LIMELIGHT
An NSB Novel By
Alyson Santos
Cover Design by Era Media Co.
Copyright © 2018 Alyson Santos
All Rights Reserved
Not for distribution or resale.
LIMELIGHT CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I: FEUD
2: FREEDOM
3: ENGLEWOOD
4: BUZZ-CHASING
5: NOT WORTH THE PAIN
6: REGRETS
7: TRAITORS
8: CONFESSIONS
9: JONAS
10: DAYLIGHT MUGGING
11: MEMORIES
12: WINTER FEST
13: JANE
14: CANDLELIGHT
15: THE TUNNEL
16: REUNIONS
17: GINA
18: A PIECE OF HELL
19: RUNNING
20: AGITATOR
21: HEA
22: WEDDING BAND
23: VIRAL
24: DECISIONS
25: GETTING IT BACK
26: SMOTHER
27: VOIDS
28: PHILADELPHIA
29: STEPS AND LEAPS
EPILOGUE
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ORIGINAL LIMELIGHT MUSIC
More NSB
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This novel is a work of fiction and intended for mature readers. Events and persons depicted are of a fictional nature and use language, make choices, and face situations inappropriate for younger readers.
Names, characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
PROLOGUE
Limelight. Right, let's put the elephant in the room out of its misery. How many ways can we say overrated? Yep, frontman Jesse Everett is easy on the eye. And I reckon his voice could be a contribution to the musical landscape of our time, but that means bugger all if you can't handle your own gift. Amid rumours of drug abuse, including one "alleged" incident on their last tour where Mr Everett was found zonked out cold on the streets of Newark, it's no wonder this once up-and-coming band will only ever be a could-have-been, two-hit-wonder flop for mega-label SauerStreet Records. The proof is in the pudding, Limelight. Let's not dress this up. A local garage band does not a stadium band make.
Sorry Jesse, wasted talent is the name of the game when you play with the big boys. Time to dust off that old CV, mate. Your "limelight" has officially dimmed.
Burgers anyone?
You heard it here first—Mila Taylor, over and out.
I: FEUD
Overhyped. Exaggerated. Overestimated. There are your fucking synonyms, Mila fucking Taylor. Shit.
I drop my phone on the mattress and throw an arm over my face. What do I even care anymore? SauerStreet was going to drop us anyway. All she’s done is validate their betrayal.
“Mila Taylor is one of the most influential music bloggers in the industry. While her opinion is certainly not the leading factor in this decision, it illustrates the challenges… blah, blah, blah.”
I stopped listening at that point. Why can’t anyone ever say what they fucking mean? Just say it, assholes: You’re a piece of shit failure not worth the paper that contract was printed on. There. Was that so hard?
You’re. Done.
A cold draft skims over my chest as I stare at the water-stained ceiling of my bedroom. Muffled voices drift through the crack under the door, and I’m sure the guys are discussing the “news.” Whispering because, after twenty-three years of fighting for survival, they still think I’m too fragile for life. It’s Parker’s fault. The dude suffers from Big Brother Syndrome. It’s why I love him and want to lay him out at the same time. I’ll always be eleven years old to that guy.
“I can you hear you!” I call from my mattress.
The mumbling fades into footsteps, and sure enough, my brother’s mop of blond hair pokes through the doorway. “You okay, bro?”
“Fucking brilliant. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“She’s a bitch. That post was bullshit.”
“Does it matter when you have a hundred million followers?”
“Damn, she has a hundred million followers?” Derrick, ever the insightful one.
“I don’t know, dude,” I groan, “I’m making a point.”
Parker silences Derrick’s follow-up with a glare. “We’ll find another label,” he says to me.
“Is that even what we want?” My question leaves two stunned faces in its wake. Seriously? One big tour and they’re ready to sell out again. “You really want some bastards in a boardroom telling us how to do our music? We hated it.”
“Jess, I get why you’re upset, but let’s wait a few days to decide what’s next.” Big Bro, always lobbying to be the voice of reason. You’d think he’d give up after twenty-three years of me ignoring it.
“Do we have any food?” I push myself up for a better view of the disaster that is my room. I’m surprised Parker hasn’t gone through it with a blowtorch yet. Roaches, mice, fucking ferrets—I don’t know what he fears. Ever since we reached the promised land of Philly’s Mt. Airy neighborhood he’s become a freaking menace.
“Still some pizza left.” Reece. I hadn’t even noticed him in the hallway.
“Nah, let’s grab something at Benson’s,” Parker says, eyeing me like a cornered suspect. Even big bro can’t tell if my sudden hunger comes from the need for food or a subject change. I nod and launch a long stretch to prove how much I don’t care about any of this bullshit.
Derrick slings a pair of jeans at me. “Dude, put some clothes on.”
“Dude, stop checking me out.”
“He can’t help it. Those abs!” Reece snickers.
“Fuck off,” I say, tugging on my jeans. I’m fishing through a pile of clothes for a shirt when Parker shrieks.
“Shit! You responded?”
