Lie to Me (Rising Star Book 1)

by Lee Piper

  Reid lowers his head. “Breathe.”

  The combination of his proximity and the Arctic blizzard centralized on the back of my neck somehow cuts through the chaos. Slowly, so slowly, my mind grows clear.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice is a whisper.

  “For what?”

  “For everything. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  Reid removes the cold object from my heated skin, disentangles his fingers from my hair, and steps back. I’m fine with the empty space between us. Perfectly fine. “You’re three years too late.”

  “I know.” Running a hand over my face, I try to collect my thoughts. “We were so good together. I should never have run out on you like I did. You deserved better than that. It’s just…” My traitorous voice catches. I stop, blinking furiously. “I couldn’t stay. Not after…” A lone tear trickles down my cheek.

  “Here.” He holds up a frosty bottle of beer.

  Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I smile. “So that’s your torture weapon of choice.”

  Reid smirks as I take the proffered drink. After twisting off the bottle cap, I flick it into the nearby dumpster and drink.

  And drink.

  And drink.

  Hell, I guzzle the entire beer as though it’s ambrosia poured by Hebe herself. My gaze remains fixed on Reid as his gray eyes darken from ash to charcoal. When I’ve drained the last of the bottle, I lick my lips and hiccup.

  “Thanks.” I attempt to give it back, but he ignores my outstretched hand.

  “Better?” There’s a gravelly edge to his voice that wasn’t there a minute ago. My hardened nipples are well aware of the fact.

  Scanning my body, I’m shocked to find I am feeling better. My heart rate is under control, my breathing is normal. Even the sheen of sweat is gone. To the casual observer, I would appear worlds apart from the crazed woman who stumbled outside in the midst of a panic attack.

  Oh. Shit.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  Reid gives me a long look. “A while.”

  I curse under my breath.

  The service entrance door swings open and Tobias’s head peers around the corner. His gaze darts between Reid and me, his expression frantic. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. We’re on in five minutes.” I turn to Reid, but Tobias calls, “Shiloh, there’s no time. Let’s go.”

  Giving Reid a small smile, I follow my friend.

  When I finally catch up with him, he shakes his head, refusing to meet my eyes. “Shiloh—”

  “Don’t say a word.”

  “But—”

  “Not one word, Tobias. Swear to God, I’m not above telling your girlfriend about the time you cried while watching a period drama.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Grabbing his shirt sleeve, I force him to stop and face me. “Wouldn’t I?”

  He narrows his eyes but remains silent. Now if only I could get my stupid heart to do the same.

  “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.” Willow takes a sip of her caramel latte, eyebrows raised over the rim of her cup.

  I bury my face in my hands. “It was a disaster. Think the Titanic with no life rafts.”

  She swallows, chokes, and coughs.

  “I fucked up the first verse, forgot part of the second, and wanted to hang myself with the mic lead by the third.” Peeking through my fingers, I wail, “What the fuck is wrong with me? I used to carve it up on stage, you know? I’d have the audience eating out of my palm.” My hands drop to the table. “Thank God my voice held true.”

  “That it did. Despite everything, your vocal range was un-freaking-believable. None of the other contestants have come close this week.” My friend places her beverage on the wooden table. “Look, you had a rough night. Every musician goes through this at some point in their career.”

  “Does every musician trip over a foldback speaker and head-butt their bass guitarist?”

  Her bow-shaped lips quirk up at the corner. She clears her throat. “So you had a little stumble. From the footage I saw, you picked yourself up and kept going. Determination and perseverance are qualities to be proud of. The voters will love you for it.”

  I shake my head, my long hair falling about my shoulders. “There’s no glazing this metaphorical doughnut. My performance last night sucked. Big time. Like, it was proportionate to NASA’s thermal vacuum test chamber.” Dropping my eyes, I mutter, “Stupid phobia.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gazing out the window of the café, I watch the aquamarine Pacific Ocean lap the golden shoreline. Living in Bayside, California, has its perks, no doubt about it. I try to find solace in the rhythm, in the certainty of the current as it advances then retreats again. It’s no use. My masochistic mind flashes back to the night before.

