by Chiah Wilder
“Fuck,” Brutus muttered. “I thought you’d make it at least five months with this one.”
Sangre watched as his brothers took out their wallets and turned over their money to Army. “You fuckin’ bet on how long Skylar and I were gonna be together?”
“That’s right, brother. You’re making me a rich man with all your chicks.” Army shoved the money in his pocket.
“I thought for sure you were gonna last four months. That’s what I betted on,” Chains said, picking up his beer.
“I can’t believe you assholes are betting on this. At least I have relationships, not like you losers.” The men burst out laughing, and Sangre pushed away from the table, knocking over a few beer bottles as he rose to his feet. “Fuck this.” He walked away, his fists clenching at the sound of the loud guffaws behind him. Taking the steps two at a time, he arrived at his room in no time.
As he changed his clothes, he thought of Skylar and how he hated going over and breaking it off with her. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to see her anymore. Compared to all the other women he’d been involved with, she was, by far, one of the best girlfriends as of yet: She didn’t nag him, liked her independence, was damn hot in bed, and mostly went along with what he wanted. Then why the hell am I breaking up with her? He couldn’t say. He went over to the window and looked out at the San Juan Mountains silhouetted against the darkening sky. Running a hand through his hair, he leaned against the windowsill. Fuck. It’s always the same damn thing.
He’d been through the upcoming scenario more times than he could remember, and it was always different forms of “I think we should see other people” or “It’s not you, it’s me.” Shaking his head, he laughed dryly. The truth was—it usually was him and not the woman. The women he picked tended to be variations of the same model: pretty, smart, interested in motorcycles—or at least pretended to be, not clingy, understood the camaraderie with his brothers, and willing to have fun in bed. Sex was very important to him, but having a woman who respected his space and didn’t try to change him was high on the list as well. Skylar checked all the boxes, yet he was going over to tell her they were done. He supposed she broke the one thing he didn’t want from any of the women he’d dated: getting too serious about him.
When they went out to dinner a few nights before, he could see the look in her eyes, the way she gripped his arm and clung to him. It was the small things that night, that told him she’d taken what they had to a new level, and he knew he had to bail out. The way he figured it, he was doing her and all the other women a favor. If he ended it early enough, they wouldn’t become that attached or hurt. Most of his relationships lasted three or four months, and a few times they’d go on for five or six months. It wasn’t like he planned on ending them, they just always did. When he looked at his brother and sisters, who’d been married for years and had kids, he wondered why he couldn’t be more like them. The reality was that he’d never been in love. After all the women he’d dated, the club girls he fucked, and the one-night stands he occasionally had between relationships, he’d never felt anything more than desire and lust. Sangre liked and respected the women he went out with, but the love thing just never happened. So, after a certain point—if what they had wasn’t going anywhere—that’d be when he took a hike. Yeah … it’s definitely me and not them. He pushed away from the window, picked up his keys, and headed out.
Two hours later he sat at the Trailside bar, a double shot of Jack in his hand and images of tears streaming down Skylar’s anguished face flitting across his mind. Each time he went through one of those scenes, he swore it would be the last, and then he’d find another woman and have some hope, but it always ended the same. It was like his love life was on a never-ending reel of the same story.
“So how’d it go?” Chains asked, sidling up to him.
Sangre slammed the drink back then shrugged. “Okay, I guess.” He motioned the bartender for another.
“It sucks, dude. That’s why I prefer going with the club women. They know the score, we have fun, and no one gets hurt. It’s a definite win-win.”
“Yeah. Did you come with Army and Brutus?”
Chains picked up his beer bottle. “Just Army. Brutus was occupied with Ruby.”
Sangre chuckled. “The band that’s on now isn’t bad. I’ve seen them before at Lion’s Lair. They’re local.”
“I’ve seen them too. The drummer’s the cousin of one of my friends. When does your band get on?”
“After this one.”
“Did I miss anything?” Army said, squeezing between Chains and Sangre.
“Nope.” Sangre scooted the barstool down a bit.
