My Heart's Blood (Hard Love & Dark Rock #1)

by Ashley Grace

  The conversation we'd had in the hotel room—when Joey had come to bring me to the suite for the pre-show party—came back to me.

  "Are you serious?" I said. "You're thinking about that now? After what just happened with Sara?"

  "Yes, I'm thinking about that now! If anything, Sara's little breakdown makes the topic even more pertinent."

  "Are you for real? How in the world did what just happened in that green room make me picking up a groupie more of a good idea?"

  He gave me an incredulous look. "You really don't get it, do you?"

  "Get what?"

  Joey shook his head. "Did Sara not just admit that every time she sees you, she thinks of Lucy?"

  Another twinge of sorrow and guilt cut through me. "Yeah, she did," I said, looking away.

  "And why do you think that is?"

  "Because her sister died in my arms, you ass!"

  Joey's face went dark, and for a second he looked like he was about to hit me.

  "God damn it, Trace. Sometimes you're so fucking stupid you make me want to smack you upside the head. I mean, Christ! My old stepdad used to kick my ass every week, and I always thought he was just a psychotic asshole, but spending time with you gives me a hint of the frustration he must have felt. It's like you refuse to see the bigger picture!"

  I felt my own cheeks growing warm, rage starting to bubble just beneath the numbness.

  "Well, Joey. How 'bout you enlighten me, then? Since I'm too dense to see it on my own."

  "Fine," he said. He put a hand on my shoulder, looked me straight in the eye. "When she looks at you, Sara thinks of Lucy. But it's not just because Lucy OD'ed while she was with you. It's also because you haven't been with anyone else since then."

  "And how—"

  The words caught in my throat. For a moment I felt almost unsteady, as if the earth were shifting under my feet.

  "Wait. What?"

  "Trace, you're a moody, sensitive son of a bitch. You tend to dwell on things, to wallow in whatever emotional pit you stumble into. And you get totally sucked into relationships, too, emotionally immersing yourself in whatever person you're with, until you start to think that it's the person themselves who inspire those emotions. Like they're a drug, and you can't get your fix without them. You still with me?"

  I nodded my head, feeling too stunned to actually say anything.

  "Sara looks at you, and she thinks about Lucy. It's because you're a walking monument to Lucy's death. All this counseling and medication and moping around and writing these fucking depressing, one-word songs—it's all keeping you stuck right there, with Lucy dying in your arms."

  He shook his head.

  "It's like Bernstein said, dwelling on tragedy just makes it worse. Lucy's dead, man. That's not something you can fix, no matter how much time and energy to spend dwelling on it. The only thing you can do is move on. And until you do that, it's not just yourself that's suffering from it. I mean, it's fucking you up plenty good, sure—but it's killing Sara."

  "Jesus," I said. "Jesus Christ." My mind was whirling. I felt like I'd just been given a piece of a puzzle that changed my view of the whole thing.

  I looked up the hall, at Sara and Sergio and Micah, waiting at the staircase that lead up onto the stage. Bernstein's voice came booming through the club speakers, the crowd roaring in response.

  "So, for my sake and the band's sake and your own sake, but also for Sara's sake…" Joey looked me in the eye, his hand squeezing my shoulder. "Are you gonna play hide the sausage with that busty brunette in the front row, or what?"

  The image of the brown-eyed girl came back to me, vivid and clear in my mind's eye.

  "I mean, she's totally your type—short and curvy, with that innocent, deer-in-the-headlights look. Plus she's got a wild-looking friend who I might like for myself."

  "Well, I guess she did catch my eye."

  "Caught your eye? Come on! You've been staring at her tits all night, you pervert. You gonna hit that, or what?"

  "I guess I'm willing, Joey. If she is."

  Up by the stairs, Micah and Sergio were looking back at us, waving for us to catch up. Bernstein's voice blared over the speakers, and the crowd roared in response.

