Smashing the Spotlight – Paranormal – MM

About Smashing the Spotlight

Author: BA Tortuga

Word Count:  46500

Page Count (pdf): 179

ISBN:  978-1-942831-57-0

Price:  $4.99

Pairing: MM

Genre: Paranormal

Date Published: 2nd edition 03/09/2017

Publisher:  Turtlehat Creatives

Heat Rating: 

File Types available: pdf, epub, mobi

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Sometimes the moon shines brighter than the stage.

Connor ‘CJ’ Lamont is at the top of his game playing the bad boy of country music. The problem with his ultimate redneck persona is that… well, he’s not. CJ is a wickedly smart songwriter and musician who suffers from an excess of personality. He lives, not for the spotlight, but for the three months of downtime each year when he can finally be himself.

Sexy werewolf Lee Mills is hired as CJ’s new security to keep him safe and assure that he stays on the medication he’s been on since birth. But when Connor’s parents see sparks fly between their son and his new security guard, they are intent on keeping the wolf at bay. Of course, Mills isn’t used to taking orders, at least not from anyone who isn’t his pack alpha, and he has no intention of following the rules.

In fact, if Mills has his way, he’ll be smashing the spotlight and showing Connor the moon.


CJ Lamont finished his acoustic encore, letting the last chord fade with the lights as the applause roared. He sucked up the energy from the crowd, the wild rush that the attention gave him.

“Good job, buddy. Let’s go. Hustle.” Nathan Peters, his head of security and all-around good guy, grabbed him, started him moving as one of the roadies took his guitar from his hand. “Last show of the season, huh? Feel good about it?”

“Fucking great, man.” They booked it down into the belly of the stadium, making tracks for the Lincoln Town Car that waited for them instead of the bus. No bus. No more shows. Just him and his place in the islands.

Connor wanted to just be him for a while, not CJ the singer or the redneck with the dirty gimme cap or the ripped jeans. Just loose pants and T-shirts, sunshine, the sound of waves. No Mom. No label. No groupies.

Connor smiled, his heart slowing down as the postshow adrenaline began to wear off.

“You look happy, kid.”

“I’m content. Does that count?” He was feeling damned good. “It’s not a bad life, Nathan. Not bad at all.” He had what everyone in his business wanted—fame, money, all the T and A a straight man could ask for.

Too bad he wasn’t straight.

“Yeah. I’ve enjoyed it. I hope you get someone good to replace me,” Nathan said. “I’ve vetted some excellent guys. Some I’ve known for years.”

“I’m not taking security with me. They’ll have a good nine months to find someone to take over the tour. Hell, by then you’ll have come out of retirement from sheer boredom.” A man could hope, at any rate. Nathan knew him, understood him. Connor didn’t want some new guy who would cramp his style.

Nathan frowned. “No, man, you got to have someone. I talked to Sophia about someone discreet.”

“No one will know me down there. No one ever does.” At home he wasn’t CJ Lamont, outlaw country redneck singer and voice of the common man. There he was Connor Lewis, math geek and songwriter, mixer of a killer martini. He just needed to shave and trade out the jeans and cap for swim trunks and a straw hat.

“No, kiddo. You know how much your songwriting alone is worth?” Nathan clapped him on the back. “The label will never go for it, and that’s not even mentioning your mom.”

“That’s why we’re not telling.” Especially not his mother.

Connor groaned when his label rep Mike slid into the car, asking, “Telling what?”

“What do you need, Mike? I’m off work.”

“Celebrities are never off work, man,” Mike said.

That was the rub, wasn’t it? Connor had never really wanted to be this big a star. The label had pushed him into that when they found out people loved his songs and somehow, weirdly, he had a connection with the audience.

He wasn’t bitching. He knew he was lucky. He was living the dream. Still, he wanted to live the dream in the islands for a few months, maybe get a blowjob.

“Tour is over,” Connor said. “All I have to do is write. Easy peasy.”

“Yeah. We’re sending you with your new security guy. He’ll hire a team on site.”

“What? No.” No way. No guy. No team.

No bullshit.

Connor was off work. He didn’t need or want an entourage running amok and strong-arming his buddies down in the islands. Hell, he didn’t want to have to fake this good old boy redneck bullshit act for his entire downtime.

“Sorry, but your new bodyguard will determine all that. We have a lot invested in you.” Mike gave him that earnest look he did so well.

“Just drop me off at the fucking hotel.” Connor would arrange a flight himself, one they didn’t know about. How hard could it be?