Where Lightning Strikes (Bleeding Stars #3)

by A. L. Jackson

  To me?

  Loyalty was absolute.

  There weren’t questions or exemptions or exclusions.

  Loyalty was the one unfailing moral I had. The one fucking thing I could count as good.

  I pressed my cell a little harder to my ear, gritting my damned teeth, and wished I was back two minutes in time so I could mess a little more with Red. Dig that knife in a little deeper. Watch her splutter and fumble. Swim in those barely contained waves of lust before those blue eyes became irate.

  Damn, I loved a girl who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind while her body told an entirely different story.

  That was the type of contradiction I craved. The push and pull. Hate bristling with want.

  Sex with Red would blow my mind. I was sure of it. Which I was pretty sure was why I couldn’t purge the idea of it from my thoughts. That girl was a bundle of fireworks, and I was certain we’d go boom.

  But no.

  Instead, I was talking to this asshole.

  “Already told you, this isn’t gonna happen. Not sure why you keep calling, because I assure you, Mr. Banik, it’s a waste of your time.” I spit his name as if tasting it was as nasty as this conversation made me feel, the Mr. lacking all the respect it normally imbued.

  “Just hear me out.”

  I released a dark chuckle. “I hear you just fine. Basically what I’m getting is your balls are actually big enough to make the suggestion I leave my band. That sound about right to you? You ever heard the word loyalty before, Mr. Banik? How about betrayal?”

  There it was. That word again.

  Loyalty.

  That’s what this was all about.

  My loyalty.

  Baz’s loyalty.

  My stomach tightened in a gnarled knot, dread and worry and staunch disbelief. I swallowed hard and he sighed, and I could just see the greasy piece of shit running his grimy hand over his bald head.

  “The only thing I’m suggesting is you look at your options.”

  Eric Banik, manager of Tokens of Time, had been hounding my ass for close to a month. He wanted me to step into the shoes of their lead who had gone and bailed. I was all too sure the three remaining members were desperate to add a name to their roster who’d propel them forward.

  “Those assholes should know exactly what it feels like for someone they trust to leave them high and dry. Put out an ad in the paper. Have fucking auditions. I don’t give a shit what you do. Find someone else.”

  Tokens of Time had opened for Sunder a couple times back in L.A., and their lead had up and deserted just when they were finally catching on. He’d signed on as some pussy solo artist, wearing his own damned name like he’d earned the right to parade it like a badge.

  “Your lead is getting married.” He said it like he was trying to knock some sense into me. Like the consequences of that was clear as day.

  “Sebastian is already married,” I shot back.

  “Married again or whatever the fuck they think they’re doing. Maybe the first time it was just a test run and this time it’s for real. But you know Sunder is as unstable as it’s ever been.”

  Sunder had survived a thousand controversies. Outlived a million rumors. Made it through jail sentences and overdoses and the death of our drummer, Mark, which had been one of the most painful, tragic losses any of us had ever experienced.

  We’d endured the bullshit Baz had gotten wrapped up in with Martin Jennings, an association that had gone deeper and darker than any of us had ever imagined.

  The rest of the band—me and Ash and Zee—we’d taken up Baz’s back during that time. Believed in him when everything around us was crumbling, our world tour cancelled, and the threat of our label dropping us hanging over our heads.

  We’d made it, and I had to believe Baz wouldn’t let us down now.

  My silence seemed to encourage Eric, and he continued, voice dipping in persuasion. “You’re exactly what we’re looking for, Lyrik. You’re talented and you don’t take shit from anyone. You have the vibe we need. You write the best damn lyrics we’ve ever heard and play the guitar like you were born with it. And look at you. You know as well as the rest of us you should be out in front. You need to lead. You’re too good to stand in the shadows.”

  Long ago I’d adopted the policy not to give a fuck.

  Shunning stress and worry and all the bullshit most people wore on their shoulders like some kind of burdened brand.

  Me? I shucked off the weight.

  Let’s be real. Approaching life with this view? It was a whole fucking ton less painful. Learned that shit the hard way.

  I had two exceptions to that rule.

  My family—my parents, my baby sister, and my niece.

  And Baz and the rest of the boys who made up the band.

  The few people in this world who I could count on to be loyal and I gave it in return. Guess you could say the guys had been grandfathered in. Granted a privileged spot in my shriveled, blackened heart before it’d been burned.

  “Don’t call me again.”

  I ended the call without another word and continued down the cobbled stones running in front of the aged buildings along the river walk.

  I rounded the corner and darted down the narrow lane, strolling along the shaded street before I bounded the exterior staircase cutting up the middle of the old craggy building. Taking them two at a time, I deposited myself on the small landing leading to the two apartments occupying the top floor, their doors situated directly across from the other with the landing in between.

  This secluded place sat right in the heart of the Historic District in Savannah, Georgia.

  Was lucky as shit to nab it, too. Knew it was rented out most of the time, short-term to tourists and drifters like me who were just passing through.

  My door was on the right, and I wiggled the key into the lock and let myself into my temporary home. It was a converted warehouse, now a trendy studio with exposed brick walls and high ceilings, a partition wall to section off the bedroom. Double French doors led out to a balcony I was guessing once upon a time had been a fire escape.

