WHISKEY GIRL
from
Amazon Top 25 + USA Today Bestseller
ADRIANE LEIGH
Reveal: June 4
Release: June 26
genre: contemporary romance
(standalone)
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Model: Victorio Piva
Whiskey Girl Blurb:
She was the one thing holding
him together. Until she was gone.
him together. Until she was gone.
And then there was whiskey.
Fallon Gentry has spent the last decade reliving one
dark night in his head. The moment he lost the woman he loved when a single
blink cascaded into a series of events that stole both of their lives. Now his
nights are spent playing music in southern honky-tonks and nursing the memory
of her the only way he knows how–at
the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
dark night in his head. The moment he lost the woman he loved when a single
blink cascaded into a series of events that stole both of their lives. Now his
nights are spent playing music in southern honky-tonks and nursing the memory
of her the only way he knows how–at
the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
A brief stint in Nashville, a hit song, and a brush
with Hollywood couldn't bring him closer to God, but when the ghost of Augusta
Belle Branson appears in his corner of another lonely dive bar late after dark,
he's forced to confront everything he thought he knew about that fateful night,
and a few things he didn't.
with Hollywood couldn't bring him closer to God, but when the ghost of Augusta
Belle Branson appears in his corner of another lonely dive bar late after dark,
he's forced to confront everything he thought he knew about that fateful night,
and a few things he didn't.
He’s her contradiction, she’s
his salvation.
his salvation.
A firestorm of emotion consumes them when they come
together after ten lost years, every moment more revealing, more unpredictable,
more intoxicating than the next until the only reckoning left for Fallon is the
one he must make with himself. But this time, fate may have left an after-burn
too bitter to swallow. This time, he may lose his whiskey girl for good.
together after ten lost years, every moment more revealing, more unpredictable,
more intoxicating than the next until the only reckoning left for Fallon is the
one he must make with himself. But this time, fate may have left an after-burn
too bitter to swallow. This time, he may lose his whiskey girl for good.
PRAISE for Whiskey Girl:
“An unforgettable, epic love story about two lost souls who, against all odds,
find themselves through their passion and music.
Filled with raw emotion, this lyrical, all-the-feels masterpiece
may catapult Adriane Leigh into the league of
Colleen Hoover, Brittainy Cherry, and L.J. Shen.”
—Nelle L'Amour, New York Times Bestselling author of THAT MAN
GoodReads Link:
Whiskey Girl Chapter One Excerpt:
(COPYRIGHT 2018 BY ADRIANE LEIGH)
One
Fallon
The
first time I met Augusta Belle Branson she was fixin’ on killin’ herself.
Said
the minute I’d walked up, she was tryin’ to decide if jumpin’ off the bridge in
the center—where the water was deep and the current stronger, would be a
swifterend--or if jumping near the edge, where jagged limestone labs anchored
the slow moving current awaited her.
Certain
death for sure.
I
replayed the split-second when the blinding summer sun opened through the
orange oak leaves, a halo of warmth enveloping her.
Like
an angel, stardust sparkling straight from Heaven, ploppin’ her in my path.
And
then she turned, the most startling shade of liquid amber eyes breathing
something real and alive, like fire, into my soul.
That
same something I’d been runnin’ from, or
chasin’, dependin’ on how you looked at it, just about everyday since.
I
settled myself on the lone wooden stool that awaited at center stage, my
thoughts drawing back to the present. My head swam, but the old familiar chords
drove on through the current of whiskey in my blood, strumming the first few
notes of a song I wrote a lot of nights ago by the sheer act of muscle memory.
Old
acoustic guitar resting on my knee, my first and third fingers in position on
the strings, the opening chords of Whiskey Girl bled from my fingers.
Every
chord, another dagger.
Every
whispered lyric, my undoing.
I
still don’t know what the fuck had overtaken me the night I’d written Whiskey
Girl in a fevered rush.
Well,
the booze may have played a factor, but I happened to think my best shit came
out of uninhibited states.
I’d
just had a fuck ton of uninhibited states recently.
And
the harder the liquor, the more she haunted me.
Whiskey
Girl.
My
poisoned lullaby.
The
crowd of a few hundred erupted into a standing ovation when I ended with the
final, emotion-charged words.
The
irony that this song was the one that’d launched my career, the first single to
hit radio waves and then the top spot on the Billboard charts brought
reporters, music executives, long last family members that I wasn’t even really
sure I was related to, and too much other scum with an end game that carried
dollar signs to my front doorstep.
