Hello, Therians!
Welcome to my stop on the I.O. Book Tours, Finding Love's Wings by Zoey Derrick Blog Tour.
Finding Love’s Wings; A novel by Zoey Derrick
© 2012 by Zoey Derrick, all rights reserved.
Release
Date: May 5th, 2013
Pages/Paperback:
344
Release
Format: e-book, paperback
CAMERON ENDERS seems to have it all: a brand
new condo in a city she loves, a top executive position at an international
entertainment firm, an insane amount of money, and a gorgeous boyfriend. But
when Cami catches the boyfriend in the act with another woman, it triggers all
the anguish from years of neglect by her parents, and she realizes she never
learned how to love or be loved. Cami flees to the remote tropical island of
Tarah, but she can't avoid facing her problems any longer when she meets the man
of her fantasies...
TRISTAN MICHAELS, one of Hollywood's hottest
new stars, has come to Tarah to ride out a storm. His girlfriend of five years
has been caught on camera cheating, and she's determined to make Tristan stop
the story from breaking. But Tristan's done cleaning up her messes. He needs to
escape all things Hollywood for a while--and especially the firm that represents
him--until the whole thing blows over. What he doesn't count on is meeting an
irresistibly beautiful woman, a woman who just so happens to be the CEO of the
firm he's trying to avoid.
Can Tristan and Cami help each other learn to
trust and love again, or will their histories of betrayal tear them apart?
BUYING LINKS
Barnes
and Noble http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/finding-loves-wings-zoey-derrick/1115359580?ean=9780615814070
Books
a Million http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Finding-Loves-Wings/Zoey-Derrick/9780615814070?id=5722721798303
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
I have this distinct feeling that something is off,
but I can't put my finger on what it is. As I pull into the parking spot near
Reed's condo, the dreaded "something is not right" feeling courses
stronger through my body. His car is here, right next to me, so I know he's
here. And I can hear music coming from the window, which is wide open despite
the ninety-five degree temperature. Typical weather for June in Phoenix, but
most people would have the house closed up and the A/C blasting.
Reed is about five feet six inches tall. Not very
tall, but about two inches taller than I am. He is very broad shouldered and
muscular, with that perfect V at his hips. He just has an air of sexiness about
him.
I met Reed at a bar about six months ago, and we hit
it off pretty well. Really well, in fact. We ended up in bed together that same
night. We've been seeing each other casually since then, but it's strange: we
very rarely ever go out; it's usually just he and I in bed together. I'm not
sure that we can be considered a couple, but we've been exclusive to one
another since we met.
As I step out of the car, I take a deep breath.
Pulling myself together, I head for the door. It's unlocked, which isn't
unusual when he's expecting me, even though I have a key to his place. But when
I enter the house, I hear a strange noise. I listen carefully, and over the
beat of the music there it is again: a weird mewling noise that I can't
immediately place.
"Killer Queen" by Queen is crooning
through the bedroom stereo system. Reed loves his rock music, and Queen is a
bit mellow for him. "Reed?" I call out. The music drones on, so I
start singing quietly to myself as I make my way toward his bedroom. As I climb
the stairs the music changes, though the song isn't over yet. It switches over
to Adele's "Rumor Has It," but not before I catch the sounds again.
Are you fucking kidding me? I think. This rat
bastard is sleeping with someone else. The woman moaning is a dead give away. I
should turn around and walk out the door.
Instead I make my way further up the stairs, but I
stop when I see that his bedroom door is wide open and catch an eye-full of the
woman with him. She is mounted on top of him, riding him. Moaning like a cat in
heat while she rubs at his chest. He has his hands on her breasts and is
rolling her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She throws her head back
and moans again.
I would stomp up the stairs and barge in except I
feel that familiar warming between my legs as I watch this display. I feel
frozen in place. After a couple of minutes I realize I'm in danger of being
caught, and I decide that discretion is going to be the better form of valor,
so I turn around and get the hell out of the house.
As soon as I shut myself back in my car I start
cursing and screaming at the top of my lungs. "That asshole. Why am I not
surprised? He has no regard for anyone or anything. What the hell? Well I guess
this explains the funny feelings. UGH!!!!! I'm so mad I could spit nails. What
in the hell was he thinking? What in the bloody hell was I thinking? Oh, fuck
this shit!" Driving myself the ten minutes back to my apartment is
uneventful as I contemplate what to do next.
After about an hour of pacing, ranting, and trying
to decide what to do, I grab my little carry-on suitcase and throw in a few
changes of clothing. I need to get out of this town. Somewhere tropical. With
beaches. Dammit, I need a vacation.