“Hey, dudes,” Skull said as he came toward the trio, two teenage girls straggling behind him.
“This is so cool,” the dark-haired girl said, snapping pictures with her phone.
“Go sit over there.” Skull pointed to a table not too far from the bar.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” she asked, her eyes scanning over Sangre’s face.
“Guys, this is my sister, Ella, and her friend, Zoe. Now both of you go sit at the table. I’ll bring you a couple of Cokes.”
Ella came closer to Sangre and pointed at his arms. “Cool tats.”
“Thanks.” He brought the shot glass to his lips.
“Who’s the one guarding Isla Rose?” she asked.
“Ella. Go over and sit down,” Skull said, giving her a little push.
“My company’s been hired to make sure she’s safe. I heard you’re a fan of the band,” Sangre said.
“I love, love, LOVE them!”
“Me too,” Zoe chirpped in, her curly hair bouncing around her shoulders as she moved in closer to Sangre.
“That’s cool. They’re coming on next,” he said.
“They’re headlining.” Ella looked over her shoulder at the stage. “Have you met Arsen yet?” Her brown eyes widened.
“I haven’t met any of them yet. I’m just checking out the music.” And seeing if anyone is acting weird or suspicious in the crowd.
“He’s the lead guitarist, and he’s so good. Way better than anyone out there.”
“For sure,” Zoe agreed.
“Better than Tony Iommi?” Sangre asked, a smile twitching on his lips.
“Who?” Ella asked.
“Is he in a local band?” Zoe said.
“Not only is he the Black Sabbath riff lord, he’s the founder of metal music.” Sangre turned to Skull. “How the fuck does your sister not know this?”
He held his hands up in front of him, laughing. “Don’t blame me. I’ve been on my own since I was eighteen. My mom’s favorite singer is Madonna. What can I say?” Sangre, Army, and Chains busted out laughing.
“Do you think you can introduce me—”
“Us,” Zoe chimed in.
Ella nodded. “Us to Arsen or Isla Rose?”
“Enough. I told you guys to go sit over there. Now go. We got shit to talk about.” Skull walked over to the table carrying two tall glasses in his hands.
“Please?” Ella whispered, her eyes darting from Sangre to Skull then back to Sangre.
“Sure. Why not? I’ll let you know when I can arrange it.”
Ella and Zoe squealed and grabbed each other’s arms as they jumped in place. “That’d be so cool. Thanks!”
“Yeah, thanks,” Zoe said as Ella tugged her toward the table.
Sangre chuckled and gestured the bartender for another shot.
“Thanks for making my sister and her goofy friend happy,” Skull said, leaning against the bar. Sangre lifted his chin and picked up his drink.
After the local band finished their set, excited chatter filled the room. He watched as roadies made sure the equipment was in the right places, and then people started filling in the area in front of the stage, their faces bathed in strained anticipation.
A lanky man in long hair, jeans, and an AC/DC T-shirt grabbed the microphone and asked
if everyone was having “a good fucking time.” The crowd cheered, whistled, and clapped. He paused dramatically then stretched out his arm. “Let’s give a big fucking hand to IRIS BLUE!” The crowd erupted, and Sangre saw Ella and Zoe right in front, pressing against the stage. The lights went off and a lone riff echoed through the venue, and then red, blue, and yellow lights flashed, revealing the band. The crowd went wild.
Sangre saw the back of a woman, who was bent over, microphone in hand, slowly straighten up while holding a note so strong and pure a hush fell over the audience. Then the lead and rhythm guitarists began playing, and she spun around, her long dark hair moving with her. Blue and red lights bounced off of her black sequined jeans as she swayed her hips in perfect rhythm to the beat of the song. He watched her, mesmerized by her movement and confidence. And then she sang. The sound of her voice was thick and sweet like warm honey dripping over him. It was intoxicating, and it captivated him completely. He couldn’t turn away from her, even when Army handed him a drink. It was like she was pulling him in, and her voice was the magnet.