I cast a dark look. “She deserved it.”
“That’s 101-level, Jess! You don’t respond to criticism. Dammit!”
He turns his phone so the rest of the band can share in his horror.
Hey @MilaTaylorRocks, thanks for the burger invite but insecure pretenders who rip others apart for cash aren’t my type. #getarealjob
Hey @JesseEverett99, that’s great because I’m not into immature whiny children. #soreloser #enjoythebarcircuit
Their eyes tell me they’re not thrilled I picked a fight with one of the top bloggers in the biz.
“She’s going to bury you, dude. What the hell were you thinking?”
“What’s she gonna do? Get me fired? Oh wait.”
I flip them off on my way to the bathroom.
“How about make sure you never get signed again?” Parker barks after me. He’s pissed. He should be. I fucked up his life too.
For fifteen years it was Parker and Jesse. Through seven foster homes, who knows how many shitty couches, hungry stomachs, black eyes, and shattered hearts, it was always the two of us against the world. We had each other’s backs because we learned early on that no one else did. We learned not to hope. That life is cruel, unforgiving, and no one gives a damn about your sob-story. At least, I thought we did. Parker wears optimism like a bullet-proof vest.
The bathroom door swings open to reveal my brother’s anger. “I’m not buying it.”
“What the hell, dude? A little privacy?”
“Cut the shit. You care. I know you do. You’ve bled for this band. You sold your soul to get us that deal with SauerStreet. I know it’s killing you that they trashed you without a second thought.”
He blurs through my narrowed eyes before I turn them bac
k to the mirror. I look like a man who hasn’t slept in days. A washed-up wannabe rocker who can’t admit he cares because once that floodgate opens… I splash water on my face to mask the evidence.
“What that chick said was brutal,” he continues, tone soft like compassion actually fixes shit. “It wasn’t right, and it sure as fuck wasn’t true. You’re amazing, Jess. You know that. You have something special, and we’re going to figure out how to share it with the world.”
“Yeah? Gonna be hard to do that flipping burgers.”
Parker knows better than to respond. There’s no getting through to me today. Probably never on this particular subject.
I wipe a towel over my face. “Are we getting food or what?”
∞∞∞
Overrated. Garage band wasted.
I balance on the edge of my bed, eyes clenched shut in the darkness.
Talent-jaded. Faded. Hated.
Other voices clash outside my window. The neighbors’ never-ending conflict pounds against the pane, and I strain to focus on their shouts. Sometimes they can drown out the ones in my head.
Wasted. Wasted. Overrated.
“You slept with her, you asshole!”
“I didn’t!”
“Then who’s skanky bra is…”
Failure sated, grated, inflated.
I grip my hair to cover my ears, but that only strengthens the internal screams.
FAILURE. HATED. OBLITERATED.
Two AM. Hours left for my brain to torture me. I suck in air and shuffle to the window, savoring the icy pricks that stab my forehead when I lean against the glass.
Told you so. Told you NO. Garage band hopeless. Choke us. Break it off. Break it off.
“Break it off with her!”
“I told you, there’s nothing to break off!”
“Oh really? How about if I call her right now, huh? Should I call her?”
“Go ahead, whore!”
“It’s all right in the candlelight…”
The lyrics slip from my lips in a low hum, January frost soothing burning flesh.
“Whore? Oh, I’m the whore?”
“Not bright enough to see my scars...”
“You heard me! What about that bastard from the gym?”
“Who… Frankie? Ha!”
“Just another night in the candlelight.” My pulse eases beneath the soothing whisper of verse. “Just enough to fight, hold tight. It’ll be all right.”
My eyes tremble from holding their ground.
“It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”
The song is just a brush of air in the stale darkness now.
“It’ll be all right.”
I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around my legs. Head on my knees, I find sleep for the hours left until I can call Natasha.
∞∞∞
Chipping paint billows in the wind, swirls in a gorgeous swatch of blue tints. My lips twist into contentment at the soothing rhythm of my bedroom ceiling. Each color practically sings in choreographed perfection. Such a contrast to the horror of the night.
“Ocean tile, welcome home, you beautiful thrust of life.”
“What’s that, babe? Are you singing?” Warm fingers trace my bare chest in demanding streaks. The blaze moves lower, stronger. Natasha wants payment for the good stuff.
“This shit is amazing. You get it from DJ?” Peace. Freedom.
My goddess nods, red lip summoning as she sucks it between her teeth and climbs on top of me. Her knees lock around my hips as she leans in, and my hand reaches into her hair on autopilot. I shove her hungry mouth into mine. Currency for my beautiful high.
Her groans activate my body as she rocks against me. Slow at first, grinding deep with each wave of desire. I want to contribute. She’s earned it. If I can just find that damn ceiling again. I squint past her arching chest for a glimpse of blue perfection.
“Ocean bliss, endless kiss of soul-renewing—”
She grips my face and centers it on hers. “Are you seriously getting off to your ceiling instead of me right now?”
