Chase the Dream (Redfall Dream #3) Read online

  Chase the Dream

  Copyright ©2018 by B.B. Miller and Leslie Carson

  Wildest Dream excerpt ©2018 by B.B. Miller and Leslie Carson

  ISBN: 9780998246260

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are a product of the authors’ imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locations, events or person, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act, 1968, no part of this work may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, record or transmitted in any form by any means, without the prior written permission of the authors.

  Cover design by:

  Jada D’Lee Designs

  Cover image by:

  iStock Photo

  Editing by:

  Lauren Schmelz, and Greg, Write Divas

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Contents

  CHASE THE DREAM

  Warning

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Five Months Later

  Sneak Peek at Wildest Dream

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  This story deals with issues of domestic violence which may be sensitive to some readers.

  For all those living in the face of fear, remember, you are strong.

  Cameron

  “STOP SLOUCHING, CAMERON.” Three words from my mother guaranteed to make my thirty-seven-year-old self feel like an awkward teenager again. “All those years hunched over your guitar haven’t done a thing for your posture.”

  “Lovely to see you too, Mother.” I lean in for the obligatory kiss to both of my cheeks, which are clean shaven as requested in the formal email sent from her assistant earlier in the week. The familiar scent of Chanel swirls around me as she leans back with a scrutinizing gaze, looking for flaws.

  “You always did look so handsome in a suit,” she murmurs in a rare compliment. Apparently, I pass inspection. “This isn’t the Armani I sent over, is it?” She purses her distorted lips in disapproval. The collagen and countless face-lifts have been putting up the good fight. Not a single wrinkle on her sixty-year-old face. She’s dripping in diamonds and vintage Versace, and with her hair perfectly styled and sprayed to within an inch of its dyed blond life, she still manages to command the room. The poster model for the billionaire’s wife.

  The crowd at the Chapman Center for the Arts buzzes around her, all sharks in the water, quietly waiting for their turn to take a bite. A few minutes with Victoria Chapman, the reigning queen of Boston’s elite first, and my mother second, can rocket you to exclusive status. You can almost smell the desperation on the high-society wannabes lingering around the fringes.

  Cameras flash around us, although this time in a welcome change, they aren’t for me. The Thanksgiving concert is the elite event of the year in Boston, produced by my parents in support of the arts center, one of the many charities that benefit from my family’s influence and power. Hell, the building is named after them. Even if this is a massive publicity stunt, it’s for a good cause. It may be the only thing that actually doesn’t turn my stomach about being dragged here.

  The money raised tonight and throughout the year supports the arts center that provides opportunities for talented musicians who otherwise wouldn’t be available. Everything from programs like the one my band, Redfall, played in Sydney that offers chances for child prodigies to train with symphonies around the globe, to an all-day private high school focused on the arts and a fully funded day care for the musicians who are part of the symphony. I know how much time and dedication it takes to play at this level. It also takes money—something these musicians don’t have. The symphony only operates for half the year, and the musicians all need to supplement their income in the off season.

  “I stopped wearing the clothes you picked out for me when I was sixteen.” She shakes her head slightly before flattening her hand down the lapel of my dark blue suit jacket. “And it’s Tom Ford,” I add just to rub it in.

  She takes a step back as if standing too close to her son is a crime. “How many times do we have to have this conversation? Armani cuts a better suit.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “My opinion is the only one that matters, dear.” She sounds conceited, but she’s not wrong. My mother is practically worshipped in the Boston social scene. She’s a staple on every charity committee and endowment fund. She speaks at highly publicized events where she preaches about the importance of giving back to the community. When Victoria Chapman talks, people listen.

  She links her arm around mine and turns to flash her practiced smile for the cameras before gliding us through the lobby. The masses part for her as if she’s some holy relic to be revered. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  I frown, glancing down at her. “I do just fine getting my own dates, thank you.”

  “Yes. We know.” She flashes me a warning glare before her public mask snaps back into place. “Darcy Hamilton.” I barely manage to bite back a groan. “Recently single,” she continues loud enough for me to hear as we merge into the line for the theater. She nods and gives a finger wave to a few people along the way. “She was dating Benjamin Knight, you know? Of the athletic company? Shoes, apparel.”

  “I’m familiar,” I murmur. “Isn’t he worth a few billion?” Sometimes, it’s fun to annoy her. She scoffs, taking a program from one of the ushers standing outside our private box seats.

  “Please.” She leans closer, her voice dropping lower. “He had a gambling problem. Lost half their earnings in one night. It was quite the scandal. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

  Shaking my head, I lead her to our spot above the mezzanine. Only the best box seats for the Chapmans. All the little unworthy peons scatter below us just where my mother wants them. She’s high above where she can reign supreme. “I’ve been a little busy.”

  She pats my chest. “It’s cute that your hobby can keep you entertained. While you’ve been gallivanting from city to city in your little band, your father has been working himself nearly to death.” Anger has my jaw tightening. If my mother had her way, I’d be chained to a desk beside dear old Dad and my brothers. Another heart attack waiting to happen. The fact that I’ve worked my ass off establishing Redfall and doing something I love doesn’t even enter her mind. I’ve disappointed her and the family name, and that’s a crime for which no amount of penance is ever going to be enough.

