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Book Links
Killer (a dark romance)
Rockstar Romance (Sphere of Irony)
Incite — Adam
Strike — Dax
Resist — Gavin (M/M)
Wreck — Hawke
The Famous Series
Relatively Famous
Absolutely Famous
Extremely Famous
Already Famous (Drew’s POV)
Suddenly Famous (a novella)
Reluctantly Famous (a novella)
Ricochet— Military Romantic Suspense
Locked & Loaded
Friendly Fire
Extraction Point
As Leigh Carman- M/M Romance
Sports of the Seasons -by Dreamspinner Press 2016
Match Point- Volleyball (Summer)- July 20th, 2016
Fair Catch- Football (Fall)
Power Play- Hockey (Winter)
Full Count- Baseball (Spring)
Click below to get updates on new releases by Leigh Carman
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Incite Sample
Adam
The screams from the flat next door start up like clockwork at ten p.m., just like they do every night. After six months of listening to the couple argue, I know that there’s nothing I can do to shut out their voices, not a pillow over my head, not cotton wool stuffed in my ears, not even turning up the ancient radio on the filthy floor next to my crappy mattress will stop me from hearing them.
Instead, I do what I always do when the neighbors get loud. I pull out my well worn, second-hand guitar and create. As the music flows from my calloused fingers and through the strings beneath them, I swear to myself for the millionth time that I will get the fuck out of this hellhole someday.
As usual, my crackhead mum is out for the night, probably on a piss up or selling herself for drugs. If I’m lucky, I’ll see her once a week, maybe twice. My dad, well… who the hell knows where that tosser is? Whenever he graces us with his presence, all he does is beat the shite out of me and my mum. Not that she gives a crap if he does. She sits there with her drugged-up, glazed-over eyes and lets him pound on her or me until he’s bored.
Unable to block out the neighbors, I squeeze my eyes shut, adding words to the strumming. Softly singing as the yelling becomes violent next door.
“I’m not going to die in this pit of despair…”
Something or someone slams against the wall behind me. The sketches I have plastered all over it flutter outward from the shaking. I’ve learned not to cringe anymore, so the trembling wall doesn’t cause me to react, not even a blink.
“I’ll pull myself out…. Get the fuck out of here….”
Only one more term. One more term until I’m done with school and can leave this shitty town, this shitty flat, and this shitty life.
I play until it’s quiet on the other side of my bedroom wall and my fingers are numb, then collapse under the covers passing out instantly.
* * *
“Reynolds!”
I don’t even need to look back to know that my best mate Dax Davies is rushing to catch up to me in the hallway. A dozen or so girls leaning on lockers turn their heads to watch him walk by. Yeah, he’s popular with them, we both are.
“Dax.” I remain unaffected, pretending not to notice the sighs and giggles that are thrown our way.
His heavy hand slaps my back, making me stumble a bit before regaining my footing. “Tosser.” I sound angry but I’m unable to keep the smile off of my face. Dax is a huge guy, all muscles and intimidating scowl, but he’s been my best mate for so long I don’t even notice how terrifying he can be anymore.
“First day of our last term, right?” Dax speaks as we dodge other students who are making their way to their respective classes. We make sure to avoid eye contact with hopeful girls, saving that for after school not during. It’s too distracting if you let them get close during school hours.
“Right,” I nod in agreement. Dax knows how it is. He grew up here in the blighted suburbs of London’s East End right alongside me. His family is just as fucked up as mine. We know we’re not going to university, which means we’re done after this year. Off to become adults when we’re hardly out of puberty.
“We still heading to town Saturday to see if we can get that gig?”
I stop and turn to face Dax before ducking into my first class, in no way eager to start another boring four months of school. “Fuckin’ hell! Of course we’re going!” I point at his swollen eye. “Nice shiner by the way.” It’s hard to miss Dax’s various bruises since he usually has at least a few. Then, I’m not one to talk, since I show up with plenty of my own from time to time, for totally different reasons of course.