  I tossed the keys onto the little table sitting just inside and raked a hand through my hair, shaking off the conversation and allowing my thoughts to go traipsing back to the girl.

  God, that girl.

  My blood was still pulsin’ a little too hard for comfort, my dick all too eager to take a ride.

  When I flew in to Savannah yesterday, I knew I would see her. Knew she was going to torture me a little more. Problem was, every time she told me I couldn’t have her, the need she stirred in me just grew.

  The girl slung drinks at Charlie’s, the bar Shea, Baz’s wife, had worked at when they’d first met. The same bar Shea’s uncle Charlie owned. Every time I walked through the doors of that bar, a crazy feeling skimmed my veins, filling me full of some kind of foolish excitement I hadn’t felt in a long damned time.

  Didn’t know what came over me when she invaded my space. She was like a red-headed siren, circling and circling and circling me on unsettled waters until I was trapped in some kind of vortex. It instantly flipped a switch in me and my dick started doing the talking.

  And believe me, he was a dick.

  Guess he didn’t like being ignored. Shot down and rejected.

  Neither of us were used to that shit. I didn’t chase women. They chased me. Flocked in droves, really. And that wasn’t my dick talking again. It’s just the way it was. After a show, they were always there, doing their own circling, some acting coy and others’ advances blatantly clear. But they all wanted the same thing.

  Me.

  But not Red. Every advance I made? She pushed right back. Hard.

  It was no secret I loved women. Loved the way they smelled. Loved the way they tasted. Most of all, I loved the way they felt.

  But I didn’t love women.

  Loving someone was like volunteering for heartache and sorrow and a lifetime of bullshit.

  But I wanted one.
I wanted her.

  Tamar King.

  We had a love/hate relationship.

  I loved messing with her and she loved to hate me for it.

  Just once, I wanted her to let go. I wanted the girl to come at me with the brunt of all the hostility radiating from that white, snowy flesh that peeked out from behind the pretty tats twisting down her arms. Tats I had the intense need to lick.

  Yeah.

  The girl looked like the perfect sin.

  But there was something more. Something darker. Anger leached from her. The kind of anger that was real and not the angsty show all these other girls prancing around backstage liked to put on.

  For one night, I wanted her to give it to me. Fight it out with me. Hands and teeth and bodies. Right in my bed.

  My phone dinged and I glanced at the screen.

  Ash.

  You get Shea & Sebastian’s wedding gift, asshole?

  I tapped back a reply, grinning at one of my oldest friends who couldn’t stay serious for five seconds. Yep.

  Immediately it dinged. You impress me.

  I could feel his sarcasm woven in the words.

  Whatever, man. You’d forget your head without me.

  Keep telling yourself that. We all know I’m the brains of the bunch. See you at 10.

  I smiled and that same pulse of excitement vibrated through me. Nah, this little break wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  CHARLIE’S BUZZED AROUND ME. Lights were cast low and the music turned high. Bodies pressed up to the smooth, antique bar, vying to get my attention as I scrambled behind it, filling pitchers full of microbrews while simultaneously shaking up a couple Purple Lamborghinis.

  I slid the two martinis to the blondes commiserating their love-life woes over drinks at the end of the bar.

  “Here we go. Two Purple Lamborghinis. Watch yourselves. Those go down fast and ride you hard.”

  The woman on the right smiled wide. “Mmm…after the day I’ve had, fast and furious is exactly what I need. Keep them coming.”

  “Glad I could be of service.”

  “Hey, princess, how about another round of beers down here?” The same asshole who’d been eyeing me up and down all night shot me a smarmy smile. No doubt, it was supposed to melt my panties.

  Gross.

  My brow arched all on its own, tone going coy. I was getting good at this game. “Now…now… Do I look like a princess to you?”

  “Nah, baby cakes, you look like a wet dream.”

  Let me reiterate.

  Gross.

  So gross.

  And seriously, baby cakes?

  What a douchebag.

  You’d think after everything, I’d have picked a different work atmosphere. Away from men and sex and innuendo.

  Or maybe it wasn’t so strange after all.

  Maybe I’d ended up here because it drew them into the light, the blatant advances and trashy pick-up lines dealt every night. I was always prepared. Never caught unaware.

  “I’ll show you a wet dream. When I’m finished with you, you’ll be pissing in your sleep for the next month.” It was all a grumble under my breath as I filled three mugs for him and his two friends, who were, surprise, surprise, just as douchy as the first.

  “Easy now, sweetheart.” Charlie’s soothing voice came at me from behind. “I see someone’s feeling extra feisty tonight. Don’t need you chasing the customers out the door.”

  Charlie was the owner of Charlie’s, a bar boasting a prime spot on the river walk here in Savannah. It was super popular, packed night after night, people flocking in to unwind at the end of the day and watch the local bands. I’d been working here for the last four years, first working in the kitchen before I was old enough to be out front.

  He was also the owner of the apartment I’d been renting above one of his buildings for the same amount of time. The guy wore a ratty T-shirt and an even rattier gray beard, but not even all that facial hair could conceal the genuine smile peeking out from underneath. The guy was as good as they got.