  "Well, you've got to make her feel willing, Trace" Joey said, throwing his arm over my shoulder and dragging me toward the stage. "We've had enough of the mopey, emo artist. It's time to channel your sexy rock-star alter-ego. You've got to get this girl creaming in her shorts, man! And then she'll be throwing herself at you after the show."

  We started up the stairs, the crowd's cheer still like rolling thunder, so loud you could feel it in your bones. I felt my heart quickening, my will growing focused.

  "Time to turn it up, Trace," Joey shouted. "And I know just the fucking song, man!"

  He leaned in toward Micah, shouting something in his ear.

  And then the band was striding out across the stage, and the crowd was going nuts.

  Chapter 17

  Anne

  Becca was right about the band coming back out. That's not the only thing she was right about, either, but I better not get ahead of myself.

  About ten minutes after the crowd had started chanting, right around when they were reaching a state of near-pandemonium, the potbellied guy with the comb-over walked up to the stage.

  What was his name again? Bernstein?

  Anyway, he picked up the mike that Trace had dropped, and he raised it to his face. The soundman hadn't turned the volume back up yet, so Bernstein waved the mike around over his head. There was a little squeal of feedback, and then Bernstein brought the mike back to his lips and started talking.

  "How's everybody doing tonight?" he said, his brassy voice booming through the club.

  The crowd roared in response.

  "You guys want more Belletrists?"

  The crowd roared again, even louder.

  "Couldn't quite hear you. Did you say you want more?"

  Another roar, so loud it practically made the walls shake. It went on and on, as if they were trying to blow the little bald guy right over.

  "All right! That's what I'm talking about. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for the Belletrists!"

  Bernstein set the mike back in its stand and hustled off the stage as the air erupted in roars all around me. It was so loud I could practically feel it in my bones. And then the band came out, Joey Jones first, running across the front of the stage with his hand up waving, and then circling back to his drum kit. Sergio and Micah and even Sara came back up next, Sergio helping Sara set up her fallen keyboard, Micah plucking out a very familiar guitar intro.

  I looked over at Becca with a huge grin on my face. She was screaming her head off, so loud I could hardly hear the keyboard come in beneath the guitar.

  They were playing the start of "Sexcats."

  Trace strode up on the stage, jerking the mike loose from the stand. He'd toweled off a little, but he hadn't put a shirt on, and his broad chest swelled with heaving breaths. He prowled up to the front of the stage, his body shouting sex with every swaggering move, his eyes hunting through the crowd.

  And then his eyes found me, and my heart nearly stopped.

  Trace stretched a long, muscular arm out, his finger pointing at me, his eyes narrowed and fierce.

  "Why don't you come a little closer," he said, his voice deep and pervasive, filling the entire room. His hand turned over, and the pointing finger beckoned. "Why don't you join me on the stage."

  A blaze of heat raced through me, tingling between my legs.

  Becca was screaming in my ear, practically trying to throw me over the barricade. "Get up there get up there go go go move!"

  And then Kevin was there, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the stage, his eyebrow raised to make it a question.

  I nodded my head 'yes,' feeling lightheaded and dizzy, my heart thundering.

  He caught hold of my waist with his enormous hands, lifting me out of the crowd as if I hardly weighed a thing�
��I felt like I was flying. He turned and set me on my butt on the edge of the stage. Trace was there above me—closer than he'd been when I opened the green room door—reaching down a hand, his eyes dark and deep and passionate. Gorgeous eyes, I could have got lost in them.

  I reached my hand up for his, feeling like everything was moving in slow motion, feeling like I was in a dream. When our hands touched, I swear I felt a spark of energy flashing between us. It made goose bumps stand up on my arms. But in my core, I was blazing.

  Trace drew me to my feet, his hand firm on mine, his arm strong and muscular, seeming to lift me as easily as Kevin's had.

  He put my hand on his naked chest, the skin so hot it felt like he had a fire inside. And then his hand let go of mine, slipping down around my waist, pulling me hard against his leg. Just like that, I wanted him so bad I could barely breathe. And I felt so aroused, so hot and wet, that I worried he'd feel it through his jeans.