“Hey, Adaaaam.” I cringe when I hear a female voice sing my name out from the sea of students. My body immediately tenses up as Lucy Collins weaves through everyone, ending up uncomfortably close.
“Lucy,” I respond in a detached tone, not wanting to give her any sliver of hope that she has a chance. Christ, I gave in to better judgment and fucked her once at the end of last term. Unfortunately, her obsession with me has only gotten worse. Silly me for hoping that the holidays were enough to make her forget about me and move on. I should have known better, the way she acts around me that she wasn’t going to let go that easily. Lucy knows I don’t get with the same girl twice and she’s already had her turn, so I haven’t a clue as to why she thinks she’s different, because she’s not.
Bastard that he is, Dax stifles a laugh and slowly backs away, his shoulders shaking in enjoyment at my predicament. As always, he’s amused by girls’ persistence, as if it’s some kind of game to him.
“After school, Reynolds. Practice, at our usual spot.” He points at me, spins on his heel, and takes off, leaving me stuck with a clingy Lucy.
Useless fucking twat of a mate he is!
Lucy flips her long brown hair and sticks out her lower lip, pouting and trying for sexy. As hot as she is, it’s not working, it never works.
“Adam, I was hoping we could meet after school.” She trails her nails up my arm and grips my bicep tightly, going for a display of ownership that only manages to make me angry.
I reach up to carefully pry her fingers off of me, resisting the urge to grimace. Gotta keep that happy, smiling façade for everyone so no one realizes what a fucking disaster my life is.
“Can’t, you heard Dax. I’ve got plans.” Dismissing her, I duck into the classroom and leave her standing alone and infuriated.
Lucy knows I don’t do girlfriends. Most of the girls I’ve been with know that and seem to be okay with it. You get me once, that’s it. I don’t do attachments, that way there’s no disappointment when they inevitably let you down. The problem is that I always stay friends with them afterwards. It’s my nature, I think, to be overly nice. Probably because I’m afraid of becoming my dad. A cold, violent, unfeeling bastard.
With a sigh, I shove my hand through my hair and make my way to the last row of desks. First period always seats us alphabetically for attendance, so you don’t get to choose your seat. I drop into the chair behind Jeffrey Owens, a weird kid that I’ve sat behind for the last two years, and throw my bag on the miniscule desk.
Not yet five minutes into the term and I’m already bored and twitchy. I yank out my notebook and begin sketching. It’s just a random design, sort of like tribal artwork, all black swirls and jagged edges. Ever since I saw some massive Samoan guy on the street covered in similar tattoos, I haven’t been able to get the design out of my head.
“That’s lovely. Are you an artist?”
Jesus! I jerk back at the voice, slam the book closed, and shove it in my bag. I don’t show anyone certain drawings, not even Dax. They’re too personal. Scowling and annoyed, I look up to see a gorgeous, pale girl with wavy blonde hair staring at me expectantly with her wide blue eyes. She’s literally breathtaking.
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And I turn into the world’s biggest tosser.
“No,” I bark rudely, embarrassed to have been caught doing something so private.
The beautiful girl’s cheeks redden from my outburst, deep crimson slashes hiding the small freckles that dot her tiny nose.
“Sorry. I just… I think you’re sitting in my seat.” Her soft voice wavers, as if she’s about to cry. She starts chewing on her thumbnail nervously, staring at her shoes so she doesn’t have to look at me.
What a knob head I am, shouting at some random girl. I don’t say anything as I grab my backpack and stand up. Hesitant, I look around the room, unsure where I’m supposed to go. I always sit behind Owens and his manky brown hair.
“Mr. Reynolds, you’re behind Miss Palmer now.” Mr. Graham, the first period teacher, walks over with his clipboard and gestures to the seat behind the new girl. “Sharma, move back one,” he says to Prescott, an Indian kid who sits behind me.