  As soon as I stepped up to the mic stand and looked out at the audience, I was doomed. I wanted to tell my phobia to get fucked; I wanted to laugh in its face and prove it had no hold on me. Didn’t it know my soul needed to purge all the hurt? But it was useless. Fear overtook my body and I could barely formulate words, let alone sing them. The boys did their best to cover for me. We had longer instrumental sections and Jasper stood closer than normal, meaning I could sing to him rather than the squillions of people watching us.

  I shake my head. “It was the most embarrassing three and a half minutes of my life. As soon as the song ended, I ran off stage and have been avoiding the boys ever since. I’m screwed.”

  “You’re not screwed.”

  “I’m so unbelievably screwed.”

  Willow leans back in her chair. “Dramatic much?” The sunlight catches her auburn hair, giving her a flaming halo. She considers me for a moment, her jade eyes mischievous. “If it makes you feel any better, one time I went to stand on Reid’s bass drum, overbalanced, and fell, face first, into his lap. The headstock of my guitar smacked him on the side of the head and knocked him unconscious.”

  My mouth drops open. “You’re kidding?”

  She giggles. “Sadly, no.”

  There’s nothing else for it—I throw my head back and laugh. And laugh. And laugh. “Holy fuck, that’s brilliant.”

  My pity party is officially canceled as tears stream unchecked down my cheeks. Once I’ve got my amusement under control, I wipe them away, grinning.

  “Thankfully, he got a concussion, so he doesn’t remember anything.”

  “And you never told him your face got up close and personal with his junk?”

  She shakes her head. “God, no!” Then she pushes her bangs out of her eyes. “As hot as the guy is, I’ve known him too long to think of him as anything other than an overprotective older brother.”

  “Who gets knocked out by his guitarist during a gig.”

  “Exactly.”

  We smile at each other and I squeeze her hand. “Thank you.”

  She squeezes me back. “You’re welcome. So did you make it through to the third round?”

  I exhale. “We’ll find out at the end of the week, after the other acts have performed.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Hang on, you should know this. Your band is in the competition too, remember?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t go to the meeting.”

  Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. But then I think back and realize she’s right, she wasn’t at the meeting.

  Willow takes another sip of her coffee, not in the least perturbed by her nonattendance. “I figure Reid will fill me in on the important details.”

  Shaking my head, I murmur, “You sneaky bitch.”

  She winks, taking another sip of coffee. “It’s the quiet ones you need to watch.” Placing her cup on the table, she glances out the window. “Is that Reid?”

  “Where?” Forget one, my heart skips five beats.

  “There.” She points at a lone figure jogging along the coastal promenade.

  I can’t see much on account of being blinded by lust, but if the broad shoulders are anyth
ing to go by, it’s him.

  “He must be mentally preparing for tonight,” she muses.

  I glance at the time on my phone. “Shit. That reminds me, I promised myself I would write some lyrics before work.” Scrambling to collect my slouchy bag crammed full of essentials, I give her a hasty hug. “Sorry to run. Good luck!”

  “Thanks, girl. We’ll chat later.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  After sprinting across the road to the empty basketball court, I drop my bag near the chain-link fence and take out my notebook and pen. I drop the notebook on the asphalt before shoving the pen behind my ear. Then I retrieve my soccer ball. It’s ancient, the logos and insignia long since faded, but I couldn’t care less. Backing up a few steps, I place it by my feet and pause.

  Chink.

  The soccer ball connects with the wire mesh and rolls back to me.

  Chink.

  I kick the ball again, gradually building the tempo until it becomes a four-four beat. Like always, the rhythm jumpstarts my musical mojo and a melody forms in my head. While kicking the ball, I hum, and before long, words flow in the form of a verse. Puffing, I repeat the verse over and over, altering a word here, a phrase there, playing with the structure until I’m happy with it.