I’d
moved to Nashville a rising star, and left two years later, middle finger in
the air as I tossed my once promising music career out with last night’s liquor
bottles in favor of the open road.
Chasing
something.
Not
finding the one thing I needed.
Playing
local honky-tonks for a fraction of the money I could have made.
But
truth was, the road is the only place I could find my happy.
A
familiar ball of pain formed in my throat as I stood, pushing my guitar over
one shoulder and bowing deeply. I couldn’t see a single face behind the glaring
stage lights, but still, some part of me pretended she could be out there, that
I was singing to her.
That
she would hear her song and find her way back to me.
After
hundreds of faceless crowds and too many bottles of Tennessee whiskey to bother
counting, I still felt the pull inside me to travel every town in America if
that’s what it took to find her.
Hell,
maybe she was happily married with a few kids, a dog, and a fucking minivan by
now.
I
nodded my head, giving one last wave to the crowd in the dark beyond, then left
the stage, taking the steps two at a time and angling past the curtains to head
for the tiny-ass dressing room this dive bar provided for another chug of amber
gold, before packing my shit into my truck and hitting the road.
I
pushed a hand through my hair, thinking maybe a shower would be in order before
I bailed when a curvy little thing backed right up into me.
My
palms landed on her shoulders, warm blonde waves falling in a cascade over one
side. The heady scent of peaches and honey filled my nostrils, my eyes slammed
closed and brought me back to summer nights under a giant oak, fireflies
melting together with the stars above like a painting.
“Sorry, I just dropped my phone.” The
sweet-scented creature spun, brilliant smile falling off her face when our eyes
made contact for the first time.
Every
cold-hearted memory slammed into my chest like a pallet of bricks.
I
narrowed my eyes, gaze tracing the familiar, yet unfamiliar angles of her
porcelain face.
She
was thinner now, cheeks sharp slashes of bone that highlighted her
always-devastating round eyes and full lips. It was her alright. I’d know this
woman anywhere.
“Hi, Fallon.” I’d been dreamin’ of
this moment for the better part of a decade and still, my heart wasn’t prepared
for those two words. My name on her lips left me with a toxic reaction.
My
whiskey girl.
My
damnation and my savior.
“I need a fucking minute.” I dropped
her shoulders, her touch still haunting my fingertips, and walked straight down
the narrow hallway, pushing the rusted back door open so hard the hinges
protested.
Warm,
autumn air filled my lungs, replacing the empty feeling that seeing her again
had left.
“Fallon…” Hell, she’d followed me out.
And
hell if wanted her to, but I didn’t not want
her to either.
The
emotions bombarding my mind were just a-fucking-bout unbearable.
“I said, I need a fucking minute.” The sentence more of a growl than I
intended. Before she could reply I stomped across the potholed parking lot,
aimed for my heavy-duty Ford.
I
yanked the door open, digging behind the driver seat for a fresh bottle of my
favorite recipe.
I
couldn’t be bothered to retrieve the half-full bottle I’d left in my dressing
room, I had to get as far the fuck away from her just to clear my head and
process what her being here even meant.
My
hands circled the neck of the bottle and I opened it in a flash, chugging back
the first warm bite of pleasure I’d been craving.
I
tossed the cap on my dash and fished the keys out of my pocket, about to climb
into the cab and make hay when fingertips painted a dark navy filtered into my
vision and back out again, my goddamn truck keys hanging from one finger.
“Fuck,” I bit, crawling out of the cab
and swiping for the keys.
My
reactions were a helluva lot slower than I thought they were, how much of that
bottle had I drank before the show? I shook the thought from my head, realizing
this was probably about close to my average state of play on any given day.
Runnin’ away from the life Augusta Belle and I’d had took something out of me.
Something only whiskey could fill.
“I don’t care what your stupid ass does
on your own time, but you’re not dying on mine, Fallon Gentry.”
My
head pounded then, a whole fucking sentence out of her pretty pink lips, my
body’s old dependable reaction to her infuriating every cell of me.
I’d
never been in control when it came to Augusta, shouldn’t have been surprised
that it was no different now.
“As irritating as ever, I see.” I bit,
swiping for my keys one more time and missing, before I stumbled off around
her, whiskey bottle clutched in my hand and hell on my mind.
Augusta
was back and there wasn’t enough whiskey in the state of Tennessee to help me
deal.
Thank you for reading!
Fallon + Augusta hit e-readers June
26!
Author BIO:
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