★★★THE WORST OF ME BY LISA J HOBMAN ★★★ #SPECIALISTBLOGTOUR

 

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THE WORST OF ME BY LISA J HOBMAN
SPECIALIST BLOG TOUR BY FRANCESSCA'S PR & DESIGNS
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Nick Dacre is the epitome of the classic rock star. Women, booze and luxury are handed to him on a daily basis and life is great.

Until another alcohol fuelled sexual encounter forces him to realise that, in spite of his many achievements, his life and the relationships therein have no real meaning.

Now feeling trapped in a life he is expected to continue leading a terrifying event forces him to re-evaluate his future.

The words of a stunning and feisty, Scottish chambermaid, met whilst on tour in London, return to haunt him.

Are her words the key to the drastic changes he needs to make?

Will he find himself but lose his heart in the process?

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EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT - THE WORST OF ME -COPYRIGHT LISA J HOBMAN

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“What the fu-?!” Nick Dacre carefully blinked open his eyes, squinting as bright rays of daylight stung like daggers and his pupils fought to adjust. The 747 that was coming in to land very close by was doing nothing to help his thumping head. He slowly turned to one side and noticed a ridiculous number of bottles strewn around the room—varying types of alcoholic beverages had obviously once filled them but all were now evidently empty. Clenching his eyes shut for a moment he felt disgusted and disgusting simultaneously. His stomach roiled as another turn of his head revealed a naked blonde woman.

He had no idea a) who she was and b) how she ended up, in her current state of undress, in his bed…in his hotel room. He made to sit up and it was only then that the room began to do a three-sixty turn around his head.

“Gah!” He raised his hands to his temples as if it would help to stop the spinning but his attempts were futile and the room’s rotation continued in earnest. The rancid taste of stale alcohol in his mouth made him wonder if he had perhaps been licking dustbin lids in his drunken stupor—or frenching with Jabba The Hutt maybe?

The blonde began to stir.

He froze and held his breath.

The silly thing was he had woken up in this exact state on so many occasions he’d lost count. But for some reason this felt…different. The 747 got closer. Scrunching his pained eyes he turned towards the god-awful noise and realised it was the chambermaid with a vacuum cleaner.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” a familiar sing-song voice called from the adjoining sitting room of the large suite, and its owner rounded the corner. “I let the maid in to sort your mess out. Good God, it stinks in here!” Den, the band’s rather camp, post middle-aged manager walked towards Nick. Unlike the singer Den was far too perky as usual, sunglasses atop his head and looking like he had stepped off the set of the advert for a well-known fizzy drink…a delightful shade of orange with his newly applied spray tan.

“What the hell happened last night, Den? I feel like shit,” Nick whispered, scared to speak any louder in case the comatose blonde gained full consciousness beside him.

“Ooh, shame on you for needing to ask.” Den waved an excited hand. “It was a fantastic night. We rocked the O2 arena—but I’m sure you remember that particular little snippet—and then you all got completely rat-arsed at the after show party.” The fifty-year-old regaled him in his broad Yorkshire accent whilst he eyed up the blonde with derision. “Some of us clearly got lucky too.”

Nick rubbed his eyes. “I…I remember the gig of course…and…I remember the start of the party…but…not much else. Not good.” He shook his head as he scrambled around his brain and fought to regain the memories from the previous night.

The vacuum cleaner fell silent and the mystery blonde sat bolt upright with a sharp cry, making Nick almost jump out of his skin and jerk his head in her direction. Her eyes widened as her horrified stare flitted between the two men. Without speaking she glanced down at her body and squealed before grappling the sheets and covering her bare, obviously enhanced breasts.

Den tilted his head to one side and pouted at the bewildered woman. In his most famous condescending tone he said, “Aww, bit late for that, love, really.” Her cheeks coloured cerise and he responded with a dirty, coarse cackled laugh. Turning his attention back to Nick he began to back away toward the door. “Well, I’ll leave you two love-birds to say your goodbyes. Better get your shit together, Dacre. We set off for Germany in just over an hour. Toodles!”  He winked, waggled his fingers and left the suite.

The chambermaid poked her head around the door. “Ahem…Mr…erm…Mr Dacre? Is it okay for me to collect up your empties now? I didn’t want to wake you and your…erm…girlfriend before…but I really need to get on and do the rest of the suites or my boss will be on my case.” The young, make-up free girl stood fiddling with the vacuum cleaner cable. Nick figured she couldn’t have been any older than eighteen and he was a little amused at the fact she was wearing an oversized grey chambermaid’s uniform which hung from her skinny frame like it belonged to someone else. Her straight blonde hair was scraped back in a ponytail. So young and innocent. Nick frowned at the errant thought invading his mind and tried to push away the additional thought that she was much too young to witness the remnants of such debauchery.

In spite of his best efforts to ignore the unfamiliar niggling guilt knotting his stomach, the heat of shame rose in Nick’s cheeks.

He nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. My…girlfriend is just leaving.” He cringed as he turned his attention from the chambermaid to the blonde stranger in his bed.

 
 

 

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About The Author

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I'm a happily married mum with two crazy dogs and a thing for men with tattoos! In May 2012 I relocated from Yorkshire to my favourite place in the world, Scotland. The time since then has been a rollercoaster!

I love writing, singing and I'm very passionate about music. My tastes are quite eclectic.

My debut novel Bridge Over the Atlantic was shortlisted in the 2014 RoNA awards and I have written many more since!

You Can Stalk Lisa Here:

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