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“And you’re Jagger,” I said. As I shook his hand, it was hard to miss the gold Audemars Piguet on his wrist, or the diamonds winking from the rings on his fingers.
“I didn’t miss the show, did I?”
“No, he just got here,” Killian said, shooting him a look that made me think Jagger’s late arrival wasn’t unusual.
“Then I’m not late.” Jagger winked and then went to where the other two members of TBD were sprawled across the velvet couches in front of a row of windows.
Shit. They’re right there.
As Killian brought me front and center, he nodded toward the man covered from neck to toe in colorful tattoos. “Halo, meet Slade.”
With a piercing stare and his head shaved except for the two-inch-thick section at the top that he sometimes mohawked out, the drummer of TBD may look intimidating, but he wasn’t the bad-boy member of the band. No, that honor went to the man on the opposite couch.
“And this is Viper,” Killian said, and as I looked at the lead guitarist, my first thought was that this guy didn’t look at all pleased to see me. With an ankle thrown over his knee, and casually stroking his lip with his forefinger, his body language may have read relaxed, but his dark eyes said something completely different. They were narrowed, assessing, and even if I didn’t know from my years following the band that he was the toughest critic of the group, I still would’ve been wary based on that look. There was a reason he’d earned the name Viper, after all. Observant, but quick to strike—that was what all the stories about him claimed over the years.
My heart began to pound a bit harder, and I prayed they couldn’t hear it.
“Guys, this is Halo. I watched the video he sent in last night—really good stuff.” Killian faced me again and said, “Show us what you got.”
“Okay,” I said, but my voice came out raspy.
The door to the studio opened again, and a woman entered with a tray of four glasses half-filled with amber liquid. She passed one to each of the band members, and when Killian took his, he offered it to me.
“Need some liquid courage?” he asked.
I wasn’t one to down hard liquor first thing in the morning, but I wasn’t sure I’d get through this audition without it, so I gratefully took the glass and swallowed it in one go. It was a smooth burn going down, nothing like the cheap stuff I was used to. But of course it wasn’t. This was the big time, with fuckin’ chandeliers and velvet in studios instead of ripped egg crates covering a room the size of a closet.
With all four pairs of eyes on me, I bent down to unlatch my guitar case, which I managed to do on the first try—amazing, considering my hands had begun to shake.
Just breathe. Don’t think about the rock gods sitting six feet away. They’re just another dive bar crowd half listening.
I strapped on my guitar and tuned up, and when I was ready, I ran my fingers through my hair, blew out a breath, and faced the four men who held my fate in the palms of their hands.
“Was there something in particular of yours you’d like me to play?” I asked.
Killian shook his head. “Anything you like.”
“Right.” I plucked quietly at the strings as I debated whether to just go for it with one of TBD’s biggest hits, and after a few seconds of deliberation, I figured, fuck it—go big or go home—and began to play the opening notes of “More than Enough.”
I closed my eyes, humming along with the intro, and then…I began to sing.
Three
Viper
FUUUCK. ME.
YEAH, that was the thought that ran through my head when Killian stepped aside and Halo had entered the studio around ten minutes ago. And it was still running through my head now, as I sat by myself on one of the couches facing the guy who was singing a song Killian and I had written two years ago, like we’d written it specifically for him.
Served me right, I supposed. If I’d bothered to look at the video attachment in the email Killian had sent to us all last night, I wouldn’t have been trying to mask the reaction I was having to the guy—and yeah, I was having one hell of a reaction.
I’d been trying to work out why any hopeful rocker would call himself Halo since Killian had mentioned his name. But when he walked through the door and I’d gotten my first look at him, that had been cleared up for me real quick.
The guy was a fucking showstopper. He had hair the color of sunshine or spun gold—a shade poets would write about or some shit—and it waved in a sexy tangle of loose curls that hit the collar of his jacket. And that face of his, Jesus. It was perfect. Almost otherworldly. And with eyes a light shade of green, like sea glass…he was almost too damn beautiful to look at.