  “Sweet.”

  I jog to my notebook, pull the pen from behind my ear, and write. Once done, I drop the book on the ground, shove the pen back where it was, and return to my ball, beginning the process again.

  When I finish the second verse, I give a triumphant shimmy complete with spirit fingers. Finally, a song that speaks the truth. One that embodies the difficulties I’ve faced. It’s an ode to kicking ass, to spitting in the face of fear. It’s freaking brilliant.

  Spinning around, I stop dead. “No!”

  Racing to Reid, I snatch my open notebook from his slimy, grasping, thieving hands. My head reminds me they’re actually really attractive hands, but indignation tells my head to shut the fuck up.

  “What the hell?” The book is clutched tight to my chest. “You can’t go around stealing a girl’s song lyrics without so much as an, ‘I’m gonna steal your song lyrics.’”

  “You’re writing a song?” Looking confused, he yanks the notebook from my grasp and opens it once again.

  My gaze darts from my empty fingers to his perplexed face. I move to take the book back, but Reid holds it out of my reach. Since the top of my head barely reaches his collarbone, there’s no way I can grab it. Not that that stops me from trying.

  I jump, huffing. “Yes, I’m writing a song.” Huff. “We have to write a new one every week.” Huff. “Remember?” Huff. “Or did you miss that information at the meeting?”

  He stills, his eyes fixed on me. “I didn’t miss anything at the meeting.”

  I falter.

  Reid blinks, looking past me. “So this is how you write song lyrics?” He takes in the basketball court running parallel with the beach and comes to rest on my dilapidated soccer ball. “By kicking that piece of shit around?”

  I plant my hands on my hips, glaring at him. “Do I look like a conventional girl to you?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  My glare is epic.

  Reid’s stoic gaze slowly travels the length of my body. Despite vacillating between wanting to eye gouge and mount him, I manage to remain motionless.

  His voice is soft. “You always were a firecracker.”

  And there go my panties.

  Were we talking? Was it my turn to speak? I shake my head. “Look.” After clearing my throat, I try again. “Look, I tried the whole acoustic-guitar-and-song-lyrics combo, but it didn’t end well. All I got to show for it were calluses, a blank page, and an inexplicable need to deck someone.”

  Reid blinks.

  I grit my teeth, gesturing to the notebook. “That shit’s personal. You don’t see me charging into your room and snooping through your privates, so get your hands off my—”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  I gasp. Then attempt to back pedal. “Now, when I say privates, I don’t mean your, you know.” God help me, I point at his cock. “Not that your dick wouldn’t be a welcome surprise for any horny bounty hunter, because uncovering that”—I do it again—“in the middle of an expedition would be like finding the Holy Grail.”

  Words. So many stupid words.

  “I mean, I’ve only seen it once and the memory still…” I shake my head, equal parts confused and shocked at where this one-sided verbal cataclysm is heading. “Anyway, what I mean to say is, your cock is safe with me.”

  Fuck my life.

  “Did you just say my cock is safe with you?”

  Clearing my throat, I wonder what body part I could sacrifice in exchange for amnesia. A big toe maybe? My right earlobe? Now is not the time to be picky. “Apparently so.”

  “I trusted you once. I sure as fuck won’t be making the same mistake again.”

  Ouch.

  Even though Reid’s dislike for me is well-warranted, the rebuke still hurts. And the worst part? My eyes don’t give a shit. Instead, they focus on what they believe to be the crucial issue here. Reid isn’t wearing a shirt.

  Reid. Is. Not. Wearing. A. Goddamn. Shirt.

  This is a code blue situation.

  My brain aborts mission. “Why are you half naked?”

  “What?”

  I gesture to his inked shoulders, defined pecs, chiseled abs, and indented V leading to the waistband of his basketball shorts. “You’re half naked. Why?”

  I am not picturing his erect penis. I am not.

  “I was running. It helps to clear my head before a show.”

