Shit, where were the rest of my band? I needed some serious backup. I was not ready to chat with the members of Bleeding Moonlight, not when the topic of conversation was going to be our cover. Even though I felt pretty good about how we’d played, the image of the lead singer staring me down from across the floor had made my blood run cold.
The guy I recognized as the drummer was next to jump up on the stage. “Hey, I’m Ezra,” he said with a friendly wave. My attention snagged on the color of his eyes—a striking, clear blue that could have been plucked straight from the sky. His sandy-red hair was cut close on the sides but longer at the top. “You guys were great,” he said with a gentle smile. “We haven’t been back to this place in ages, and it looks like we picked a good night to come.”
“Thank you, it means a lot,” I responded. Maybe they were just being nice, but getting a compliment from a serious musician was a big deal for me.
“Do you usually do covers? I liked the original a lot, too,” Cole said, his right hand scratching at his chest.
“Yeah, we’re mostly just a cover band,” I explained. “I write a few originals when inspiration strikes, but it’s just for fun.”
Cole furrowed his brows. “I think you guys have a lot of potential. You really lit up when you played your own song.”
I could have hugged Mason when he strutted out from backstage, saving me from responding to that comment. Did I really seem that different playing my own material? Enough for a stranger to pick up on it?
“What’s up, guys?” Mason asked, surprise in his voice.
“Hey, man, we were just telling Adeline how much we liked your set,” Ezra said, stretching out his palm to him. “I’m a drummer, too,” he added. “You nailed the drum track on ‘The Thing About You.’”
Mason beamed at the compliment, and I met his expression with an encouraging smile. He was talented, and I kept telling him he was still young enough to pursue music in earnest. Maybe talking to a professional drummer would get him more excited about the idea.
The two of them began to chat about Mason’s drum kit, while Cole and I stood facing each other in momentary silence. He gave me a crooked smile. “Silas, our guitar player, really wanted to meet you after the show. He said you have serious talent.”
“Damn right, I did,” a deep voice boomed from below the stage, and I turned to face the Viking as he clambered up to us with unexpected grace. He had a long beard that sneaked past the neck of his T-shirt.
When he took a step toward me, I became so distracted by his superhero physique that my worry about what he thought about my playing momentarily moved into the background. He towered over me at a height of at least six four or six five. Trim waist, two boulder-like shoulders, and a wide, pumped-up chest that lightly stretched the fabric of his shirt directly at my eye level. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d look without it on. When I forced my gaze back up to his face, I caught him looking down at my wet white T-shirt. I put my free hand on the opposite shoulder, cursing myself for not changing after the show.
His dark eyes met mine without a hint of embarrassment. “You’re a badass player.”
Relief swept through me, and I gave him a tentative smile. He really thought I was good?
“What the hell are you doing playing rhythm on most songs?” he asked, completely unaware of how loaded that question was for me.
“It’s just what I’m most comfortable with,” I responded, my throat suddenly feeling dry.
“I wanted to see you show off. You should lead more,” Silas stated in a definitive tone.
“I switch on and off, but I prefer rhythm,” I said, my hands flexing at the lie, but this was a stranger who was digging way too deep without realizing it, and I wasn’t going to spill my life story to him.
He raised one arched eyebrow, as if smelling the lie, but he held his tongue. “Adeline, right?”
I nodded.
“I liked your take on our song a lot, and we happen to be looking for a session guitarist for our new album. Do you want to come in for a day next week and give it a go?”
I almost dropped my guitar. Here was this larger-than-life professional musician, checking me out, being sexier than anyone had any right to be, and asking me to help his famous band record an album. Did someone spike my beer earlier?
Cole, who’d been standing off to the side watching this bizarre interaction, jumped in. “Dude, you’re like a freight train,” he joked, putting a hand on Silas’s arm.
The tall man pursed his lips, but Cole continued, “You must be exhausted, Adeline. Why don’t you give us your number, and one of us will send you a text with more details?”
“My number?” I asked in a thin voice.
“Yeah. Like, your phone number,” he clarified, giving me a funny look while pulling out his own phone out of his pocket.
“Right. Right. Um, okay, it’s…” I rattled off my number, my head abuzz.
“Cool,” Cole said, the corner of his lips quirking up. “We’ll be in touch and let you get back to packing up. It was great meeting you.”
“Yeah, you, too. See you around,” I said, and beelined off the stage.
