Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
About the Author
By Victoria Milne
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Purple Method
By Victoria Milne
Purple Method
An up-and-coming heavy metal singer and a martial artist desperate to join a top MMA gym must decide how hard they’re willing to fight—for their dreams and each other.
Max Diaz is firmly in the closet, and as unbearable as that’s becoming, he can’t risk his only remaining family—his brother, Tony—or his band Purple Method’s chance to make it big.
Rick Bernstein dreams of rising in the ranks of the MMA circuit and securing a training career at a top gym, but with rejections coming thick and fast and his financial future in dire jeopardy, starting a relationship is the last thing on his mind—especially with someone who isn’t out.
But when Purple Method returns to Elfinbrook after a six-month tour, one kiss changes everything. Now Max and Rick face decisions that will change both of their lives forever.
For Maria
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A MASSIVE thank-you to my family and friends for their continual support, understanding, and patience throughout this journey. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Maria—thank you for helping me realize that Max needed his own story. Purple Method wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for you.
A special thank-you to my wonderful beta readers Jane A. and George Loveland.
Thank you to everyone at Havant and District Writers’ Circle for their generous and supportive feedback that has helped me to grow as a writer and to make Purple Method better.
And finally, to everyone who has helped me with my writing since I began in 2012, thank you so much. Max was one of the very first characters I wrote seven years ago, and after a very steep learning curve, I’m excited to be able to say that his story is finally ready to tell….
PROLOGUE
MAX DIAZ’S legs were trembling so hard, he was amazed they were still holding him up. As he waited at the edge of the stage, hidden out of sight, his throat grew tight, and he dreaded the moment he’d be expected to perform. He didn’t think he could speak right now, let alone sing the complicated vocals.
After years of Max pleading with his brother to let him join the band, Tony had finally relented. He suspected Tony had done it to ease the blow of their dad leaving them. It was just the two of them against the rest of the world.
But that didn’t change the fact that Max was now the lead singer of an actual band. He still couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe they’d trusted him with the responsibility of fronting them when they were all so talented.
The venue was small, but right now, the stage looked huge. There had to be at least twenty people watching them. Twenty people who would witness his epic failure if he didn’t pull his shit together.
Tony, Lee, and Kyle—his bandmates—were preparing the equipment, like Max had seen them do countless times before when he’d been to their gigs. Next time he’d help out, but right now he wasn’t complaining that they were leaving him alone. Kyle was testing the microphones, Tony was moving one of the drums, and Lee was tuning his bass guitar. It wouldn’t be long now.
Max’s legs were numb as the trembling crept through his body all the way to his fingertips, and his head swam as queasiness threatened.
“Max, breathe,” Tony said.
Opening his eyes, Max gasped a breath and tried to focus on his brother.
“You’ve got this.”
“But what if I don’t—”
“You do. Just pretend we’re back home in the garage. You’re ready. Do you think I’d let you onstage with us if you weren’t?”
Max scrubbed his hands over his eyes. That was true. “But what if I let you down? What if I screw up?”
Pulling him into a hug, Tony said, “Focus on the music and you’ll be fine. If you’re thinking about screwing up, then you will. Don’t think about that.”
“Ready?” Lee asked.
Tony patted Max on the back and released him.
“Yeah. Let’s do this,” Max said, and prayed Tony was right.
While the others took their places onstage, Max turned his thoughts to their chaotic band practices. Was it helping? He wasn’t sure. If anything, he was more nervous.
Oh God. The queasiness worsened, and Max knew he couldn’t hold it in this time. He made a dash for the restrooms out back, barely making it in time. When he returned to the stage, Tony and Lee were playing the intro on loop, and all three of them were glaring at him.
Max grabbed the microphone and gripped it as hard as he could, terrified it would slip through his fingers as he stepped onto the stage. He closed his eyes and focused on Tony’s deafening drumbeat, and then on Lee’s bass guitar, the deep notes thundering through his body, dissipating the tingling in his limbs. By the time Kyle’s guitar joined the mix, Max’s nerves were giving way—transforming into the familiar charged excitement music always brought him.
Bringing the microphone to his lips and taking a deep breath, Max opened his eyes. Their audience looked interested, but they weren’t leaping about yet. As Max sang the first lines of “Scream My Name,” a couple of people whistled and nodded their approval.
He could do this. He totally could. And if he had the chance to perform like this for the rest of his life, he’d die happy.
Grinning, Max raised his arms in the air, and he swore that by the end of their set he’d have them all screaming for Purple Method.
CHAPTER ONE
Max
Four years later
“FUCKING CANCEL it, then, Lee,” Tony screamed. “We may as well not bother playing tonight if you’re gonna make us start with that piece-of-shit song.”
Max winced as his brother slammed Lee’s bedroom door and stood in front of it, his arms folded, glaring at the two of them as they sat on Lee’s bed. Great. If only he’d left to go unpack like he’d meant to five minutes ago rather than coming in here to talk to Lee about some new pictures on social media from their gig last night. Now he was trapped in the middle of their shouting match—again.