  Sweet baby Gabriel, one of his nipples is pierced. I lick suddenly dry lips. “You’re, ah, competing tonight?”

  “We are.” He opens my notebook while I try not to ovulate. “‘I’ve climbed up mountains, give me your landslide’?” Reid raises one eyebrow. One condescending eyebrow.

  A bucket of cold water couldn’t have done a better job at extinguishing my lust.

  “Have you got a problem with my lyrics, Tate?”

  “They’re shit.”

  I gasp. “You’re shit.”

  Reid shakes his head, disappointed. “Darlin’, let me give you some advice.”

  “Whoa.” I hold up both hands. “We might have grown up together, but you’ve barely spoken ten words to me in three years. Why the hell would I listen to your advice?”

  Reid places his index finger on my lips, silencing me. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to bite it. Or lick it.

  “Firstly,” he begins, “what you’ve written won’t work using a four-four beat. And secondly, you’re lying.”

  A muffled noise escapes me, but I’m ignored.

  “You haven’t climbed up mountains and sure as fuck can’t conquer landslides.”

  Rolling my eyes, I swat his hand away. “The song is metaphorical, genius. It’s not meant to be taken literally.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Oh.”

  Looking away, I ponder Reid’s criticisms. In all fairness, he’s an exceptional musician, so his issue with timing is justified. However, his gripe over my word choices? I nibble my bottom lip. It doesn’t make sense. I want this new song to be about overcoming fear, about triumphing despite insurmountable obstacles. This is my life, it’s what I’m experiencing right now. What the hell is wrong with writing about empowerment?

  “Look, I’ve got a lot going on at the moment.”

  “Your lyrics are bullshit.”

  I reel back as though struck. “What in the ever-loving fuck—”

  “It’s time for you to be honest with yourself,” Reid continues, as though he hasn’t pierced me in the heart with an acid-encrusted bayonet. “You’re not climbing mountains. You’re hiding in their fucking shadows.”

  Taking a decided step forward, I poke him in the pec, refusing to be waylaid by how good it feels. “You’re officially on my shit list, Tate. Where do you get off on crit
icising my work, huh? You don’t know me anymore. If I want to write a song about mountains, I’ll fucking write about mountains. If I want to write a song about goats crapping rainbows while dancing with gold-plated leprechauns, then I’ll do that too. And do you wanna know why?”

  I step forward again, watching his pupils dilate when my breasts crush against his bare chest. But he’s too close, it’s all too much, so I step back again.

  “I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you, your ridiculous body.” My hands clench into fists. “It’s not enough to hate me for what I did, you also had to go and win the entire genetic lottery, didn’t you?” His eyes give nothing away, which makes me even angrier. “Are you a fucking cyborg or some shit?” I throw my hands into the air. “You know what? I’m done. I’m out of here.”

  Turning, I attempt to storm away, only Reid grasps my wrist, pulling me back to his chest. I’m crushed against his body, and his godforsaken woodsy spice plays havoc on my knees. My legs almost give out as anger-fueled lust courses through my limbs.

  Reid and I? We’re a lethal combination.

  “Tell me, darlin’,” he challenges, his gaze traveling from my parted mouth to my hooded eyes and back again. “Why are you wasting your time writing songs about euphemistic bullshit?”

  Oh fuck no.

  I try to wrench myself away, but his grip is unrelenting. “Well?”

  A red mist descends. “Because life is hard! And writing about losing people you love is like rummaging around a gaping wound with a shard of broken glass. It fucking hurts, okay? Life. Fucking. Hurts.”

  Reid’s gaze gentles. “There she is.”

  I blink. “What?”

  He wraps his hand around my throat, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. “Can you feel this?” Reid’s voice is low, deep, and I supress a shiver. “Your blood pumping, your heart screaming, your insides on fucking fire?”

  God, yes.

  “That’s your truth, darlin’. All of it. The pain, the hurt, the fear. You owe it to yourself and you owe it to your band to write what’s real.”