Chapter One
Early 2002
The sudden slam of the door in the next room startled
Chelsea, even though she’d been expecting his arrival. Her pulse quickened as
the deadbolt clicked into the lock, resounding off the walls.
The bedroom door hung slightly ajar—just enough light
spilling in from the foyer to outline the furniture around the darkened room.
His suite was decked out with the thickest drapes she’d ever
seen. The band demanded light-tight windows so they could sleep peacefully
during the day—just one of the many facts she’d recently read about Jerico
though, to her dismay, not all of them were true. For starters, she’d done
everything imaginable to gain his attention bar jumping the bouncers lining the
rim of the outer stage, but disappointingly hadn’t been pulled from the front
row. Word on the forums was security would discreetly pluck a select few from
the crowd closest the stage and lead the lucky ladies through a series of
secret passageways to wait for the band after the show. Yet the burly men
dressed in black, Security printed in bold white letters on the backs of
their shirts, barely flexed a biceps all night, forcing her to move to Plan B.
With a slow deep breath, she rearranged the cool silken
sheet around her hips one last time and settled back amongst the soft pillows.
His footsteps quickly altered from the clomp of heavy boots
to the quiet pad of bare feet. He shuffled across the polished hardwood floor
of the living room and arrived within view at the small bar against the wall to
pour himself a drink, the ice cubes clinking loudly against the glass. From
where he stood, his left foot peeked out from the leg of his frayed jeans
through the small gap in the doorway. Nonetheless, her breath deepened and her
heart threatened to jump right out of her chest at the simple sight of his toes.
She’d painstakingly choreographed this moment for so long, she almost couldn’t
believe it was finally coming to fruition. Her mouth watered with anticipation
and want.
An electronic bleep was followed by the sports channel
blaring from the large flat screen in the main room. She shot up and faced the
door. She’d assumed he would come straight to bed after such a long night. It
was already past four in the morning and the band had played to a full stadium
for over three hours straight. She’d been informed by one of the men who worked
at the hotel—the young lad who’d eagerly pocketed the five one-hundred-dollar
bills and sneaked her inside Room 1101—that the boys often went out for drinks
after a show, but she’d been sure the rock star would’ve been ready to turn in
by now.
She was glad she wasn’t a betting woman.
The forty minutes which followed had her madly reassessing
her original plan. This was her final act, the last remaining item on her
bucket list.
She’d recently killed two birds with one stone—her fear of
flying and heights—by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, her safety
dependent solely upon the flimsy sheet of material packed and strapped to her
back. The following day, she’d given the majority of her trust fund to the
needy—people she would have ordinarily turned up her nose at. In the past,
she’d not spared an ounce of her precious time on the less fortunate, let alone
a dime. But after distributing over twenty million dollars to the homeless of
Philly, she’d been surprised to find the act of giving warmed her heart more
than designer furs ever could.
She’d seen all the wonders of the world, her parents
personally escorting her on those trips. She’d driven in an amateur NASCAR
race. She’d even gotten a tattoo—something she would never have done under any
other circumstance, but she no longer cared what high society thought of her.
She’d let go of all the presumptuous, pretentious, unimportant stuff from the
moment she’d been given her diagnosis, and Ricky Bradshaw was to be her final
hoorah.
Chelsea was a believer in reserving the best
Early 2002
The sudden slam of the door in the next room startled
Chelsea, even though she’d been expecting his arrival. Her pulse quickened as
the deadbolt clicked into the lock, resounding off the walls.
The bedroom door hung slightly ajar—just enough light
spilling in from the foyer to outline the furniture around the darkened room.
His suite was decked out with the thickest drapes she’d ever
seen. The band demanded light-tight windows so they could sleep peacefully
during the day—just one of the many facts she’d recently read about Jerico
though, to her dismay, not all of them were true. For starters, she’d done
everything imaginable to gain his attention bar jumping the bouncers lining the
rim of the outer stage, but disappointingly hadn’t been pulled from the front
row. Word on the forums was security would discreetly pluck a select few from
the crowd closest the stage and lead the lucky ladies through a series of
secret passageways to wait for the band after the show. Yet the burly men
dressed in black, Security printed in bold white letters on the backs of
their shirts, barely flexed a biceps all night, forcing her to move to Plan B.
With a slow deep breath, she rearranged the cool silken
sheet around her hips one last time and settled back amongst the soft pillows.
His footsteps quickly altered from the clomp of heavy boots
to the quiet pad of bare feet. He shuffled across the polished hardwood floor
of the living room and arrived within view at the small bar against the wall to
pour himself a drink, the ice cubes clinking loudly against the glass. From
where he stood, his left foot peeked out from the leg of his frayed jeans
through the small gap in the doorway. Nonetheless, her breath deepened and her
heart threatened to jump right out of her chest at the simple sight of his toes.
She’d painstakingly choreographed this moment for so long, she almost couldn’t
believe it was finally coming to fruition. Her mouth watered with anticipation
and want.
An electronic bleep was followed by the sports channel
blaring from the large flat screen in the main room. She shot up and faced the
door. She’d assumed he would come straight to bed after such a long night. It
was already past four in the morning and the band had played to a full stadium
for over three hours straight. She’d been informed by one of the men who worked
at the hotel—the young lad who’d eagerly pocketed the five one-hundred-dollar
bills and sneaked her inside Room 1101—that the boys often went out for drinks
after a show, but she’d been sure the rock star would’ve been ready to turn in
by now.
She was glad she wasn’t a betting woman.
The forty minutes which followed had her madly reassessing
her original plan. This was her final act, the last remaining item on her
bucket list.
She’d recently killed two birds with one stone—her fear of
flying and heights—by jumping out of a perfectly good plane, her safety
dependent solely upon the flimsy sheet of material packed and strapped to her
back. The following day, she’d given the majority of her trust fund to the
needy—people she would have ordinarily turned up her nose at. In the past,
she’d not spared an ounce of her precious time on the less fortunate, let alone
a dime. But after distributing over twenty million dollars to the homeless of
Philly, she’d been surprised to find the act of giving warmed her heart more
than designer furs ever could.
She’d seen all the wonders of the world, her parents
personally escorting her on those trips. She’d driven in an amateur NASCAR
race. She’d even gotten a tattoo—something she would never have done under any
other circumstance, but she no longer cared what high society thought of her.
She’d let go of all the presumptuous, pretentious, unimportant stuff from the
moment she’d been given her diagnosis, and Ricky Bradshaw was to be her final
hoorah.
Chelsea was a believer in reserving the best
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