon!

  Briana, Renee Entress’s Book Blog on Lush 3

  Selena has taken the topic of mental illness and shed some much needed light on it. She illustrates very realistically what it’s like to live with someone who suffers from mental illness and how that affects the way you grow up and the way you view relationships with others. I could literally feel Mike’s crippling fear that he would end up like his mother. While it’s a book about fear and hurt, it’s just as much a book about hope.

  Christie, Devilishly Delicious Book Reviews on Lush 3

  I doubt you can read this and not have it touch you in some way.

  Cyn, Cyn’s Reviews on Lush 4

  This is the second chance book of all second chances. I could not make myself put this one down. It’s filled with hard real life issues and it’s handled with style and grace.

  Amber, Goodreads reviewer on Lush 4

  Books by

  Selena Laurence

  The Hiding From Love Series (New Adult Contemporary Romance)

  Hidden (Winner, Readers’ Crown Award for Best Contemporary Romance of 2014)

  Falling for Trouble

  Concealed by a Kiss (Amazon #1 Hispanic Fiction/#4 Multicultural Romance)

  Buried

  The Lush Series (Rock Star Contemporary Romance)

  A Lush Betrayal (Lush No. 1)

  Loving a Lush (Lush No. 2)

  Lowdown and Lush (Lush No. 3)

  A Lush Reunion (Lush No. 4)

  The Bittersweet Chronicles (Novellas From the World of Lush)

  Pax (Book One)

  Sign up for Selena’s Newsletter for information on all new releases.

  Prologue

  “I HEARD that little Harkins slut popped out another bastard.”

  I look up from my homework as my mother walks into the kitchen. I swallow and shift my eyes back to the chemistry textbook on the table in front of me.

  “I don’t know, Mama. I’m not friends with her.”

  “I should hope not. Hanging around girls like that’ll only get you one thing—the reputation of a whore.”

  My mother’s favorite topic of conversation is the sexual shenanigans of underage girls. Everyone is a “slut” or a “whore.” I don’t really know what the reason for it is. She’s generally judgmental and mean, but she especially dislikes sexually active teenagers. Probably because she had me at seventeen and then my dad up and left her six months later. It’s no secret in my home that I’m a burden. She loves me—I think—but she often seethes with the bitterness of a life spent trying to figure out how to feed herself and a child without a high school diploma.

  “Mama,” I mutter. “I don’t think people really call girls who have babies ‘whores’ these days.”

  “Why not? It’s what they are. If you want a baby, get married. It’s simple. And if you’re having sex, you must want a baby, because it’s bound to happen sooner or later. So you’d better not have sex without being married either. I was a whore and look at where I ended up—thirty-four-years old, living in a run-down trailer park, with second-hand furniture, working in the line at a vacuum cleaner factory all day.”

  “We’ve got a great vacuum cleaner though,” I add as I pull out my English book, and flip to the page I need to start my essay on the symbolism of home in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath.

  My mother’s dour face cracks for a moment with a small smile. “That we do, Marsha Lynn. You always know how to look for the positive, don’t you?”

  “I do my best,” I answer, not looking up from the book in front of me.

  “You’re a good girl. It’s a comfort to me knowing you’ll never behave like those Harkins girls. You’re going to get an education and get married and do me right. I’m proud of you.”

  I stop for brief moment to look at my mother’s face. The pride shows through even her normally exhausted eyes. It isn’t much, but it’s the most I ever get, so I take it. I take whatever bit of joy or pride I can wring out of my mother, and I vow I’ll never do anything to destroy that.

  It’s all I have.

  Chapter One

  Colin

  “WHO’S THE bass player?” Someone once framed that and presented it to me as a gift. I laughed, let him laugh along as well, then the minute he walked out the door, I tossed the piece of crap in the garbage.

  “Who’s the bass player?” “The fourth guy…what’s his name?” “What’s that funny-looking guitar called again?” “That guy over by the drummer.” And my personal all-time favorite: “No body fucks the bass player.”

  It’s a fact that bass players are the least appealing members of any rock band. Oh, drummers are a close second, but in your traditional four-man setup, it’s always the bass player who is ignored. It’s been scientifically shown that the audience’s eyes focus on bass players exactly one-fourth as often as on lead singers and only half as often as on lead guitarists. If it’s a band with backup singers, audience eyes only ever fall on the bass player if he’s standing close enough to be in the same visual frame as another band member.