On my way to the airport, driving down forty-fourth
street, I come across a billboard for the upcoming Love Is Burning movie.
Up there, in all his twenty-foot tall glory, is the beautiful face of Tristan
Michaels.
Looking up at his beautiful face is slowly washing
away all the angst of the last couple of hours. For the last five years, I've
been staring at his face in the magazines that grace the grocery store aisles.
Looking at him gives me the strangest sense of security, protection, and need,
but what that need is, I've never been able to figure out.
"I bet you'd never cheat on woman with another
woman while the first one is on her way over, would you?" I ask his image.
Those eyes seem to see right into my soul.
The car behind me honks. The light has changed.
At the airport I email Mick and Beau from my phone,
letting them know that I’m headed to L.A. I know they will worry when they
don't hear from me tonight. Beau is my best friend and a personal assistant to
me. Mick is my financial genius, and the closest thing I have to a dad.
I received a text from Reed while I was en route to
the airport, asking where I was. I decide that I should reply to him. My text
is dripping with an anger that I'm pretty sure I no longer feel.
I turn off my phone as soon as I know my text has
been sent to Reed. I know that leaving it on will mean I will start getting
calls or emails from Reed, Beau and Mick. I need to make my escape without
anyone convincing me otherwise.
I know that before I even land at my final
destination –wherever that is – Mick or Beau will have tracked the ticket. It's
fine if they know the where, but I don't want them to know why. Not right now
at least. Because if I'm completely honest with myself, I'm not even sure I
know why I'm running.
I make my way to the US Airways counter. After
twenty minutes of shuffling through the options, I have a first class ticket on
a flight from Phoenix to Los Angeles with the intention of spending the night.
I'm really looking forward to going on vacation, but I have business in L.A.
that needs to be dealt with first.
From L.A. I'll be heading to Honolulu, where I will
connect with a flight to Tahiti. I've been in Tahiti before — it was the summer
after my mom passed away and I loved it – so when I found out the option was
available I took it. However, I have no intention of staying in Tahiti, either.
While I was there the last time, some of the locals
told me about the island of Tarah, located about a four-hour boat ride or a
thirty-minute helicopter hop from the Tahiti airport. Tarah is a very small,
and very private, island. The island is frequently visited by celebrities and
many others seeking anonymity. Someplace, I'm sure, I have no right to hide,
but I'm going anyway. The island is tropical year- round and mostly inhabited
by English-speaking French Polynesians and Australians, which is a huge bonus
in my book.
Walking past all the magazine shops, bakeries and
coffee shops on the way to my gate, I notice one thing in common all along the
way: Tristan Michaels is everywhere I turn. Whether his image is splashed all
over promotional magazines for his upcoming movies or on the raunchy tabloids
citing the unnecessary and nasty rumors that make their way through the world
of entertainment, he is beautiful as ever and I cannot pull my eyes away from
him.
"Tristan, you have to help me." I roll my
eyes toward the vast, wide-open space of Nokia Theater in downtown Los Angeles.
Layla, my girlfriend – well a loose interpretation of the word girlfriend – is
arguing with me off in the corner of the reception area. Having just come off
of the red carpet, I'm extremely irritable, and she decides that now is the
perfect time for an argument.
Thank God that everyone is converging at the bars on
the other side of the room. I can see Travis, surrounded by women and fans.
Thanking my lucky stars that where Layla and I are standing is devoid of any
other people. Though it's a bit conspicuous.
Layla is angry. Downright pissed, if you want the
truth of it, and her face is starting to turn red.
"I need to do no such thing, Layla. This is
your damn mess, you fix it." My voice is a harsh growl. We are in the lobby
of a theater, at Travis's premier for God's sake. Of all the places in the
world that she can bring up this mess, she decides to do it here, tonight.
"Tristan, I can't. They've tried and the
magazine wants nothing to do with what I have to say." She is breathing
heavy, her temper starting to flare. Her pupils are dilated and I have no doubt
that she's high on something. This seems to be the new normal for her.
"Well, I'm not the one in the pictures, so why
should I stop this story?"
"Because you love me? Because it affects you?
Because you care about me? I don't care, pick a reason. Why would you want to
see me destroyed?"
Words fail me. As little as a year ago, I would have
done anything for Layla. I would have bent over, broken, and picked up the phone
right this second to have Trinity working at getting this story stopped. But
no, not this time. I'm not going to defend her anymore. I can't. "There is
no logical reason for me to fix your mistakes. You made it, you lay in
it." I turn to walk away and she grabs my arm. I turn back to her.