Great. I trade nods with Prescott and slump into the newly vacated chair, stuck staring at the back of the new girl’s head. Her long golden hair brushes against the edge of my desk whenever she fidgets, which is often.
“Hello gorgeous.”
Ugh! I cringe at the sound of Callum Murray’s obnoxious voice. Sliding my eyes over to him, I watch as he leans out of his chair and across the aisle towards the new girl, a disgusting leer on his face. “I’m Callum, and you’re not from around here.”
It takes a lot to keep my expression neutral and not show how furious his words make me, even though I’m an expert at controlling my features to hide my emotions.
No shit she’s not from around here stupid, besides looking high class and polished, her accent is all public school proper and zero East End cockney.
“No, I’m not. I’m Ellie. Ellie Palmer.” She turns to face Callum and her hair swishes over my desk again, sending a wave of vanilla shampoo my way. The scent hits me hard, luscious and sweet, which makes my dick twitch in my jeans.
Jesus, I’m such a bastard. Getting a stiffy for the new girl right after almost making her cry.
Despite my best intentions to not be an arsehole, I’m dreaming up the many different ways to charm my way into Ellie’s knickers when I hear Callum speak again. “Well, I’d love to show you around. What’s your next subject? I can walk you there.”
He gives her a lecherous smile that makes me want to bash his teeth in with my history book. I’ve heard about his ‘walks’ and I know damn well that his idea of showing her around is to corner her somewhere alone and force her into things she might not be willing to do. Unfortunately, Ellie doesn’t. The girls are always too afraid to call the authorities, so he gets away with it time and time again.
Studying her profile, I watch as her face reddens again and she gives that bastard Murray a smile. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
Ellie turns back to the front of the room and focuses on our teacher, bringing another soft gust of vanilla my way. She’s so focused in fact, that she doesn’t notice when Callum’s prick of a best mate, Ryan Mason, gives him a knowing look and smirks. It’s the kind of look that lets me know Ellie Palmer is in way over her head.
Purchase Incite — Adam
Playlist
One Direction- Story of my life
Imagine Dragons- Radioactive
Ed Sheeran- A Team
Taylor Swift- Never Ever
JT- Mirrors
Sam Smith- Stay With me
Miley Cyrus- Wrecking Ball
The Script- The Man Who Can’t Be Moved
Many Thanks
So, so many people to thank for helping make the stories that plague my mind a reality—my betas (you gals know who you are by now), my street team-The Dirty Fangirls, all of the hardworking bloggers out there who bust their butts for their love of books, my family, my awesome friends, and everyone who reads one of my books and finds it worthwhile.
xoxo HC Leigh
RESIST
Book 3
This is a M/M romance
Take one petulant rockstar, one twitchy ex-FBI agent, throw in a deadly stalker, and watch sparks fly.
Rocker Gavin Walker has a fan. A dangerous one. Ex-serial killer profiler, Mitch Hale despises spoiled celebrities. When he’s hired to track down whoever is sending ‘gifts’ to the famous bass player, Mitch finds more than just a crazy criminal.
***Resist is a standalone novel in the Rockstar Series***
Prologue
Gavin
Today is the day I’m going to die. Just another random October day in Malibu, chilly at night, hot as hell during the day. Nothing special about it.
I’m just tired. So damn tired. And sad. The black hole I’ve been struggling against has sucked me in too far. As much as I’ll miss my mom, my friends, watching the sun set over the Pacific after a day of surfing, this is the only way to stop feeling useless. Feeling like a failure. Feeling like a screw-up. Feeling like a constant disappointment.
To stop feeling anything.
Trembling, I pour the contents of the little amber vial into my open palm. Amazing how such small objects have the power to do such enormous things. Irrevocable things.
I curl my fingers around the pills, squeezing tight. My heart is racing in my chest. Hammering in a last ditch attempt to stop me from giving up. As if it knows I’m about to silence it forever and it’s crying out for mercy.