  “I hate to break it to you, but he’s been doing that his whole life. And I don’t gallivant.”

  She waves the program in front of me, clearly not wanting to hear a thing I say. “Anyway, Darcy is lovely. Long blond hair, thirty, on the board at the Children’s Hospital Foundation. She was Miss Massachusetts a few years ago, you know. She does Pilates at the club. I’ve seen her there when I meet the girls for brunch on Thursdays. Her parents own Hamilton Jewelers,” she rattles on, sinking down gracefully to a seat at the front of the box.

  “You going to tell me how much she weighs, too? Jesus. It sounds like you’re trying to sell me one of the horses.” Unbuttoning my suit jacket, I take the seat beside
her.

  “Watch your language, Cameron. Darcy and her mother will be here shortly.” Of course they will. I knew she’d try to set me up with some trust fund trophy wife in waiting. Every time I’m home for a visit she does this. You would think by now she would have given up, but my reluctance only serves to fuel her determination.

  I’m sure in her mind, having her rebel son married off is good for business and the family name. It would mean she’d get someone on the inside watching me, making sure I don’t screw up again. Though, I don’t see rehab as a screwup the way she does. It was a necessary reset.

  I had started to spiral out of control with our former tour manager, Brodie Dixon, and I was inching from the occasional bump of coke into more dangerous territory. It could have escalated quickly into full-blown addiction, but I checked myself in. I wanted to go through the process, and I’m damn glad that I did. I was close to losing everything I had worked so hard for, and if I hadn’t stopped the cycle, things would be very different right now. Enduring a night like this with my mother seems to pale in comparison to the hell I could be in.

  I smell her before I see her, a cloud of Clive Christian wafting over me. It’s an expensive scent I grew up with, being surrounded by high-society women who wanted to make sure they not only looked rich, but smelled it too. They all have a certain air about them—something that screams refined, sophisticated, elitist.

  “Ah, Darcy, Elizabeth . . .” It’s hard not to roll my eyes. “You made it.” My mother should’ve been an actress. She actually sounds like she cares about these people. She stands and extends the customary kiss to each cheek greeting, and I stand as well. Even after years in what is considered a raunchy and highly unpredictable rock-and-roll band, the breeding drilled into me comes back easily.

  “Cameron, of course you remember Elizabeth.” My mother motions from Elizabeth to me as if I’m on display. I don’t remember Mrs. Hamilton. Too many carbon copies of her have passed through our doors over the years. None of them are memorable. But I lie because it’s what’s expected of me.

  “Mrs. Hamilton.” I incline my head in respect, like a proper gentleman, earning me a few brownie points. Yes, Mother. I remember every single thing you and your legion of nannies taught us. Elizabeth looks her fill of me, her eyes widening as I take her offered hand. She can hardly hold it up with the ice rink sitting on her finger—a given when your husband owns one of the biggest jewelry franchises in the world. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Oh, you’ve grown into a fine young man, wouldn’t you agree, Darcy?” At least Darcy lives up to the hype my mother was spewing. She’s striking in that manufactured, beauty-queen way. I wonder why her mother doesn’t have her married off already. Talk about trophy wife material.

  Almost as tall as my six-five in her stilettos, she’s rocking a form-fitting white sequined gown that barely conceals a pair of fake tits that probably put a significant dent in Daddy’s pocketbook. She’s got so much makeup on, I wonder what she looks like underneath it all. Darcy, too, is dripping in jewelry—some huge sapphire monstrosity locked around her neck looks like it weighs more than she does. Jesus, woman. Eat a cheeseburger.

  “I would absolutely agree,” Darcy purrs, holding her hand out. You’d have to be blind to miss her freshly manicured nails, painted blood red, and the bling on her fingers, except notably the one finger she’s actually desperate to put something on. “Darcy Hamilton.” She’s about as subtle as a brick to the head.

  “Pleasure to meet you. Cameron Chapman.” Her nails trail a light circuit over the inside of my wrist as she bats her big eyes at me. It feels like she’s staking a claim, and I don’t like it. I move to the side, motioning for them to sit.

  “I downloaded your latest album last night.” She brushes past me, her voice breathy. “It’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can thank Kennedy for that. He wrote it.”

  She giggles at this—the usual response for ridiculous women who don’t have a fucking clue how to carry on an actual conversation. Underneath all that glitz and glamor, she’s not as far off from the groupies as I’m sure she thinks she is.

  I’m not stupid. Between my family’s wealth and status and my own stake with Redfall, I’m a catch for a girl like Darcy. I could easily support the ridiculous lifestyle she expects. Plus, I’ve been blessed with good genes; I have my father’s height and jawline, and a body shaped by a variety of sports growing up and years of rigorous playing on stage. I know I’m looking good tonight. The smoldering look she’s giving me, like she’s imagining what’s under my suit, is testament to that.