  If he did, he must have liked it. He leaned a little closer, looming over me, his dark eyes staring deep into mine. The band finished the song's intro, Joey throwing a roll as they switched to the first verse. The screaming of the crowd seemed to fade away, and Trace started to sing the lyrics, his voice a low growl.

  You're the one that I want

  You're the one that I crave

  I wanna make you beg and plead

  To misbehave

  'Cause you're the one that I want

  And you're the one that I need

  The one that I've got to get inside

  Before my heart bleeds

  You're the one that I want

  Don't even try to tease

  I want to treat you like my queen

  Down on your knees

  You're the one that I want

  So don't act like that

  Don't even try to be coy,

  you know that you're my toy

  You're my sexcat

  The guitarist ripped into a solo, every note searing hot, slicing through the air.

  Trace's dark eyes went from my eyes to my lips. The corner of his mouth curled up in a wicked half-smile, baring his canines.

  And then he leaned in and kissed me.

  For a moment, that kiss was my whole world. The feel of his lips, soft and full against mine. The alluring taste of his mouth, almost sweet like champagne, but spiced with a hint of something else, mysterious and carnal. My own lips parted, and I felt his tongue slipping forward to touch against my own, sending a thrilling shiver down through me, to sparkle and tingle between my thighs.

  My ears filled with the pulsing rush of my blood, my heart racing. I felt my muscles clench, low down.

  Trace broke the kiss, still holding me, his arm strong and firm around my back. He looked into my eyes again, and started singing the next verse.

  I was so close to him that I could hear his voice directly from his mouth, before it came through the speakers.

  He held me close throughout the song, looking into my eyes, singing as if the words were meant for me. When the song ended, and the crowd's cheers came in almost louder than the music had been, Trace kissed me again, harder and hungrier than the first time. It left me gasping, aching with desire.

  He leaned in, his stubble brushing against my cheek, his lips touching my ear lobe, making me shiver.

  "Will you come back to the hotel with me?" he said.

  My breath seemed to catch in my throat. I couldn't speak. I just nodded my head up and down, my hands clutching at his hips, almost afraid my legs would collapse if he let me go.

  "Great," he said, his eyes lighting up, a smile stretching across his face. "Wait up here on stage, okay? You'll get a good view from the wings."

  He guided me over to the side of the stage, my legs so wobbly that I nearly stumbled. I felt like I was in a daze.

  We passed by the drumset, and Joey Jones gave us a smile and a thumbs up. That sparked a thought in my mind, jolting me out of my daze just a little. I glanced back at the crowd.

  "My friend Becca," I said. "I don't want to leave her."

  The crowd looked like a sea of faces, so many people packed in so close that I couldn't spot her, and it made me wonder how Trace had spotted me.

  "We'll find her," Trace said. "She can come, too."

  I nodded my head.

  Trace brought me up to the short, potbellied guy who'd spoke at the mike just before the band had re-taken the stage.

  "This is Bernstein," Trace said. "He's our manager."

  "Hello, ketzileh," he said, taking my hand and kissing my cheek. "What's your name?"

  "Anne."

  "Lovely to meet you, Anne." He had a broad smile on his face, but his eyes looked thoughtful.

  "Bernstein, Anne and her friend are coming back to the hotel with us."

  He nodded, his smile unchanged.

  A wavering organ began to play, Sara Sounding starting another song. Sergio Rodriguez took up the melody, his bass reinforcing the root notes. I recognized it—"The Spirit Within"—and felt a little rush of excitement. It was one of my favorite songs.

  Trace kissed me again—a quick peck compared to the first two kisses—and then turned to the crowd.

  For a moment I felt awkward and alone, standing next to the manager at the side of the stage, a storm of emotions running through me. And then Trace started singing again, his voice clear and strong, and I felt my worries dropping away, and excitement taking their place.

  Trace LeBeau had kissed me. And after the show was over, I was going home with him.

  Chapter 18

  Trace

  My god, the taste of her lips was glory. The feel of her body against mine, the smell of her hair, the richness of her brown eyes—glory.

