The doors roll shut behind me and?—
Soundcrashesout.
Feedback shrieks and bass guitars snarl.
A voice like gravel dragged across velvet tears through the space and lodges under my ribs.
From the corner of my eye, I see Carl hustling toward me, clipboard bouncing against his side, already talking a mile a minute about schedules and auditions and “the perfect look,” but his words don’t stick.
Because all I see ishim.
Electric silver eyes, huge and unearthly on the giant screen above the stage, pin down the room like floodlights.
He’s shirtless with tattoos slashing across muscle like a roadmap to the devil’s lair. Sweat slicks down his chest as he fondles the mic stand with a large hand riddled with tattoos and rings, leaning into it like he’s ready to break it in half.
Or fuck it.
He doesn’t sing the song; he manhandles then devours it. Each lyric ripped out of him like confession, like punishment, like he’ll bleed if he stops.
The floor vibrates under my platform boots.
My paper cup shakes in my hand and my pulse struggles to keep up. For a wild second I’m convinced the sound is rattling my bones apart.
Carl is suddenly at my shoulder, voice buzzing in my ear. “See? Zane Draven is all raw power. Insane electric energy. The whole album is off the chain. That’s what we’re building the whole shoot around. You’re going to fit perfectly. Just imagine you in the frame, the contrast, the chemistry?—”
The music cuts, like someone slashed a cord with a knife, and the warehouse plunges into heavy silence.
Onstage, the tattooed devil god man beast turns his head.
His gaze slices across the room. Lands on me.
And stays.
The world tilts like some stupid sci-fi screen effect.
The band keeps playing, but he’s frozen. Ferocity coiled, watching me like he’s already decided I’m the song he’s been starving to write.
For one insane second, I forget how to breathe.
Then he snarls into the mic, voice raw enough to scorch me from the inside out?—
“I’d burn down heaven just to taste your sin,” he growls without taking his eyes off me.
And just like that, I realize I may have just stepped into a story I can’t write my way out of.
2
BAD BAD IDEA
RUBY
Carl ushers me away, clipboard flapping against his thigh as he opens his arms wide in a herding gesture down the side of the cavernous warehouse.
My legs move, but my eyes refuse to follow the direction of my body.
They stay locked on him.
Onstage, he’s still gripping the mic stand, silver eyes glued to me even as his mouth twists around words that detonate in my chest.