Damn. In that moment, he realized this wasn’t going to be any ordinary job. There was something exhilarating, mysterious, sensuous, and … familiar about her. It was like he knew her, but he didn’t.
All that in a matter of minutes.
Fuck.
Chapter Two
There were at least four hundred people watching Isla Rose, bathed in blue and red lights, as she clutched the microphone and closed her eyes. Nerves were trying to take over her body, but instead, she focused on Arsen’s killer riffs, her heart keeping time with Benz’s drumming while she slowly lost herself in the music, in the performance.
It’d been almost seven months since Iris Blue performed live. The effervescence emanating from the fans breathed life into her; it was like liquid energy seeping right through her skin. I fucking miss this! Music pumped through her veins, and she dug deep down inside herself, seeking out the raw emotions needed for the song. The audience went wild. Their cheers, whistles, and screams were nourishment for not only her, but the other band members as well. She knew they’d missed performing just as much as she did. If she could only freeze-frame the enthusiasm, the love, the adulation during a performance, and live in it forever, her life would be perfect. For her, music was life and life was music, but it was all the other noise around her that played havoc with her nerves, her emotions—her soul.
Then Arsen was next to her, his fingers flying as he played scorching riffs and licks. Sweat streamed down his face as strands of his black, shaggy hair stuck to his forehead. The rhythm guitarist rushed over, and the two musicians made their instruments scream as they moved in perfect sync to the rhythm. Gage’s long brown hair flew around as he head-banged to Benz’s expert drumming. As Isla ramped her vocals up to blistering, the guitars blazed with fiery incandescence. Iris Blue was on fire, and Isla lost all sense of everything except for the music.
Two hours and three encores later, they stood together on the stage, arms linking around each other’s shoulders like a chain, as they absorbed the tsunami of applause rolling forward. As Isla raised her head, the spotlights’ bright glare blinded her. Breaking away from her bandmates, she placed her microphone on the stand then brought her hands together and bowed her head slightly. “Thank you all. You’re the best,” she breathed.
The stage went dark, and then the overhead lights came on as roadies scampered behind her, clearing off the equipment. She started to walk away when a female voice cried out, “We love you, Isla Rose. We love Iris Blue!” She turned around and saw two teenage girls pressed against the stage waving a CD at her.
“Do you have a pen?” she asked Benz as he stood at the back of the stage waiting for her.
“You don’t want to start autographing shit. We’ll be here all night.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, only a pen. Do you have one?”
He slowly walked over to her, the frown on his forehead deepening as several women squealed and clapped the closer he came to the front of the stage. “Here,” he gritted as he shoved a pen in her hand.
“You should sign the CD as well.” She smiled at the girls.
“Fuck that,” he whispered in her ear, waved at the dying crowd, and walked away.
He can be such a jerk! “What’s your name?” she asked one of the girls.
“Ella. I love your music so much. Arsen is the best guitarist ever. Is he still in the building?”
“I’m not sure.” He’s probably got his tongue halfway down the mouth of the stacked redhead who was ogling him during the show. She’d seen Kent, their manager, approach the woman before the end of their last song, and then she saw her walk with him through the crowd. “And what’s your name?” she asked the other girl.
“Zoe. I love all of you. Are you dating Benz?”
“Zoe!” Ella elbowed her side.
“What?” Zoe rubbed her ribs.
Isla shook her head. “It’s okay. The gossip rags love to talk about us. We’re just very close friends.”
“I think it’s so cool that you’re from Alina,” Ella’s voice burst with excitement as she looked at the signed CD.
“I have good memories from growing up here. We’ll probably do another show in town, so if you come, make sure you bring the CD, and I’ll have the rest of the band sign it.”
“Arsen too?” Isla nodded. A wide grin spread over Ella’s face. “You’re the best. That would be cool AF.”
“If I bring my CD, will you all sign it too?” Zoe asked.
