PROLOGUE
Four years ago…
“And now forour final band of the evening! Taking the stage, we have… Diablo!”
The applause was tepid. Dmitri clapped politely, bored by the unimpressive acts at Open Mic Night at High Risque, one of LA’s many small venues. Despite his boredom, he reminded himself that everyone started somewhere; after all, he’d caught his break at an event like this just months ago.
He glanced across the table at Luka, the founder of the F-Holes, who was drumming his fingers on the rough surface, his barely touched beer sitting forgotten by his hand. Luka’s eyes were only half open, but Dmitri had learned that it was a pose Luka affected when he was listening most intently. Luka seemed determined to hear every act in Los Angeles, driven by a relentless desire to find the missing piece for the band—a drummer who could realize the sound he envisioned would lead to their success. He’d insisted on dragging Dmitri with him this time, and when Luka was insistent, it was hard to tell him no.
At least they’d made it to the last band, though Dmitri was wondering how many more of these kinds of things he was going to have to sit through before Luka settled on a drummer who met his rigid requirements. They’d been making do with session musicians for percussion as they worked on their first album, but Luka hadn’t been satisfied with anyone. Luka’s frustration seemed to stem from a feeling that without the right drummer, the F-Holes couldn’t achieve his artistic vision—a source of stress that made him even more growly and snarky than usual. But Dmitri was fully aware that the F-Holes was Luka’s band; while he, Jett, and Kris were members whom Luka had hand-picked, the entire vision of their music was in Luka’s head, and he was driven in a way unlike anyone Dmitri had ever met. None of them minded, since they were getting paid; more importantly, at least in Kris’s case, they had decent health insurance courtesy of their contracts. So they all put up with Luka’s moods, grateful to be making music and knowing that Luka’s vision and connections with their label, Headcrash, were what was making everything possible.
Besides the steady income he received, Dmitri thought the music Luka composed was fuckingamazing. Angry and defiant, it crossed genres between rock and metal with impunity, and Dmitri knew he wasn’t alone in feeling excitement knowing that they really could be on the verge of making it big.
Still, it was getting late, and Dmitri yawned as the band played a cover version of “Toxicity” by System of a Down. It sounded okay, but he was tired, and they had rehearsal in the morning. He leaned across the table, touching Luka’s arm to get his attention. “Hey, I’m beat, I think I?—”
Before he could finish the sentence, Luka’s eyes suddenly shot open, and his head swivelled toward the stage. Dmitri stopped, startled by the sudden movement, and then he frowned, turning his own attention toward the stage. There wasno doubt this band was better than any other they’d heard that night, but he didn’t think they sounded special otherwise.
The frontman was some kid who didn’t seem to be over seventeen, and while his voice was decent, it wasn’t special — at least not in the same way Kris’s gruff mezzo was. There were a pair of guitarists who played with both skill and enthusiasm, but the F-Holes used cellos in place of the more common six-string instruments. But when Dmitri’s eyes fell on the drummer, he blinked, taking a closer look at the absolutely stunning young man behind the banged-up kit.
He was worth a second look, too. His short, curly dark hair was held back from his face by a sweatband, making the sharp angles of his deeply tanned face stand out. Dark brown eyes flashed as he grinned, beating out the complex rhythm of the drum line with effortless skill. His tank top exposed muscular shoulders and toned arms, and Dmitri had no doubt his chest beneath the covering fabric was just as well developed.
Dmitri’s mouth went dry; he had a thing for muscular chests.
All he could do for several moments was stare, wondering if the young man might happen to be gay, single, over eighteen, and interested in short, boyish cellists.
“That’s it, that’s the sound I want,” Luka muttered, just loud enough for Dmitri to hear him. “That’s our drummer. Whoever he is, he belongs with the F-Holes.”
“I won’t disagree.” Dmitri wasn’t about to argue with Luka over the makeup of the band, especially since Luka had selected all the current members. “But it looks like he’s in a decent band already.”
“He’s older than those high school kids he’s playing with.” Luka’s eyes narrowed as he frowned. “And he’s better than the rest of them by far.”
