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Selma catches me checking them out and waggles her brows. “Guests from across the pond.” She leans over to hand me the tips she always collects for me. “Told me to keep it hush-hush, but you’re a musician, too, and I know you won’t run your mouth. Ever heard of the band Atonement?”
My brows furrow. I give a little shake of my head as I tuck the measly bills into my tight pocket. I’ve purposely kept my blinders up when it comes to the music scene, my previous bandmate’s threat still branded into my brain.
“Might want to have a look tonight. You just performed for metal gods, love.”
Dropping back behind the counter, she flashes me a coy smile and gives me a little wave with vampire-sharp nails before returning to the tending bar. “Catch you Friday, Z.”
Lingering nerves from my performance kick up another mosh pit in my chest. I don’t dare another glance at the two beautiful guys across the bar.
Had I any fucking courage in my body, I’d stick around long enough to reject another performance so soon. Two days doesn’t leave me enough time to recover from this one.
Instead, I turn and run from the bar.
Two
Hail
It’sjustthekindof place Liam, the lead guitarist for Atonement, wouldn’t frequent. Which is exactly why I drag him down the tight staircase into the hidden bar, lured by the soulful melody resounding behind the peeling, red-painted door.
We’ve toured Europe before, and while London isn’t one of my favorite cities to visit, I still find a thrill in exploring local joints and offending the British with my ADHD American energy.
Honestly, all the overseas cities we’ve performed at have been a blast. The food here tastes so much better. Okay, Iceland: what the hell kind of crack do you put in your pancakes?
The locals have been welcoming for the most part, too. Though, that might have something to do with our celebrity status. Or the amount of money I’ve dropped on said crack pancakes.
Metal gods, we’ve been titled in the latest magazines and online articles. The freshest aggressive band to hit the festival circuit, even though we’ve been around for eight years. Eight tireless fucking years. That’s not counting the years prior with other bands, fighting to claw my way into the spotlight. Most of my twenties were spent on the road, in a plane, on a stage, or in a hotel room, and not all of them high-class.
I crack a toothy grin at the sketch interior of the bar. Windowless, bathed in old cigarette stench, and teeming with moody, grunge vibes from the dark paint to the choice abstract artwork. It reminds me of some of the first venues we played as a band.
Immediately to our left, there’s a U-shaped bar. Two tattooed women flit behind it like dragonflies locked in an orchestrated dance, serving up neon cocktails decked out with chunks of fruit. Dozens of high-top tables are scattered around the room, half of which are occupied.
And in the back of the rectangular space, there’s a tiny stage where a young guy is hunched over his acoustic guitar, strumming out a tune that reaches inside me and grips me at my core.
His head lifts to the microphone, and I catch a glimpse of the face hidden beneath long, black locks of hair. My jaw actually drops. His features are so soft, his lips full and eyes a pure, glacier blue. His skin is flawless, like porcelain. One wrong hit, and I think he might shatter.
I fall into his lyrics instantly.
A river of blood is all I see
As the current claims me, enslaving me to its chaotic ways
I’m forever swimming, swimming upstream
Prayers for drought rip free as cursed screams
But the fear of what I’ll see when that river runs dry
What else will I find, beyond the cleaned bones of the forgotten?
The phantoms of last breaths, last sighs, last whispers, last cries?
Liam presses in against my shoulder to yell in my ear. “He’s good.”
I can only nod, too drawn in to elaborate on all the ways this man has a death grip on my senses right now.
Fumbling for a stool at the bar, I drop onto it and continue my examination. I’m not sure if he’s being purposeful with his quick vibrato or if he’s just nervous. The chords he plays are unique and well-practiced. But his stage presence? Absolute garbage. Zero eye contact with the crowd, and no words shared with us between songs.
And yet, I’m in rapture. There’s no need for speech beyond this emotional connection. He already has me perched on the edge of my seat, aching to inch myself closer. Closer to that gaping wound in his chest where words flow free, pain reveals itself, and heartache bears its vicious fangs, ready to spread infection.