Lee stood, and Max turned to look at him. His eyes had narrowed and his jaw was clenched as he thundered across to Tony, his long black hair flowing in a wave behind him. It was a world away from only moments ago when Max had been relaxing with a beer and enjoying being back home after months of touring.
Lee stopped inches from Tony, squaring up to him. “Just ’cause you didn’t write it, doesn’t automatically make ‘Solitude’ no good.”
It was the same old argument every time. Max didn’t feel guilty for not taking his brother’s side. Not one bit. Tony was infuriating these days. It seemed like everything had to be done his way or it wasn’t good enough. Max wished Tony would open up to him, but it felt as though each day they drifted further apart.
Tony stepped closer to Lee so they were nose-to-nose. The fact that he looked as though he was enjoying the confrontation was making Lee even angrier—Max could tell by the flush to the side of Lee’s neck.
“We play ‘Bind Me’ first, or I don’t get onstage tonight.”
“What, and
disappoint all your adoring fans?” Lee taunted as they began to circle each other. He snorted a laugh. “I could replace you like that.” Lee snapped his fingers in Tony’s face. “You think I don’t have ten drummers knocking on my door, wanting to take your place in Purple Method?”
Max shifted so he was leaning forward, ready to get the hell out of there the second he got the chance. He didn’t have to wait long. Lee and Tony stepped closer to the bed, leaving just enough space for Max to squeeze past. He took his chance and breathed a sigh of relief as he slammed the door on them.
“Try it. I dare you.” Not even the closed door was enough to shut them out. “You know as well as I do none of them can play like me. We start with ‘Bind—’”
He had to get out of there. Max opened the front door and walked out into the sweltering midafternoon heat.
AS HE sloped into the shade of the juniper tree that obscured the entrance to the townhouse he’d been to countless times before, Max wondered what Pete would say when he showed up unannounced like this—if he’d be surprised. He took a drag from his cigarette and then exhaled the tension that had been intensifying all afternoon.
Traffic crawled past along the dusty street as shoppers headed away from downtown Elfinbrook’s air-conditioned mall. It was almost tempting to seek sanctuary there from the blistering northwest Nevada sun… almost.
Max leaned back against the coiled bark of the tree and kicked at the dirt as he took another drag from his cigarette and half closed his eyes. A loose chunk of rubber from his New Rock boot caught on the metal gate to his left, and he jerked it free with a sharp tug, causing the gate to judder back against the crumbling wall with a clank.
“Kiai!”
His heart leaped and thundered in his chest. What the hell was that? Rescuing the squashed cigarette from between his lips, he molded it back into shape and searched for the source of the sound, squinting against the sharp rays of the sun.
“Kiai!”
There it was again. Max glanced around, half expecting a band of stampeding ninjas to be headed right for him, but the sidewalk was deserted. His gaze rested on the dance academy opposite, where a banner advertising Bernstein’s School of Martial Arts was plastered across the lower half of the building; that was new. When had that changed? Six months on the road felt more like years, so much had altered.
He took another look at the banner and shuddered as he relit his cigarette. Getting beaten around the ring at ninja school was not something he’d be trying anytime soon; getting knocked out by a softball when he was a kid had been enough to put him off sport forever.
As he rested his head back against the tree, a lime-green-and-black Kawasaki motorcycle, not dissimilar to his own Yamaha, pulled away from the traffic and rumbled to a halt in front of the school in a flurry of dust. The tall rider swung his muscular leg across the bike to dismount. Long board shorts clung to his ass and his thighs, and a black tank top emblazoned with a scarlet eagle rippled as a slight breeze caught the material.
Max’s mouth was suddenly dry. Fuck, that guy was hot. Maybe trying ninja school wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all. As the guy turned to face away, he removed his helmet, revealing short blond hair, then shrugged a duffel bag from his shoulders, his tanned triceps flexing under the strain—
“Late, as usual.”
Fuck! Spinning around, Max crushed his glowing cigarette against the mailbox and clenched it into his fist, his chest hammering. His vocal coach’s lips contorted into a smile as Pete tamed his long dark dreadlocks into a thick rubber band while propping the front door open with his foot. “How was the tour?”
Max huffed out a breath. “Usual chaos.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Discreetly flicking the stub into Pete’s garbage can, Max shoved his hands into the pockets of the black cargo pants he always wore and wandered up the path, pretending to ignore the hovering yellow jackets and hoping they’d extend him the same courtesy. After jogging up the last steps to the townhouse, Max pulled his friend into a hug, avoiding the long silver spikes protruding from Pete’s face, and resisted the urge to point out that it was impossible to be late if Pete hadn’t been expecting him. He hadn’t even known he was coming here himself until an hour ago.
