by Katia Rose
They’ve left me speechless before, but this is something else. Sherbrooke Station could split a mountain in half with their music tonight. I let myself get lost in the moment for the rest of the show, screaming along with the crowd as the guys come back out for their encore.
Ace starts picking a tune on his guitar that makes something in my chest lurch, but I can’t quite make out what he’s playing yet. Matt gets up from his drum kit and walks over to the mic JP uses for backup vocals. People are shouting so loudly it takes him a few tries before he can even make himself heard.
“Okay, settle down, settle down. Just give me one fucking minute, you crazy motherfuckers.”
His voice is hoarse with both exhaustion and exhilaration.
“Thanks for coming out tonight. This show has been...” He swallows down some heady emotion. “This show has been better than we ever thought it could be. This last song, well, it’s for a girl.”
The hoots of the audience are deafening. Matt waves at them to calm down.
“I said one fucking minute. Jesus, you guys are wild tonight. I love it. Anyways, yeah, we’re playing this one for a girl. I think she’s here tonight, so I just want to say thank you to her. From all of us. And...I’m sorry. From me. I owe you like ten thousand French vanillas.”
I’ve never passed out before, but this must be what it feels like when you’re about to faint. I put a hand over my heart and focus on breathing until the room stops spinning. Ace keeps playing that same riff over and over again, but the name of the song doesn’t hit me until Cole joins in with the bass line and Matt picks up his part on the drums.
They’re playing ‘Everlong.’
The crowd goes nuts when they recognize it too. Cell phones wave in time to the music as people swing them in arcs over their heads. Dave Grohl’s lyrics take on an inevitable edge of forlornness as Ace rasps them out in his dark and brooding voice, but all I can focus on is Matt thrashing away on his kit at the back of the stage.
Suddenly the only thing that matters in the entire world is being near him.
I wait until most of the crowd has thinned after the show before I pull the backstage pass out of my bag and fasten the laminate around my neck. I’ve done a few interviews here before, so I know how to make my way to where I’m hoping I’ll find the band, or someone who can take me to them.
Riggers and sound technicians in huge pairs of headphones are everywhere, scrambling around like insects. Except for a few sidelong glances at my laminate, no one has any time to question why I’m prowling around like a stalker. I catch the scent of melted cheese and cardboard that always accompanies delivery pizza. Rounding a corner, I find Sherbrooke Station and the opening band huddled around a table covered with pizza boxes. Matt’s got his back to me, but JP winks when he spots me and taps him on the shoulder before nodding my way.
Matt turns around, still working on a mouthful of pizza with his slice held up in front of him.
I can’t help the smile that breaks out across my face, so wide it feels like its tugging my cheeks apart. His piece of pizza falls to the floor.
That seems to alert the rest of the guys that something is up. They all start smirking when they notice me. JP leads them in a round of applause that prompts Matt to tell him to fuck off. He grabs a napkin off the table and wipes it over his mouth before crossing the distance between us in two huge strides and taking hold of my arm.
Neither of us speaks until he’s pulled me into an alcove on the side of the stage, the folds of a huge curtain suspended from the ceiling keeping us mostly hidden from view.
“Kay.” He cups his face in both my hands. “Kay.”
I laugh, partly out of amusement and partly because of how nervous I feel when I notice the intensity in his eyes.
“Yep, that’s my name.”
“Kay, I... Look, we have a lot to say to each other. I have apologies and explanations to make. I have things to tell you, and I’m sure you have things to tell me, but the truth is I don’t want to do any of that right now. Also, my ears are still ringing and I don’t think I could properly hear you if we did. What I mean is, Kay, what I mean is...”
He trails off, like his words can’t keep up with the energy I feel racing through him. His tongue darts between his lips as he looks at mine.
“What I mean is that right now, I just want you to know, it’s you and me. If you want me, I’m yours. For as long as you’ll have me. I want you, Kay. You and me.”
I reach up and wrap my hands around his where they’re still cradling my cheekbones.
“You and me,” I echo.
His mouth finds mine, and I don’t even care that there’s still pizza sauce on his breath. It’s the best fucking kiss of my life.
After our make-out session gets so intense we nearly bring the curtains down, Matt and I agree to save it for later and head back to see the band. I straighten my shirt and pat my hair down before stepping into view, but we’re still met with a chorus of wolf whistles.
“We should get some champagne!”
The shout comes from a teenaged kid I didn’t notice before. He’s got a shade of sandy hair I recognize right away, paired with a typical lanky adolescent build and a black t-shirt and jeans ensemble that could have come right out of Matt’s closet.
“This is my brother, Kyle,” Matt introduces him, “who is not going to be drinking any alcohol today.”
“I’m Kay.” I offer Kyle my hand. “Matt’s told me about you.”
He shakes it and gives me a smile that I know is going to be as dangerous as Matt’s one day.
“Likewise. Only, he left out some choice details when he told me about you.”
Matt smacks him on the back of the head. “Behave! Or I’ll make you hang out with Mom and Dad instead.”
