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PROLOGUE
Lennon
This is where I feel alive.
Closing my eyes to the flickering strobe lights illuminating the stage and theater, I tipped my head back and succumbed to the bass drum's heavy pulse—boom, boom, ba-boom, boom. The melodic squeal of the electric guitar. The vibrating heat of the crowd surrounding me and the deafening echo of their voices, singing in unison with their momentary god.
Dylan freakin’ Pierce.
For many of my fellow concert goers, it was fleeting, their love and adoration for the power in his voice and emotion in his lyrics. But soon, the concert would end, and they would leave to go home and continue on with their lives like they hadn't just witnessed a miracle.
But not me.
There was nothing temporary about my worship for Dylan Pierce. Not when he had single-handedly pulled me from the brink of self-destruction during a time when I felt worthless and alone. I’d offered my gratitude with the purchase of concert tickets, and I knew I would leave this room a changed woman, like every time before. Then, I would spend the next few days reeling from the experience, hungover from his music’s intoxication. My soul would need time to settle, to adjust to its new shape.
Until the next time.
“Not gonna lie, Lenny,” Tarryn whispered in my ear. “You're weirding me out a little.”
I opened my squinted eyes to a blurry image of Dylan jamming with Dave Lee, the band's bass guitarist. Dylan's muscles flexed with every strum of his guitar, and from where I stood, I wished I could see his tattoos animate and come to life. He had two full sleeves covering his arms, sprawling over his shoulders, and disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt, to reappear again around his neck. But I couldn’t make them out from here, no matter how close to the stage I was. Still, I knew the man was covered in art, a living piece of canvas, and I often wondered what they all meant, if they had any meaning at all.
It pained me, knowing I'd never be able to ask.
“He really is hot,” Tarryn muttered. “I know you can’t see him that well right now, but good Lord. He’s like … if Jared Leto and Jensen Ackles had a baby, but hotter.”
I sighed with pathetic longing and nodded. “I know,” I whined with an accompanying whimper.
My heart pined in a way I knew was stupid. I knew hell had a better chance of witnessing a blizzard than I had with Dylan Pierce. But my attraction to him was fierce and uncontrollable, and no other man could ever compare to his physical appearance and artistic talent.
Trust me, I'd looked, and they didn’t exist.
The song came to an end, and Dylan sauntered back to the mic with a commanding confidence, just feet away from where I stood. The bright lights didn’t allow me a clear view of his face, but I knew he was grinning out into the crowd, shaking his head, like he couldn't quite believethismany people could love his music as much as he and his band did.
“Long Island, you are fucking beautiful, you know that?” he asked, his whiskey-smooth voice exploding through the speakers. The crowd responded with a roar of applause, and he chuckled before saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, guys.”
His head turned as his eyes scanned the crowd, taking us all in with a painstaking care that said each and every one of these people meant something to him—and they did. It was one of the many things I adored about him—that no matter how famous he had gotten through the past decade, he never lost his humble soul. I couldn't say the same for many other artists I listened to and loved. They grew desensitized, they took it for granted, but not Dylan and the guys in his band.
Not yet anyway.
I hoped they never did.
His appreciative gaze came full circle, the grin never leaving his face as his head tipped downward to assess the people in the front row. My heart rattled wildly in its cage as I shielded my eyes with a hand and squinted to see his lips pulled between his teeth. God, I wished I could see him just a little better, a little clearer. But he nodded his thanks to us, and I waited for him to look at me, to see if he saw me, and then …
My heart stopped beating, as I felt his eyes meet mine. He paused, his lips parting softly and his head tipping gently. My one hand, shielding my eyes, shook as the other tightened against the railing separating me from the stage for those five seconds—that moment in which I knew he saw me and knew I existed, even for only a fraction of a minute. My voice begged to be heard, my legs begged to bounce on the spot, but I stayed silent and frozen, unable to move, apart from my trembling hands.
Then, he looked away.
Because Dylan Pierce was a god.
And I was nothing but a blind peasant, worshipping at his feet.
CHAPTER ONE
Dylan
Four Years Later …
“I’msosorry about this, guys. As soon as Ms. King gets here, we can rehearse,” Chastity, a frail-looking woman in a hot-pink pantsuit, said as she flitted across the stage.