Pete patted him on the back and took a step away to hold Max at arm’s length and look him up and down. His scrutiny was unnerving. “You’ve lost weight. You been eating properly?”
Max shrugged. “Kinda.” If you counted beer as food.
“Struggled without a kitchen, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Max shoved past him, paused, and then looked back at Pete. “You got time for a quick singing lesson?”
“I thought you had a gig tonight?”
“I don’t have to be there until six thirty, so I’ve got a while.” Until the biggest gig of his life, here in his hometown, with practically everyone he knew going. He took a shaky breath and hoped Pete didn’t notice.
“In that case, step into my office.”
Freshly sprayed wood polish almost masked the lingering scents of engine oil and cat litter as Max headed along the hall toward Pete’s studio. The studio was Max’s dream room, crammed full of musical instruments, but in a professional way—not like his makeshift garage-cum-studio back home. Quality guitars lined the walls, amplifiers were piled high, and a ton of recording equipment was stowed in a booth in one corner. It was also properly soundproofed so neighbors didn’t come knocking on Pete’s door, complaining about the noise and ruining a perfectly good recording session at three in the morning. Not that he was jealous of that… much.
After scooping up two disgruntled cats that were feigning sleep on the Steinway piano, Pete tucked one under each arm and deposited them outside the room. One of the cats fluffed up its fur and gave them a bitter look that vowed revenge.
“Have you kept up with the singing exercises I gave you?” Pete asked as he closed the door.
“As often as I could.” Sitting at the eight-piece Pearl drum kit, Max tapped out a gentle rhythm.
“That’s a no, then, I take it?”
“I had to share a room with my brother while we were away. I couldn’t do them in front of him. Apparently music lessons are a waste of time. He reckons my voice is good enough as it is.”
“Noticed any improvement?” Pete asked and sat at the piano, playing a melody in perfect time to Max’s beats.
“With Tony?”
“With your voice, not your brother.” Pete chuckled. “And I don’t see the big deal in telling him. He won’t care. He supports you more than you know.”
“Are you kidding? I’d never hear the end of it. He’s never had to take a music lesson in his life.”
“Perhaps it’s time he did, get rid of some of those bad habits. Have you warmed up your voice?”
“Didn’t get a chance. Why do you think I’m here, boss?” Max gave him a cheeky, hopeful grin. Pete would bail him out; he always had.
As Purple Method’s lead singer, Max would be first in the firing line if anything went wrong, and he wasn’t about to be the one who messed up because he hadn’t prepared.
“And yet you’ve been smoking,” Pete said. “Don’t try to deny it, you stink of it.” Max rolled his eyes dramatically, and Pete pointed at him, never losing his melody. “The second it affects your voice, you’re quitting.” It was an argument they’d had more times than Max cared to remember, and it always ended in a deadlock. It was tough being blond, tanned, and in a heavy metal band. To be taken seriously Max had to compensate for it somehow, and he drew the line at dyeing his hair black. He was sure Pete knew he would never jeopardize his voice… not really. “We’ll start with a triad.” Pete played a short sequence of notes, singing, “Ma.”
Max’s drumsticks clattered to the ground, and he sat up straighter on his stool. After taking a low breath, he copied Pete’s vocals and then continued up the scale as Pete replayed the sequence a little higher each time.
As Max reached the
top notes of the mezzo-soprano range, his vocal cords tightened, and it was a real effort to project the full sound. Fuck. Had Pete noticed? He did his best to conceal his struggle, but Pete stopped playing and rested his hands on his thighs.
“You’ve been straining your voice to be heard above everyone else, your cords are tight and dehydrated, and now you can’t sing at the very top of your range. It’s getting worse each time you sing, isn’t it?”
Max shrugged. There was no point in denying anything. “We had gigs almost every day for six months. It’s fine if I don’t sing for a couple of days.”
“Max, we’ve been through this.” Pete sighed. “You need to do a sound check before each gig to make sure you don’t get drowned out by the others, and you need to do the exercises I gave you, they’ll help protect your voice, and start using your steam inhaler every day. If you don’t look after your voice, the problems are only going to get worse. Then you really will have to give up smoking if you want to continue singing.”
“I know. It’ll be easier now we’re home, anyway.”
“You’ve been getting a sore throat as well, haven’t you?”
Max scowled. All he’d done was sing a few notes; how the hell could Pete tell all that?
Pete lifted his fingers back to the piano keys. “You’re a bit breathy. Bring the sound forward and tilt your larynx to give more protection.”
“Breathiness sounds sexy.”
“Breathiness makes you sound like an amateur, and you won’t sound sexy if you lose your voice. I’ve taught you better than this. Come on, Max, remind me how good you are.”
Playing a low note on the piano, Pete began another scale, and Max tried his hardest to sing to the standards Pete expected. It was tough after such a long break from his lessons, but with Pete shouting reminders every so often, by the time they’d finished the warmup, Max knew he was going to be okay for the gig that evening.
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