"Let go of me." My anger is becoming palpable. Her grip sends a
shiver of disgust through my body.
"Tristan, please." Her voice is low,
pleading.
She looks so pathetic, broken, and for a minute I
start to feel sorry for her. But it takes only a moment for her own history to
go flying through my mind. She's the product of being coddled by her parents.
She was handed everything in life that she ever wanted. They're extremely
wealthy, and she lacks for nothing. She has never had to fight for the things
she wants; she has been handed them. She doesn't know what it is like to be
alone in the big bad world, and because her parents fix everything for her, she
doesn't have Clue One about how to fix her own mistakes. "Why don't you go
running to Daddy? I'm sure he can find a way to fix this for you."
Her face falls immediately, and she knows exactly
what I'm referring to. She knows what my life was like, and she knows that I
got to this position via a single, hardworking mom. I would have graduated
college with a mountain of debt had it not been for getting my role in Love
is Burning.
"Tristan, that's not fair."
"Not fair! Not fair!" My temper flares up.
"Don't you dare talk to me about fair. You have evidence of your having a
good time, surrounded by I don't know how many men, one of which is the
producer of your last movie. Do not ever talk to me about fair, ever
again." I slowly unclench my fists and start to turn. I take a long look
at her ruddy face. The woman I once thought of as drop-dead gorgeous now has my
stomach acid rising, making me want to vomit. I rub my hand on my chest in an
effort to soothe the ache caused by this woman. I could claw my heart out of my
chest and it wouldn’t feel any better. "I've had enough of this shit,"
I growl at her. "If you want this story stopped, you will find a way and
it will not be by my hand or my people." I turn on my heel and take two
steps away from her.
"Tristan, I'm pregnant."
In an instant my heart swells and I start to turn
toward her, wanting to embrace her. Then it hits me like a lightning bolt. Oh
for fuck's sake, is she serious? The acid grows higher. "If you think that
is going to bring my arms around you in a comforting,
everything-will-be-all-right embrace, forget it. I'm not stupid, Layla." I
lean into her ear and nearly growl at her. "For the love of all that is
holy, Layla, get your shit straightened out. That goddamn article is the least
of your problems."
I back away from her. Tears are streaming down her
face. A look of defeat. I turn and walk away as quickly as I can manage. I pass
Tyson on my way to the door. I hold my hand up. "Don't." I walk out
the door and turn to the left. I put my head down and walk as quickly as I can
manage toward the back entrance of the J.W. Marriott. I'm walking at such a
pace that by the time it registers on people's minds exactly who I am, I'm lost
in the next crowd. I hear several girls calling my name, but I don't so much as
flinch.
Fucking Layla. She has a damn orgy with God only
knows how many men, gets pregnant, and she expects me to fall to bended knee
and rectify her problems. Well, Layla, have Daddy or Mommy fix your latest
problem, because I could care less.
I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket. No doubt
it's probably her. Or Travis wondering where I've gone. I take a
brief look and see that it's Tyson. I hit send and
put the phone to my ear. "Meet me at J.W."
"Trist—" He starts to say, and I hit end.
I refuse to have this conversation while walking down through the L.A. Live
area of downtown.
I need to call Trinity to give her a heads up about
this story. I'm not sure what the implications will be for me, and I'm not sure
that I really care. Over the last five years it has become painfully obvious
that an actor's career in Hollywood can be marred by his associations as well
as the stories that are written about him. Frankly, I'm to a point that all
this Hollywood nonsense is old, and I'm a bit tired of it.
My thoughts are random and scattered. I can't stay
focused on one subject or another. Layla has me scrambling into hiding because
I can't or won't deal with this. Why should I?
God, she's pregnant. And for a second I was ready
and willing to embrace her. To show her that it would be okay, that I would
make it okay. Then, for another half a second after the lightning bolt struck,
her drug use was flashing through my mind. She was high, even tonight. The
premiere is the reason why. We had talked about it a couple of days ago, and I
was adamant that we were going separate. She and I hadn't been seen arriving
together in over six months. In fact, I cannot remember the last time we went
anywhere together.
Once I found out about her drug use, I slowly pulled
back from my association with her. Some of the tabloids had even started
questioning whether or not we were together. Layla's people denied any such
allegations, and then they'd leak some random story about Tristan and Layla
being seen somewhere together. They were so determined to keep us together, and
it is finally time to break free. The pictures she showed me on her phone are
their concrete proof, and there is nothing out there that can deny the newest
accusations. For this, I'm grateful.