  I snort and shake my head. Darcy’s just like every woman I meet, regardless of the expensive dress and glimmering jewels. All they see is my money, my looks, and my fame, not necessarily in that order. Some are attracted to the bad-boy rocker image. None of them give a shit what’s underneath. They’re all so fucking transparent.

  Her hand snakes up my arm. “Maybe you could play something for me sometime.” I let her blatant pickup line hang in the air as she sits elegantly. She makes sure the high slit of her dress opens to reveal her endlessly long legs. I curse the no-sex bet I made with our pain-in-the-ass bassist, Matt Logan. I’d actually like to fuck that smug look off Darcy’s face. She thinks I’m a done deal, and judging by the expectant looks on our mothers’ faces, so do they.

  “Where the hell have you been?” My voice raises as I find Katherine—my little sister and favorite sibling—lingering by the bar. In pure defiance of our mother, she’s got on a rainbow-colored short cocktail dress that just hits her knees, paired with purple Doc Martens. Fuck, I’ve missed her. “You left me with soul-sucking Darcy—”

  “Hamilton. I know.” She downs what looks like not her first glass of champagne.

  “You knew that Queen V was up to something?” I narrow my eyes, but she just throws her head back and laughs at one of the many nicknames we have for our mother.

  “When isn’t she?”

  “A little warning would’ve been nice there, Kitty Kat.” I ruffle her long blond hair, and she nudges me in the side.

  “Where’s the fun in that? And come on. Darcy is smoking hot. You’d totally do her. So would I.”

  “She’s ridiculous.”

  “She was Miss Massachusetts. Did Mom tell you? A real-life pageant queen!” She gives a royal wave, flashing me a fake smile.

  “Yeah. She mentioned that.” I scowl and take a peek over her shoulder in the direction of the box, knowing my time is limited before the vulture descends again.

  “Welcome to my nightmare. I’ve been the target of Mom’s bullshit for the last couple years there, hotshot. It’s your turn.” It’s hard to miss the disdain in Kat’s voice. Fuck only knows what she’s had to put up with. Our mother is stifling at the best of times, and for a free spirit like Kat, it’s got to be hell.

  “She’s got two other kids she could inflict her special kind of torture on. How did they manage to get out of this?”

  Kat rolls her eyes. “They’re with Dad at some convention in the Turks and Caicos. It’s just you and me now, kid.” She tips up on her toes and slings her arm around my shoulder, crushing her tiny body against me. How Kat missed the tall gene in the pool, I don’t know. She’s always been a pint-sized wonder. Family photos—a critical element when you’re a Chapman—always had to be elaborately staged so she didn’t look totally out of place next to the rest of us. Dad is almost a monster at six-eight. My brothers Brooks, Nathan, and I check in at around the six-five mark. And then, the little freak of nature herself at barely five feet tall on a good day. It makes no sense at all. If she didn’t look exactly like our mother did thirty years ago, I’d swear she was adopted.

  “I’ve missed you, jerk,” she whispers, giving me a squeeze, and that right there makes the whole trip home and having to endure this farce with my mother worth it.

  I tighten my arms around her. “I missed you too, Kat.”

  “You could’ve called me, you k
now?” She folds her arms across her chest, jutting her chin out. Of course, she knows about what I hope is my stint in rehab. No matter how much money you have, some things can’t be buried. Fuck knows my parents tried to keep it out of the press, but pictures get out, and flights to Malibu when you’re famous and don’t have a home there, typically mean one thing: You’ve hit rock bottom and you’ve checked yourself in somewhere. “You can always call me.” Her eyes search mine, and she grins. “Well, not at two thirty in the morning. I’m not at my best then. But any other time. Call.”

  She punches me in the chest with that unchecked fury I grew up with, and I chuckle in response. “I wanted to do it myself. Fuck, you’ve got enough to deal with here without worrying about me, and anyway, I’m good now. Free and clear for over a year.” She beams a smile at me. “What about you?” I ask, wanting to change the subject. “Who’s your latest victim? Whitney still in the picture?” The fact that Kat is bisexual isn’t one that sits well with my parents. The number of times she’s called me in tears after getting berated by our mother is staggering.

  “Nah. I kicked her to the curb a few months back.” A waiter wanders by, and she switches her empty glass out, snagging two flutes of champagne, and offers me one. I shake my head, and she gives me a shrug, downing it.

  “Aw.” I give her a fake pout. “I liked her.”

  “You mean you liked the fact that she didn’t wear a bra.”

  I raise both hands up in surrender. “Guilty.”

  She takes a healthy sip of champagne from the remaining glass. “Men. You’re so predictable.”

  “Cameron?” Nails on a chalkboard would hurt less. I cringe at the sound of Darcy’s voice. “There you are.”

  Kat elbows me in the side. “Damn, she’s hot,” she murmurs before finishing off the rest of the champagne.

  “You date her then. That just might send dear old Mom over the edge.”

  Kat snorts, watching as Darcy sashays over. There’s no mistaking Darcy’s critical glare, how she holds herself just a bit straighter. She’s sizing up potential competition, looking for weaknesses. She glares at me.