“I’m kidding!” Kyle protests. He lets go of my hand. “Matt says you’re a music journalist. I’ve actually got some questions about what that’s like. Maybe we could talk later?”
I tell him I’d love to, and I mean it. Just when I thought my heart couldn’t get any more full of admiration for Matt, he had to go all Adorable Big Brother on me. I watch him ruffle Kyle’s hair, and the two of them do some sort of secret handshake that’s cuter than a basket full of puppies.
JP shuffles over and gives Kyle a fist bump.
“This kid is all right, you know,” he tells Matt. “You should have him around more often.”
“JP says he’s going to show me his homemade beer funnel.” Kyle’s almost bouncing up and down at the thought.
Matt rolls his eyes. “This is exactly why I don’t have you around.”
Cole and Ace join the conversation after that.
“So you two”—Ace gestures between Matt and I—“are a thing now? For real?”
Matt looks to me for guidance. I can’t read Ace’s expression right now, but I don’t hesitate when I tell him he’s right.
To my surprise, he smiles. It’s a real smile, not one of the sarcastic smirks or ominous grins I’ve seen him make before.
“Good.” He claps Matt on the shoulder. I nearly stumble over myself in shock when he does the same to me. “I don’t know if anyone will ever deserve this guy, but I’ll let you give it a shot.”
“Hey, Kay,” Cole adds, his hands in his pockets, “when Matt said the ‘thank you’ was from all of us, he meant it. Your article was good, and everything’s square between you and the band.”
Matt’s arm circles my waist and I lean into him. I don’t even feel the urge to blush when he plants a kiss on my hairline and all the guys hoot.
This is exactly where I want to be right now. I’m not alone anymore, and for the first time in my life, that doesn’t scare me at all.
“So,” Kyle prompts, as the group falls silent for a moment, “champagne?”
22 On Top of the World || Imagine Dragons
KAY
I roll out of bed late one Sunday morning to find a message from Matt, asking me if I have a passport. I’m still ru
bbing sleep out of my eyes as I text back to say that I do. I try to work out what time zone he’s in, but my brain needs breakfast or at least a cup of coffee before it can handle any math.
Was last night’s show Berlin or Brussels?
I can’t even keep up with what country he’s in anymore.
He’s done a good job at checking in with me in the two months he’s been away, better than I even expected. I was willing to give him some space and maybe put off actually getting together until the Euro-Tour wrapped up, but he wouldn’t have it. Since the night of the Metropolis show, I’ve been an Official Sherbrooke Station Girlfriend.
I also threatened to kick Matt in the nuts when he tried calling me that.
I have time to brush my teeth and pop a bagel in the toaster before his reply pings on my phone.
Good. I didn’t even think to ask before I bought the tickets.
“Tickets?” I shout, one hand clutching a tub of cream cheese.
I don’t have a chance to ask what he means before an email forwarded from Air Canada pops up on my screen. I open the message and scan through the details.
He bought me a flight to London.
I press the video call button and hope that if I glare at my phone hard enough he’ll pick up. After some weird crackling noises, the glitchy black dots jumping around on the screen morph into the shape of his pixilated face.
“Guten tag!” he exclaims
So it was Berlin. I don’t offer him a good morning in reply.
“Matt, you can’t afford to fly me to London.”
“Correct,” he answers cheerfully, “but I’m doing it anyways. I want you to come see us play. It’s our biggest venue on the tour.”
He looks so excited I can’t stay mad, but I do my best at pretending.
“I do have a job, you know. I can’t just leave the country whenever I feel like it.”
“Tell Marie-France you’re writing another story about us. You can put it in the international news section.”
“No offence, Matt, but I don’t think I’m ever writing a story about you guys again.”
She won’t like the idea, but now that I think about it, I probably could score at least a few days off from Marie-France. The spike in distribution my article got for La Gare convinced the Powers That Be to give her an extension for turning the paper around, as well as permission to hire a bunch of digital media specialists. We’re expanding our web presence and might even start producing videos, which, by La Gare standards, is like jumping light years into the future.
Marie-France wanted to promote me to assistant editor, but I turned the offer down. I’ve been looking for a spot at a magazine again, something music or at least arts related. Working on the Sherbrooke Station article reminded me how much I miss really putting time into my stories. I’m done with having to scrounge around for something new every day. I want to go deeper than that with my work.
“Salut, Kay!”
JP’s face appears in front of Matt’s. From the background noise and the way they keep bumping up and down, I can tell they’re on the tour bus.
“Salut, JP. Ҫa va?”
“Ouais. Am I interrupting your hot phone sex? You can keep going if you want.”
I shake my head. “You pervert.”
Matt shoves him out of the frame.
“You will come though, right?”
“I can probably get the time off,” I admit, “but I’ll have to spend half the trip working on articles to make up for it.”
He grins. “And the other half screwing me senseless?”
JP’s distant bark of laughter comes through my speaker. “I knew you were having phone sex!”
“Go away, JP!”
Matt picks up a chip bag and throws it towards where I assume JP is standing.