  In case you haven’t figured it out—I’m a bass player. And no one knows my name, which really doesn’
t bother me that much. I do wish they knew what a bass guitar is and that, without it, the music wouldn’t be the same, but do they have to know my name? Nah. Hardly anyone does, it’s no big deal.

  I can attest though, that bass players do, in fact, get fucked. If you’re out on the road, groupies are groupies, and while they may have a favorite band member, they’ll go with the bass player in a pinch. I never lacked for company when I was touring with my band, Lush, and none of the other bass players I know do, either.

  Lately, though, getting laid isn’t high on my list of priorities—at least, not getting laid by just anyone. The one woman I yearn for is the one I can’t have because she’s the one who tore my heart out of my chest and left little pieces of it on the road out of Oklahoma. Marsha O’Neill was the single worst event of my life, and I’m not about to let her back in.

  Which may seem somewhat ironic since I’m sitting here in an East Texas bar, watching her wait tables like she’s a glass of ice water and I’m coming off a week in the Sahara. But looking isn’t the same as doing, and I won’t be doing anything with her.

  Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Colin.

  “You going to stare at her all night?” Mike asks from across the table, where he sits with the boilermaker he brought back from the bar. “Bottoms up.” He grins as he lifts the shot glass, downing it before he wipes his arm across his mouth and then swigs the beer.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.

  Mike is annoying as hell. He showed up a few days ago saying that he’s going to get Jenny, his on-again, off-again country-singing girlfriend back. That apparently translates to, “I’m going to live with you and annoy you every day until Jenny decides to talk to me.” He’s moved into the vacant room next to mine at Mrs. Stallworth’s boarding house, and he’s around—every day, all the time. The guys in my band are my brothers, but Mike can be a total pain in the ass, and especially when he’s giving me shit about Marsha.

  “Dude. Your eyes have been glued to her since we walked in the door. You come here every single night, and you’ve chosen to stay in Texas even though the rest of us are back in Portland. You don’t think you have some unfinished business with her?”

  I have a swallow of my beer. Of course he’s right. I’ve tried to leave, I really have., but I can’t seem to find a compelling enough reason to do it. I can’t seem to bring myself to go thousands of miles away from her with no plan to come back. All of these years when I had no idea where she was, I got by. Granted I was high all the time, but I did get by.

  But now? Now, I know exactly where she is, and I can’t seem to shake the need to be in her vicinity, even with how fucked up things are. Still. After more than ten years.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Her voice jars me out of my thoughts, and I look up at her soft, red curls and full, curvy figure. She’s addressing Mike, of course. She doesn’t ever offer to get me anything. If she did, I’d probably say something stupid like, “You.”

  “Nah, I’m good, darling.” Mike uses his silky I’m going to get me some tail voice, and I want to hit him, wipe the smirk off his face as he tries his damnedest to annoy me into some sort of action.

  “Okay, then,” Marsha chirps. “You know where to find me if you want another one of those bad boys.” She gives him a smile as she points to his empty shot glass.

  “What about me?” I ask suddenly. “What if I want something?”

  She turns slowly, her face flushing. “Of course,” she answers, a spark in her voice. “What would you like?”

  I look into her bright, blue eyes, and my heart contracts. My mind flashes back to a sunny afternoon in an empty field in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The sun is shining and it’s already hot outside, humidity rolling off the red soil and the deep-green grass we’re sitting on.

  “What would you like?” she asks as she lies beneath me, her soft palm stroking my cheek.

  “Everything,” I answer. “I want all of you.”

  “You have me,” she whispers. “Every piece. Always.”

  “Colin.” Mike’s voice is persistent. And irritating. “The lady wants to know what you’d like to order.” He has one eyebrow raised, and it’s obvious that he thinks I’m pathetic. He’s right.

  “Nothing,” I answer at last, looking Marsha straight in the eyes. Her lips are drawn tight, and her skin has paled now. “I don’t want anything,” I say before I stand and toss a handful of bills on the table. I have no idea how much it even is. Could be five, could be five hundred.

  My heart is beating out that painful refrain that’s been in me since I found her here at this cowboy bar, waiting tables for the local ranchers. If only I could figure out how to make it go away. How to make her go away. But I know that it’s no use. She’s so far inside me that I’ll never be free. It’s karma’s way of sticking it to us. Both her and me. It’s our punishment. We can never have each other, but we can never be rid of each other, either.