  For a moment I wanted nothing more than to end the show and take her back to the hotel. I wanted nothing more than the taste of her lips, the feel of her body, the touch of her bare skin against my own. I wanted nothing more than more of her.

  I’d hardly even thought of being with a woman for nearly a year. And now, there was nothing in the world I wanted so much. It was like a year's worth of longing had been stacked up, stockpiled like gunpowder, and the kiss was a spark in the barrel.

  But the sound of Sara's keyboards called to me, the pulse of Sergio's bass reinforcing those plaintive keys. They'd started on the intro to "The Spirit Within"—one of our first hits, recorded back when we still weren't even old enough to come into a club like this one. The melody was resonant with yearning and agitation, a perfect emotional tone to what I was feeling.

  I thought of the forgotten set list, feeling sure that this song hadn't been planned until later. Sara had started it now, had picked this song for whatever reason, and if she wanted to play it I owed it to her, and to the band, to play my part.

  I kissed the girl, Anne, one last time—only daring a brief touch of the lips for fear I'd be drawn back in—and then hurried toward the front of the stage where I'd left my guitar. I lifted the guitar by its neck, threw the strap over my shoulder, snatched a pick off the mike stand, and started to play.

  We dove into that song, went after it like a pack of wolves taking down a wounded elk—all deadly grace and savagery. I hadn't felt more emotionally in tune with the song in years, and I felt myself being drawn deeper and deeper into it as we played, abandoning myself to the lyrics. I sang the last verse with my eyes shut tight, completely immersed in the song, oblivious to everything else.

  No sooner had the last chord been struck, Micah started picking out the lead-in to "Cry Havok." I opened my eyes, remembering where I was, noticing the burning in my throat and the slick sweat coating my skin. Just a moment to reorient myself to the world, to take a gulp of reality, and then I dove back into the music, plunging into the depths.

  There's something magical about playing in a band, about locking into sync with a group of people so that what you do is a perfectly blended part of a larger whole. When it's right, it's transcendent, better than any drug-induced high. It makes you f
eel like you're not just one with the band, and not just one with the crowd, but that your one with the entire universe.

  That's how I felt that night—completely in sync with the band and the music, completely free from the loneliness and despair that had been lurking beneath my surface-level barrenness. We went from song to song, never bothering with the prescribed order from the set list, all of us following some higher order, knowing what each other would do before they did it.

  It was cathartic in the truest sense of the word.

  And after we'd finished all of our hits—after we'd rocked that crowd all the way down to their marrow, until they were just as sweaty and exhausted as we were—we hustled off stage, embracing each other, smiling and laughing and smacking each other's backs. Even Sara had a grin on her face, the haunted look temporarily absent from her eyes.

  The crowd's cheers pulled us back on stage, their voices loud enough to raise the roof. Instead of delving into our list of b-sides, we performed a cover of The Cure's "Lovesong". And when the last verse ended and the instruments went quiet, I lead the audience in singing the key line to that song, repeating it again and again until it became a chant, a mantra, a credo for us all:

  I will always love you

  I will always love you

  I will always love you

  I will always love you.

  Things were a blur after that, all of us riding a collective wave of exhilaration.

  Anne's friend—the girl I'd seen waving her panties in the front row, the same girl who'd exited the green room just before we'd entered it—had made her way to the stage wing. We stumbled down the hallway, laughing and yelling.

  Somebody handed me a towel and a shirt, and I dried myself off and dragged the shirt on over my head, feeling the chill now that I'd left the crowded main hall. I put my arm around Anne, and the feel of her body against my side, the swell of her hip and the press of her breast when I pulled her close, kept my spirit soaring, exultant.

  There were people in the hallway, lining the walls like a gauntlet we had to pass through, all of them with plastic-covered backstage passes hanging around their necks. I recognized the Rolling Stone photographer from earlier, working with a new lens, but I hardly paid any of them any attention. I wanted to get out of that hallway, out of that club.