I make it to the hotel about five minutes later. I
walk in and the concierge recognizes me, and I'm immediately ushered straight
to the penthouse. It’s my usual room, but tonight I would have taken anything.
On the way up he asks, "How many nights, Mr. Michaels?"
"One, I think. Tyson will be along shortly.
Send him up, will you, please?"
"Absolutely. Will you be needing anything right
away?"
"No, the bar will suffice. Thanks."
I turn to my BlackBerry and text Tyson that I need
my stuff from Layla's – all of it – and that I’m in my usual room. Yes, I've
stayed here a few too many nights.
Layla has a house over in Beverly Hills. It was
originally suppose to be 'our' house when she bought it about a year ago, but I
didn't like the house, and Layla insisted it was what she wanted. I let her buy
it herself. I guess this was the start of my knowing full well that our
relationship was going nowhere.
I enter the suite and beeline straight to the bar. I
grab the bottle of Laphraig and pour about two fingers’ worth into the crystal
glass. Once I pour, I stare at it like it's going to bite me.
"No more," I grumble out loud, and down
the scotch. Immediately I pour another glass and make my way to the terrace.
The hotel room has a retro feel to it. With a lot of orange, red, brown, and
yellow, of all things. All put together, it really works. The streets of
downtown L.A. are bustling with people going this way and that. The
searchlights are still going in front of Nokia Theater and people are still
milling about. No doubt waiting for all those who entered to leave again. The
premiere isn't even for one of my movies. I felt no obligation to stay, and I
refused to stay with Layla milling about. I turn my phone back on and text
Travis to let him know that I've left. I had agreed to attend Travis's Rebound
premiere more than a month ago. He never actually asks me to attend such
events; it's kind of implied, when it comes to him. We met about four years ago
at a charity event and we have been nearly inseparable ever since. He's been my
rock since all of this Layla crap happened, including my escape and a place to
crash.
His response to my text has me laughing. I stare at
the "Fuck Layla!" replay and shake my head. If he only knew.
I sit down and rub my chest. While I wait for Tyson,
I look to the stars and whisper. "Please, Mama. Send me a sign – something,
anything – that this is all going to be right."
REVIEW
I have to start off by saying how much I love the
cover for this book. It is just so gorgeous and magical. If only the story was
everything the cover is, however I was left feeling quite disappointed. The
first half of the book was pretty much about Cami and Tristian getting to know
each other, but it quickly became monotonous and I found myself becoming easily
distracted.
I didn’t connect with the characters as much as I
would have liked to, but having said that, I must admit that I did like Cami. I
loved her feistiness and the fact that she was also vulnerable and a bit broken
made her feel real. I tried to like Tristian, and at the beginning I really
did, but after a while I found him to be a little irritating. Every time he was
with Cami he acted like teenage boy with raging hormones. I mean, it might be
flattering to have a guy get so turned on by you that he has no control over
certain body parts, but if it happened every single time he was near me I’d
wonder what was wrong with him.
Things seemed to move along too fast, and by that I
mean how lovey dovey and cutesy Tristian and Cami became after one night of
flirting on the beach. They were too comfortable with each other and it just
didn’t feel right. And then came the showering of gifts that probably was meant
to be a kind, from-the-heart-gesture but it felt more like he was trying to buy
her, as ridiculous as it sounds given the fact that she had more than enough of
her own money. The sexual tension was hot and sensual, but with Tristian
constantly uttering the words, “Not here, not now”, it just didn’t heat up the
pages enough for me.
On the upside, I was fascinated by Cami’s corset
piercing. I’d never heard of anything like it before this book and I immediately
Googled for pictures. If only I was still young and foolish enough, I would
have run out to my nearest parlor to have it done. It looks beautiful.
I really wish I had enjoyed this book more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
It
is from Glendale, Arizona that Zoey Derrick, a mortgage underwriter by day and
romance and erotica novelist by night, writes stories as hot as the desert sun
itself. It is this passion that drips off of her work, bringing excitement to
anyone who enjoys a good and sensual love story.
Not
only does she aim to take her readers on an erotic dance that lasts the night,
it allows her to empty her mind of stories we all wish were true.
Her stories are
hopeful yet true to life, skillfully avoiding melodrama and the unrealistic,
bringing her gripping Erotica only closer to the heart of those that dare
dipping into it.
The
intimacy of her fantasies that she shares with her readers is thrilling and
encouraging, climactic yet full of suspense. She is a loving mistress, up for
anything, of which any reader is doomed to return to again and again.
Facebook https://www.facebook.com/zoey.derrick.1?fref=ts
Twitter https://twitter.com/zoeyderrick
Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7060851.Zoey_Derrick
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