“It’s so incredible. Once-in-a-lifetime, you know?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I can multi-task.”
“You better,” she mutters against my mouth. “If you want to see your sexy ceiling again.”
∞∞∞
Natasha is gone when I wake up. So is my ocean ceiling. I’m still naked and only vaguely remember our time together. I hope we were safe. Pretty sure, and I feel better when I spot the condom in the trash. I run my hand through my hair to keep it out of my face as I search for clothes. After sliding on a pair of gym shorts, I make my way to the kitchen to soothe my throbbing head.
Parker is at the table with coffee and his disapproving you got high again look. He’s learned not to comment. Besides, the alternative isn’t exactly pretty.
“Yeah, yeah. I got a new song idea from it though.” I fish a mug out of the sink and give it a quick rinse.
“That right?” I swear the dude is twice his age the way he sips his beverage and peers over his laptop at me. All he’s missing are drugstore readers sliding down his perfectly straight nose. I have the same nose—from our mother’s side we’re told. Honestly, it’s the only thing we share. His head is covered by a thick layer of short, sandy hair. Mine is dark, wavy, and just long enough to tuck behind my ears when I’m concentrating. Parker says I have a natural profound look. Don’t know what that means, but it’s nicer than most of the shit he’s called me over the years.
“Yeah. Working title is ‘Ocean Ceiling.’”
His middle-aged accountant expression tightens further. “For real?”
“You’ll see.”
“Right. Let me guess. It’s about getting high?”
“At least I wasn’t trash-talking bloggers. What are you doing anyway?”
“Trying to book us some gigs.”
My hand tightens on the mug handle as I suck back shock in a hard swallow. “Booking gigs? Why? Barry dropped us too?”
His look confirms it, and my perfect ocean ceiling starts to collapse around me.
“He called last night. Said he needs to reduce his artist list.”
“By one Philly-based alternative band, I’m guessing.”
“We were going to tell you. We just wanted to give you time to process the whole Mila thing.”
“Oh, it’s fucking processed.”
Big Brother Stare Down means he’s freaked I’m going to do something stupid. I’ve earned that signature pose.
“What? I haven’t even touched my phone since yesterday.” Doesn’t seem to appease him.
“We’ll find a new manager,” he says because that’s so easy when Mila Taylor hates your guts. “Until then, we can do this ourselves. We’ve been here before.”
“Well, minus the fact that we’re failed has-beens now.”
“Really, man? That’s how we’re playing this?”
I shrug and dump way too much booze in my coffee for eleven in the morning.
“Oh and breakfast drinking now too? Great.”
“Most important meal of the day.”
Even Vinegar Face pinches a smile at that. “Whatever. Just stay off your phone. No more revenge posts.”
“Me? Never.”
I don’t tell him it’s way too late for that.
∞∞∞
My Dearest Mila,
I woke up this morning with thoughts of you on my mind. Thoughts like, “wow, thinking about that woman feels damn close to a bad hangover or food poisoning.” How’s your day going? Ruin any other careers with your bullshit? Feast on any kitten and baby brains? Hey, is it hard taking a shit on that self-righteous throne of yours?
Forever yours,
Burger Chef Jesse Everett
* * * * *
Dear Burger Prince,
I'm so flattered that I'm the subject of daydreams for a D-list legend like you. To answer your question, I like my kitten brains grilled, no on
ions, and extra mustard. I'll have chips with that. As for the throne, you're the expert on producing shite.
Much love,
MT
I smirk and follow the link to her site. The profile picture is a shadow with sultry eyes that scream queen-of-sass—a penetrating stare I feel throughout my body. I tear my gaze away. Has to be fake. Mila Taylor is probably a sixty-year-old man who lives on a couch with a laptop balanced on his potbelly. Miles Taylor, I bet. And he’s bald, missing four teeth, permanent cheese curl stain on his fingers. Only friend is Junior, his golden retriever. No wait, toy poodle. Yeah.
Hey, Miles Taylor. Fuck you. One day I’ll be running you out of town.
My phone interrupts my throw-down with no one, and I sigh at the caller. Luke Craven: the one person on my automatic answer list.
“Hey, Jess. How you holding up?”
There’s no point in playing games with an industry legend like him. I learned that hard and fast on our joint tour when he rescued me from the now-infamous Newark fiasco.
I shut the door to my room and fall back on the bed. “Fucking sucks, dude.”
“Yeah, I bet. Mila Taylor, huh?”
“Shredded me.”
“How did the Label take it?”
“They’re dropping us.”
“Fuck. You serious?”
“Our manager too.”
“No way.”
“He’s downsizing.”
“Right.” I hear the sarcasm in his voice. “What are you going to do?”
“Shit, dude, I don’t know. Maybe I should flip burgers like Mila suggested.”
“Mila. She had plenty to say about me too. You can’t let it get to you.”
“Yeah, is that what you did?”
“Hell no. She came at me two months after Elena’s death. That’s what sent me into hiding.”
Limelight (NSB Book 4) Page 1
