Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Killian braces my shoulders, then ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Hey. Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
His dark eyes shine with emotion. “You are Liberty Bell. The woman whose guitar playing and voice brought me to my knees. You were born for music.” His fingers squeeze just enough to hold my attention. “Nothing anyone says can take that away. You belong here.”
My eyes smart. “Stop,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me cry.”
His smile is tilted and brief. “Kick ass, Elly May.”
A laugh bubbles in my chest. “Kick ass, lawn bum.”
With a quick kiss to my forehead, Killian sets me back and walks on into the loft. “Yo!” he calls out, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “Where’s everyone at?”
We move past funky ‘50s modern furniture, a kitchen with navy cabinets and copper appliances, and through a pair of glass doors.
A group of guys stand around an open space with a small seating area and a low stage, set up with a drum kit and several guitars to the side.
They all turn when we enter, and I swear I’m about to stumble to my knees, I’m so nervous. Two of them are tall and lean like Killian—one with dark hair and blue eyes who looks like he could be related to Killian, and another with brown hair and green eyes. His expression is guarded, his body tense.
Another guy is built like a football player and has sandy hair and a big grin.
“Killian,” says the big guy. “You brought a friend.”
Killian’s tone is easy. “Guys, meet Libby.”
The one who looks a lot like Killian is Whip Dexter, the drummer. He shakes my hand in a bruising grip and gives me a friendly smile. “Heard your demo tape. You’ve got a great voice.”
Blush. “Thanks.”
The big guy, who is Rye Peterson, the bass player, nods in agreement. “I hear you play the guitar as well.”
“Yep.” I’m holding the case of my old Gibson, my palm so sweaty I’m in danger of dropping the damn thing.
“Glad to have you join us,” Rye says. “It’s gonna be fun, kid.”
Kid. Okay. I can handle “kid.”
Jax, the sullen one with brown hair, is the last to saunter over. All the guys are good looking. But Jax would be perfect in an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. He’s got that all-American, pouty perfection about him. I suddenly remember that the press has called Jax a devil in an angel’s body, and Killian an angel disguised as the devil.
I can see what they meant. Jax appears wholesome, polished—the kid you send to Harvard and he returns to run for office. Killian looks more like the guy waiting on his motorcycle down the street for your daughter to crawl out her window.
Personality wise, I know Killian is kind and honest. Apparently everyone else does too.
As for Jax?
He gives me a long look, and I’m clearly found wanting. “Liberty Bell, was it?”
“Pretty hard name to forget,” I say, not liking his tone.
“True.” He glances at Killian, and the ice in his gaze melts a little. “You ready?”
Like me, Killian is carrying his guitar. He sets the case down and rolls his shoulders. “Thought we’d show Libby how we do things, and then try a few songs with her first.”
“Good plan,” Whip says. “Show the newbie the ropes.”
Jax’s expression is a parody of confusion. And he makes his opinion perfectly clear. “We said we’d hear Liberty play, and then decide—not that she was automatically in.”
A small shock ripples through me. At my side, Killian tenses. “No,” he says patiently. “We agreed she was playing.”
Whip frowns and glances from Jax to Killian and back again. “Man—”
“We always hold an audition,” Jax snaps. “For every opening act. Always.”
“She isn’t an opening act,” Killian shoots back through gritted teeth. “She’s playing with us.”
“All the more reason she should fucking audition.”
Rye holds up a massive hand. “Come on, now, assholes. I want to jam. Not listen—”
“Why are you afraid to let her do this?” Jax cuts in, not taking his eyes off Killian.
Killian’s cheeks darken, and I know explosion is imminent. I step between them. “It’s fine. I’m happy to try out.”
A growl of protest sounds in Killian’s throat, and I shoot him a look. “Seriously.”
“Protective, are we?” Jax asks him.
“What do you want?” I ask Jax before Killian loses it.
Jax finally meets my eyes. I expect anger or dislike, but see none of that. If anything, his expression is perfectly polite, as if I truly was just another act trying to secure a place in their tour. But then it fades, and a glimmer of something—not hate, but something dark and unhappy—glints in his eyes.
“I heard you’re a fan of grunge.” He gives me a lazy, tilted smile that really isn’t a smile at all. “Why don’t you sing us ‘Man in the Box’?”
The entire room seems to stutter to a halt. “Man in the Box” is a classic Alice in Chains song. Layne Staley owned that song with his intense, deep-throated growl, much the way Janis Joplin owned “Piece of My Heart” with her razor’s-edge voice. To try to sing it is to risk looking like a total idiot.