“Sure. I better get going. I hope to see you at the next show.” She stepped back and turned to her right, and that’s when she saw him standing to the side of the stage, a bottle of beer in his hand. Mysterious. Masculine. Sexual. A modern-day James Dean dressed in tight jeans, a leather vest over a black T-shirt, and arms covered in tattoos. Dark-blond stubble shaded his chiseled jawline, and a silver eyebrow ring glimmered over a rounded brow. He lifted the bottle to his full lips and drank. The movement mesmerized her. Damn, he’s hot. He fixed his dazzling blue eyes on her, and she was breathless for a moment, unable to turn away from the intensity of his stare.
She should leave, go to the green room and pack up her things, but she couldn’t move; she was rooted to that one spot, watching him as static charges jumped through her body. What the hell’s the matter with me? It was insane, but this guy was putting her emotions in a twist. Enigmatic, rough around the edges, and hotter than hell, he was the type of man who would pull a woman in tight and most definitely end up breaking her heart. No fucking doubt about that.
“Isla?” Benz came over and grasped her elbow. “What the hell are you still doing out here?”
With her gaze still locked on the gorgeous man, she let Benz tug her to him, her back molding against his chest. Muscles deep inside her tightened as the sexy stranger leaned back on his boots, lit up a joint, and winked.
“Let’s go,” Benz said in her ear while he whirled her toward him then curled his arm around her shoulder.
Letting him lead her, she felt the hunk’s stare boring into her back. Before she stepped behind the curtain, she glanced behind her and caught his penetrating gaze as heat burned between her legs. Benz pulled her backstage, ending the most intense and short-lived moment she’d ever shared with a stranger.
“That was a fucking great show,” Benz said, wrapping both arms around her waist. “We need to get back on the circuit real fast. Rough Creek Records still wants us to sign on with them. I don’t want to blow the chance to get with a label.”
Rough Creek Records had been wooing them ever since the record company’s rep had seen Iris Blue perform at the Ohana Festival in Dana Point, California, seven months before. The band had been more than excited, and then she’d crashed. “A breakdown from nerves and exhaustion,” her doctor had said. Even though her bandmates hadn’t said much, she’d sensed their disappointment, anger, and frustration bubbling beneath the surface. It was a huge complim
ent that the record label was still interested in them after so many months of non-performance and her publicized meltdown. Now, the last thing she wanted was to fuck up an opportunity to sign on with them.
“I don’t want to miss the chance either. We’re almost done recording, and I’m sure Rough Creek will be happy with our new album. I think it’s our best one yet.” Isla pulled away from Benz.
For a split second, his gaze flashed with anger then dissipated so quickly that she thought she might have imagined it. “I agree. I told the rep we’d be done with it in a month or less. You know, we need to get back on the road after that. If we sign with them, we’ll be touring most of the year.”
Panic tangled around her nerves. “I know,” she said softly. “I just wish I’d stop getting those damn letters.”
Benz came over and tugged her to him, holding her close. “That’s why we need to blow this fucking town. You didn’t have any of this shit before you got here. I told you I didn’t trust small towns. There’s a reason why most horror movies are set in them. And there’s not a damn thing to do around here. How the fuck did you survive living here as long as you did?” He tilted her head back and leaned in, his gaze fixed on her mouth. She turned and pushed away from him. A frustrated sigh escaped his lips as he planted his fists on his hips and watched her, his brown eyes sparking. “What the fuck’s your problem?”
“I’m just tired.” An awkward pause ensued as Isla picked at the dry skin around her thumb, and Benz shifted from one foot to the other. She cleared her throat, crossing her arms over her chest. “It was great performing tonight.”
“It kicked ass! It felt fucking awesome to be back on stage,” Gage said, coming up to them.
Warmth spread through Isla. She loved how upbeat Gage was all the time—a direct opposite to Benz’s brooding moods, Arsen’s childish tantrums, and Jac’s one-word conversations. The band had lucked out when Gage answered the ad they’d placed for a rhythm guitarist the year before. At twenty-four, he was the youngest member, but he acted more mature than the other three guys combined.
