One band. Five love stories. Too many secrets. We’ve been waiting a long time to find out how the band Tattoo Thief will deal with drummer Dave’s toxic ex—and the secrets she’s been collecting on everyone. It was worth the wait. You don’t have to be a fan of the series to love a book that starts fast with a huge wow moment and then unpacks the band’s secrets. In fact, you don’t have to read the earlier books because each book is a different love story about a different member of the band. About Say it Louder: 
I had a choice—dump my toxic girlfriend, or break up my band. It should have been easy. But she’s been collecting dirt on all of us for years. Just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom, a pink-haired street artist rocks my world. They call Willa “the Parking Lot Picasso.” I call her my refuge, my center, my last reason to hope. When Willa’s life on the streets collides with a sudden spotlight on her art, I’ll stop at nothing to protect her. But when the spotlight turns on my secret shame, she might be my only salvation. Grab your copy today: Amazon ebook | iBooks | Kobo | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | Paperback 
Get the first book in the Tattoo Thief series free (on iBooks, Amazon, Nook or Kobo), or dive in to Say it Louder by downloading a free extended sample for Kindle or all other devices. Check out this excerpt, and then enter the Rafflecopter giveaway to win a signed paperback and special swag. Excerpt “Show me more?” Dave stills, waiting for an answer. I chill and wrap my free arm around my chest, shy knowing my full breasts are apparent through the thin T-shirt. There’s warmth in his touch, in his voice, in his gaze. And I want more. I want him closer, the way our arms kept brushing as we sat on that rail beam, neither of us admitting that every single touch was intended. Every one. “I’ll show you a few.” I walk back to my bed and sit, nodding at him to follow before I lose my nerve. “But you have to show me yours, too.” Dave chuckles. “I like the sound of that.” I glare at him. “Don’t. I’m a professional, remember?” I tip the cracked shade on the lamp near my bed so the bare bulb stares at us. I’m too exposed but Dave looks comfortable in his own skin, like he parades around in black boxer briefs all day. Maybe he does. Rock stars are known for weird shit. “I like this one.” Dave says as he sits on the mattress and turns toward me. One hand wraps around my wrist again, anchoring my arm in place. His other hand explores, tracing the lines of my honeybees and their flowers. He pushes my T-shirt sleeve up to the top of my shoulder, then trails his fingers down my arm. My flesh prickles with goosebumps and I feel my cheeks heat, the color climbing down my neck in parallel with his gaze. I’ve never been inspected like this before. Even when other people look at my tattoos, and many of them do because it’s some of Thomas’s best work, I never see this hunger behind their eyes. Dave swallows, his tour of my left arm complete. “Which one do you want to see?” “Your favorite.” He smiles, and it’s an easy smile, relaxed, like I’ve just asked if he likes ice cream. He stands up and turns around, draping himself across my bed so I can see the magnificent back piece that spreads across his shoulder blades. It’s an owl, wings spread in full flight, its legs extended forward as if it’s descending to grab its prey. It’s almost a blackwork tat—the only color in the intricate design is the owl’s yellow eyes. It feels so Dave, so commanding and sharp-eyed. Like if you peeled away his poor-me routine you’d get a wise creature ready to capture exactly what he wants. What if I were exactly what he wants? The thought of that thrills and frightens me. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he mumbles, his face in my pillow as I bend over his back to get a closer look at the ink. “I have a second mirror in my bathroom so I can see it. It’s my favorite, but I can’t even look at it straight. Kind of stupid, huh?” I trace the curves of it, my fingers skidding lightly over the owl’s feathers on his muscular back. “Not stupid at all,” I whisper. No. Not stupid in the slightest. He just lies there and lets me touch him. Lets my fingers wander, up his back and down it, from the crease of his spine to his muscled shoulders, from the cords of his neck down his lower back, and the elastic top of his boxer briefs. The feel of the room is shifting fast, changing from tattoo talk to something entirely … other. About Heidi Joy Tretheway: 
Heidi Joy Tretheway is a sucker for campfires, craft cocktails, and steamy romance in books and real life. She sings along with musicals (badly), craves French carbs, and buys plane tickets the way some women buy shoes. Her first career as a journalist took Heidi behind the scenes with politicians, rock stars, and chefs, all of whom inspire her stories. Heidi Joy is currently working on her tenth book from her home in southwestern Washington. Connect with Heidi:
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