  MY JOURNEY to Texas has been a twisted and strange one. See, I was stoned nearly continuously for close to eight years, six months, and two days. I got high first thing in the morning, I got high at breakfast, I got high at lunch, and for happy hour too. I’ve been known to get high while eating dinner, having sex, and taking a bath as well. I liked being high, it was relaxing, other people’s bullshit didn’t bother me, and, most of all, there were no expectations of me. Everyone looked at me and said, “Well you know, that’s Colin, he’s stoned, so…”

  Yes, being high was a great addition to my life.

  Until that morning.

  I woke up that morning, drenched in the sunshine of Hawaii, the beach outside my hotel window. I reached for my pipe and couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but me and the ganja parted ways that day, and I’m afraid a divorce is looming on the horizon. That scares me shitless.

  Without pot, I knew I’d have to deal with my band being on the rocks. Without pot, I’d have to remember that Marsha O’Neill didn’t love me anymore. Without pot, I’d have to give a shit about stuff…and people.

  See, I really prefer animals to people. When an animal loves you, that’s for life. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. That golden retriever, boxer, Lithuanian poodle—whatever—loves you, and no matter what you do wrong, no matter how many fuck-ups you make, it’ll love you anyway. It’s unconditional to the point of being detrimental to the animal, but they don’t understand that. They just love.

  People, on the other hand—people like Marsha O’Neill—aren’t capable of unconditional love. At least not in my experience. People are judgmental and mercurial, and often, downright selfish. Those things don’t go along with love.

  So, without my usual way out, I left Hawaii and came here, to Texas, because Mike and Walsh were here. Imagine my shock when I discovered that the long-lost Marsha O’Neill was as well. I know when the cosmos is slapping me upside the head. I was meant to be here, stone-cold sober, and now, I have to figure out how to make my life right. The way Marsha and I left things ten years ago has haunted me ever since, and I guess there’s no way for me to leave here without fixing that. I might not be able to get unconditional love out of her, but I can try to get answers. Somehow, I need to get those answers.

  MORNINGS ARE my favorite time at Mrs. Stallworth’s boarding house. It’s an old Victorian, pristinely maintained, one block off the main drag in this tiny Texas town that has provided safe harbor to Walsh, then Mike, and, now, me as well. Walsh, our drummer, is an alcoholic, and his friend, Ronny Silva, runs a halfway-house type setup out on his ranch. Walsh stayed there for a few months when he really needed a place to land and a place to help with his recovery. Since I’ve been here, I’ve gone out a few days a week and worked on the ranch with Ronny’s guys. The other days, I stay in town and help Mrs. S. out. Most days—like today—I get up as the sun is rising and head to the big front porch that wraps around two sides of the house. I sit on the porch swing and sip my coffee while I listen to the
town wake.

  This morning, though, Mike has decided to interrupt my peace. He slides onto the porch swing next to me and throws his arm across the back.

  “What’s up, young Colin?” he asks as he has a big swig of too-hot coffee and swears.

  “Just having a little early morning quiet,” I mumble, hoping he gets the hint.

  He doesn’t. “You’re a fucking grump, man. When’s that gonna ease up?”

  I give him my middle finger and don’t answer.

  He chuckles. “Seriously though, dude. What’s bugging you? You’ve been unhappy for weeks. I thought if you were here long enough you’d work something out with Marsha, but since it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen, maybe you should head home.”

  My stomach churns. “I have worked something out with Marsha. We knew each other briefly in high school. Now, we don’t know each other anymore. What’s left to work out?”

  Mike sighs, frustrated with my obfuscation. “Will you please admit you dated her or whatever? It’s so fucking obvious, and I’m not sure why you won’t say, ‘Yeah, I had a thing with Marsha a decade ago.’ What’s the big damn deal?”

  I stand, walk to the railing of the porch, and lean my hands on it, my back to Mike. “Fine. I had a thing with Marsha a decade ago. You satisfied?”

  “It’s a start,” he says as he raises an eyebrow.

  I’m not stupid. I know he, Walsh, and Joss have been waiting for months now for me to tell them what my “thing” with Marsha entailed, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to describe it to them. How do you summarize the greatest joy and the greatest sorrow you’ve ever felt? How do you talk about the one person you trusted more than anyone else in your life, and the way that person betrayed you in the absolute most personal and permanent way?

  If only I knew how to tell someone about what Marsha meant to me, and what she did to me. I know that it would lift this invisible weight off my chest. But there simply aren’t words, so I just shrug and continue to look out at Mrs. S.’s yard, hoping that Mike will give it a rest now.