  Charlie was all about the saving. Without a doubt, he’d saved me.

  He grinned when I looked back at him. “What has you on edge, sugar?”

  I hiked a nonchalant shoulder as I strutted past him toward the value-pack of douches leering at my approach. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  There was no holding back my sneer when I slid the assholes their beers.

  Charlie snickered when I spun around and passed back by. “You sure about that?”

  “Don’t go playin’ counselor, old man. I’m just fine.”

  One of his teasing chuckles rippled from him, and he shook his index finger at me. “I bet I know what has those knickers in a twist…you were out with Shea Bear this afternoon trying on your bridesmaid’s dress. Bet you can’t stand to put on a frilly dress for a day.”

  Shea and Sebastian had shocked us all when they’d gotten married in Las Vegas six months ago. They claimed that wedding was for them. This one? This one was to bring their friends and families together. A celebration of the life they were beginning together.

  I was completely honored she had asked me to stand up as one of her bridesmaids. Escaping to this town, I’d never expected to find friends. To find kind, selfless people whose friendships would grow to the point where I’d consider them family.

  So maybe Charlie was just glancing at the root of the problem. I actually didn’t mind the dress. In fact, I kind of loved it. Shea was having a country chic wedding, everything casual and flowy and pretty, just like her personality, and our rustic dresses were no exception.

  My problem was the asshole they’d paired me with. The guy I’d be walking the aisle with. The one I’d have to do that dreaded dance with.

  He was the one who had my panties in a twist—tangled and tied and snarled, among other things that had me wanting to scream in frustration.

  The one who evoked feelings I refused to feel. Things that made that brittle, fractured spot hidden away somewhere in my chest want to crack.

  And…shit.

  He was walking through the door.

  An electric current charged through the air, blistering as it traveled my skin. Tingles lifted in stark awareness and the breath punched from my lungs.

  Want.

  Need.

  Like the boy held the power to expose every weak spot in my armor.

  I hated he had this effect.

  But my body didn’t seem to take my hatred into consideration when my heart hammered and sped. My stomach knotted in anticipation.

  Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I forced myself to focus on the task at hand. I rimmed four shot glasses with salt, poured tequila across them, garnished them with wedges of lime, all the while being painfully distracted by the knowledge he stood in all his rock ‘n’ roll glory thirty feet away.

  The guys from Sunder, plus Shea, spilled in behind him.

  Charlie bumped his hip into mine. “Look it there, sugar. Shea and the rest of the wedding party just walked in.”

  As if I hadn’t noticed.

  “Why don’t you call it a night, hang out, blow off some steam? You should be with the rest of them rather than working your fingers to the bone the way you do for me night after night. I can handle the place.”

  Always the caretaker.

  I fought the grin pulling at one side of my mouth, shook my head as I went to work wiping down the counter that was already gleaming. “Now there you go worrying about me again, old man. I’m just fine behind this bar. Right where I belong.”

  Last thing I needed was to get in the mix of Lyrik and the rest of the guys.

  “Pssh.” He waved his hands at me, shooing me back. “Go on, girl. As much as you like to pretend you’re happy with being a loner, you’re just as much a part of that group as the rest of ’em. Besides, you know Shea’s gonna come dragging you out anyway, so you might as well give it up now.”

  “Tamar.” And there she was, calling my
name.

  “What’d I tell you?” Charlie said, lips twitching beneath his scraggly beard.

  I tossed down the rag. “Fine.” I pointed a warning finger at him as I backed away. “But I’m not calling it a night. One drink, and I’m back to work.”

  “Whatever you say, sugar. We all know who’s the boss around here.”

  Charlie’s was housed in one of the old cotton warehouses, the rafters in the high ceilings still exposed, the wooden walls aged to a near black from the years of smoke and bodies and a century of hidden mystery.

  I strutted to the far end of the bar that took up the middle of the massive room, the ornate, carved mahogany the focus of Charlie’s. My back was to the front door, and I used the time to prepare myself to come face to face with Lyrik West.

  I knew it was crazy. Complete inane craziness. How I was terrified to face the man simply for the way he made me feel. For the way he made me want and desire and question all the promises I’d made myself.

  Worst was being aware he enjoyed getting to me so much.

  I knew it as well as he did.

  He was playing me. Winding me up like a toy.

  He’d get off on watching me spin, spin, spin, until I teetered and tottered and toppled. Used up and spent.

  Cruel.

  I was pretty sure that was the definition of Lyrik West.

  I ducked under the small opening at the end, passing by the country band setting up on stage, and headed back toward the entrance.

  There I was, pacing in the direction of the man my every cell repelled and attracted.

  A chill slid through my senses. A premonition. A warning that magnetism was greater than any resistance.

  Like an aurora of dancing, captivating lights that turned out to be nothing but a black hole.

  Consuming life and light.

  Those near-black eyes caught mine, almost stopping me in my tracks as they glimmered with that same dark mischief, as if at any moment he would strike.

  Reach out and take me in his grips.

  Devour and destroy and desolate.

  Refusing to cave, I lifted my chin in challenge. I just prayed he didn’t see the way it trembled.