I walk across the deserted stretch of sand, watching the waves break against the shore. It’s early. Too early for anyone to be walking the beach. The sun hasn’t yet risen above the horizon behind me, only a sliver of light giving the sky an orange glow. The cool sand squishes between my toes when I curl them.
I’ve always loved the ocean. It’s peaceful on the outside, but as they’ve always said, looks can be deceiving. Under those blue-green waves lie torment and fury and the ability to cut a grown man down. Sort of like me, beautiful on the outside—or so people tell me—but inside, I’m a twisted wreck of anguish and self-hatred.
Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to it.
I settle down on the soft sand and close my eyes. A breeze ruffles my shirt. I loved it when the wind would blow through my shaggy blonde hair, drying it in the warm sun, the salt making it stiff. My hand rubs over the top of my buzz cut head and tears prick the back of my eyes.
“You look like a goddamn girl with that hair, Gavin!”
My dad’s words sting like a slap to the face.
“I’ll turn you into a real man if it’s the last thing I do!”
“A fucking fag! My son is not going to be a fucking cocksucking faggot.”
I tried to resist the feelings inside, tried to deny that I was different, but I am who I am and my father hates me for it.
I shake the pills in my hand, then tilt my head back and throw them in my mouth. Swallowing them dry, I lie back on the beach and close my eyes, a trickle of moisture running down my temples.
Sorry dad. I guess you’ll never get the chance to turn me into a real man.
61
Gavin
“C’mon Gav. I’m bored. Let’s do something.”
I see Hawke moving out of the corner of my eye, all fidgety and restless. Nothing new there.
“Hawke, I’m not in the mood, all right?”
He huffs and stomps over to where I’m lying on the couch in my hotel room, feet propped up on one arm. Hawke reaches out and smacks my leg.
“Ow. What’s your problem?” I glare at my best friend.
“Dude, you can’t hide in here all the time.”
“The fuck I can’t.”
“Jesus, Gav. We’ve been in New York for four months. Don’t you want to see some, I don’t know, art or some shit before we finish the album and go back to L.A.?”
My eyebrows must hit my hairline. “Art or some shit?”
Hawke smirks, his unusual eyes flashing behind those black-framed glasses he wears as a shield. “Yeah, some shit. I know you like that kind of stuff.
We could go to the Museum of Modern Art or whatever it is people do in New York. Hell, even Ross went out. Don’t make me go alone, because you know I’ll do it.”
The guilt card, of course. Hawke is the king of that move.
“You suck, you know that?” I swing my feet to the floor, grumbling and groaning. “It’s not like we haven’t been to New York a dozen times before. And just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like art.”
“Maybe, but the fact is you do like art, gay or not. How many times have you been to the Guggenheim? Huh?” Hawke grabs my wrists and hauls me to my feet.
“Guggenheim? Are you feeling all right?” I glance over my shoulder to get a look at my best friend’s face as he shoves me towards the bedroom. “You sure you don’t want to go bungee jumping, or skydiving, or hell… I don’t know, swim in the East River or something equally dangerous?”
Hawke barks out a laugh, giving me a final push into the bedroom. “Get dressed, asshole. We’re going to look at some high-class art. I’m going to enjoy it even if the pretentiousness smothers me to death.”
I grab a clean shirt off of a hanger, sliding it on over my bare chest while shaking my head and smiling.
“Brush your teeth too. I’m not going out in public with a complete slob. I have a reputation to uphold.”
Unable to hold it in, I laugh out loud, sputtering to catch my breath.
“What?” Hawke asks innocently, blinking wide eyes and running a hand through his wild dark hair. His sleeve pushes back, exposing one of the colorful tattoos that spans from his wrist to his shoulder. “I do.”
“Give me five minutes,” I respond, still smiling.
“Five. Not a minute more, Walker.” Hawke spins around to leave the room.