Dmitri privately agreed and closed his eyes, listening to the music instead of concentrating on the drummer’s looks. Thesong had a very intricate drum part, and as far as Dmitri could tell, the young man didn’t miss a single beat of the complicated music.
The song ended, and with barely a pause, the band launched into their second. Dmitri didn’t recognize it, but it had an even more intense and complex beat, one that made the drummer’s skin gleam under the stage lighting with the sweat of his efforts. As soon as their set was over, Luka was on his feet, pushing his way toward the stage amid the clapping of a crowd that was far more enthusiastic than they’d been the rest of the night.
Dmitri stood as well, snatching up Luka’s jacket from the back of his chair before hurrying after him. It was harder for him to make his way between the patrons than for the much taller Luka, especially since everyone had pushed back chairs and risen to their feet. He was stepped on, elbowed, and barely missed being smacked in the head by one burly guy who was jumping up and down and swinging his arms as he cheered, but Dmitri eventually got to the edge of the stage.
Luka was already up on stage by the drummer, talking to him urgently. Chuckling, Dmitri hopped up on the raised platform, nodding to the surprised singer and then pointing at Luka with an apologetic shrug. The singer just rolled his eyes, then turned his attention to a young woman who was waving at him from the floor.
Now that he was closer, Dmitri could tell the drummer was definitely older than his bandmates, likely in his early twenties. Which, thankfully, meant Dmitri was safe in drooling over him.
“You would be a perfect fit for our sound,” he heard Luka say, his voice raised to be audible over the continuing claps and cheers of the audience. The drummer, who was even better looking up close, was staring at Luka in open-mouthed surprise. Given how intense Luka was, Dmitri wasn’t surprised by theexpression, having probably worn one exactly like it when Luka had ambushed him.
“Hi,” Dmitri said as Luka paused, obviously waiting for a response. Knowing how taken aback he’d been himself when Luka had waylaid him after a set, Dmitri smiled sympathetically at the drummer. “I’m Dmitri Martin, and the intense dude trying to steamroll you is Luka Petrov. We’re in a band called the F-Holes, and we’re legit, I promise. We even have a contract with Headcrash and everything. We’re looking for a drummer, and Luka thinks you’re the one we need.”
“Really? Are you being serious right now?” The drummer blew out a breath, then ran his hand through his curls. He looked stunned, but there was also a gleam of hope in his eyes. “I honestly don’t know what to say, man. I mean, I’m just standing in tonight for a friend who got sick, I’m not even really a part of Diablo.”
Luka nodded in satisfaction. “That’s perfect! So you’re not tied down, right? Can you come to the studio tomorrow morning? I want to get you started with the rest of the band right away.”
“Tomorrow?” The drummer boggled again for a moment, and Dmitri quite knew how Luka could run right over people to make them go along with him. Single-minded didn’t begin to describe him, but when it came to music, Luka was never wrong.
‘If you can make it, we have a practice session scheduled at 9AM in a studio downtown,’ Dmitri explained, shooting Luka a look in case he hadn’t seen that the young man was in a state of something close to shock. This was probably why Luka had insisted on Dmitri coming along: to help smooth over the intense recruiting approach Luka always took, since Dmitri was better at reassuring people when Luka’s focus got overwhelming. ‘Um, sorry, I don’t know your name,’ he added, smiling ruefully.
“Andre.” The drummer focused on Dmitri and returned the smile almost shyly. “Andre Lucena.” He looked between Dmitri and Luka. “You guys are serious? I mean,really? You want me to join your band?”
“Yes.” Luka nodded, seeming to have no doubts at all. Then he glanced at Dmitri’s raised brow, apparently getting the message to leave Andre a little space. “I mean, if our styles mesh well, it should work. Can you make it? If everything goes well, we can sign you to a contract tomorrow.”
“Nine?” Reality seemed to have caught up at last, and Andre appeared to deflate a bit. “I don’t know. I have work. This is just my hobby, plus session gigs when I can get them. I wait tables at night, but I’m on my uncle’s roofing crew on weekdays, and we have a job early tomorrow.”