“How is everything?” I ask, once he’s focused back on me. “Really?”
He filled me in on everything that went down with Atlas and Shayla. She doesn’t seem to hold any grudges toward the band. Things are still kind of tense between them, but Matt says he checks in with her from time to time, and apparently her management business is still doing well.
The situation with Atlas is a different story. They’re at a stalemate over absolutely everything from who’s going to take over as manager to when production on the next album’s going to start. It seems like now that Shayla’s been pushed out, Atlas has taken the opportunity to tighten their grip and try to walk all over the band.
Matt’s trying not to let it bother him too much. He told me that even though they’re tied down for another two albums, he thinks Sherbrooke Station can use that time to their advantage. At the end of the day, Atlas is still a huge label who can open a lot of doors.
All the drama has prompted the guys to get more serious about their career. Matt admitted none of them really understood their contracts before, but they now have weekly band meetings to strategize and check in on where they’re headed. After the Metropolis show, Ace announced that he wouldn’t be drinking during the European tour, and so far he’s kept his word. There’s no neat bow tying up all their loose ends right now, but they’re far from being the bickering amateurs on the verge of a breakdown I first interviewed in that tiny office in Ottawa.
“Truth be told,” Matt answers me, “for the first time in a long time, I can honestly say I don’t see anything being able to stop us.”
Passing through UK customs is terrifying. I don’t think I’ve ever been grilled that hard by a border agent before, but after the iron-faced lady behind the desk has gone over every detail of my landing card with me twice and squinted at my passport one final time, I’m finally free to enter England.
My tiny suitcase makes a clicking sound every time the wheels pass over a gap in the floor tiles. The crowd ahead of me surges towards a set of glass doors, and I let myself get swept up among the eager travellers about to burst into the arrivals terminal.
At first, I don’t see him. The metal railing just beyond the doors has people pressed up against every inch of it, and he’s not in the first row. I strain my eyes even farther and that’s when I notice the guy in a black t-shirt leaning up against the back wall.
He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, dark ink marking the dips and swells of his muscles. One of his feet is propped lazily against the wall, and I can tell from the blank expression on his face he hasn’t spotted me yet. People have to swerve to avoid me, but for a moment I just stop and stare at him. A weird but comforting kind of possession stirs in my chest. This man is mine.
He’s at least twenty feet away, and still everything about him draws me in: the clothes he wears, the way he stands—even the air around him seems like it’s pulsing with some kind of beat, like he radiates the rarest of rhythms and I can’t help but move in time.
Eventually my stillness draws his attention and he pushes off from the wall, jogging towards one of the gaps in the railing as he shouts at me and waves.
The first time we met he was calling my name in a crowd. I now know his voice is a sound I’ll always answer to.
“Hey,” he greets me, once I’ve stepped around the barrier and we’re finally face to face.
“Hey.”
I move closer. His arm wraps around my waist. I lock my hands behind his head and wait for the pressure of his mouth on mine. He hovers just an inch away from me and I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips.
“You and me, right?” he murmurs.
I close my eyes and nod. “You and me.”
Acknowledgments
As usual, my thanks goes first and foremost to you, the reader. It is truly a source of honour and amazement to me that you’ve devoted some of your precious reading time to an indie author. I hope this book has brought you even a fraction of the joy I feel knowing you’ve read it. I am beyond grateful for your support and very happy with this whole author/reader relationship we’ve got going on. Could we make this a long term thing, maybe? ;)
A very well-deserved thank
you must also be given to the dozens of ARC readers and bloggers who have supported ‘Your Rhythm’ leading up to its release. It still a-frickin-mazes me that I get to be a part of the wonderful world that is the romance novel community, and I owe SO MUCH to the assistance and encouragement of the amazing individuals I’m surrounded by every day. I’m mostly surrounded in the virtual sense, but still, I FEEL THE LOVE. I hope to continue to have my world rocked by you all, and I hope you know just how valued you are by each and every author you work with. You’re what makes this whole indie romance thing work!
Up next on the thank you train are all my incredible beta readers: Emma, Ashley, Natalia, Gigi, Danielle, Madeline, Amber, Laura, and Charmaine...plus a little last minute help from Cat. Goodness, there are a lot of you! Your input and opinions on the manuscript were invaluable in making it what it is today. Thank you for your tireless efforts and for bearing with me when I conveniently chose to forget not everyone speaks French. You all have such inspiring and unique voices, and it was a pleasure to work together.
Extra special thanks to Eva, my home girl forever, who knows a thing or two about romance novels and whose encouragement means the world to me.
And no, I didn’t forget you, you goober. I love you oodles of noodles. I love you enough to publicly say that I love you oodles of noodles. Thanks for always being there.
About the Author
Katia Rose is not much of a Pina Colada person, but she does like getting caught in the rain. She prefers her romance served steamy with a side of smart, and is a sucker for quirky characters. A habit of jetting off to distant countries means she’s rarely in one place for very long, but she calls the frigid northland that is Canada home.
www.katiarose.com
