Ryker is the lead singer of the chart-topping band Exoneration. Cassidy didn’t know much more than that they played music in the rock genre, she was too busy to enjoy listening to music nowadays as it is. Ryker is famous in his own right and finds himself fin the tabloids more than their mother cares for, but somehow the press hadn’t discovered that the two were siblings. They didn’t resemble each other and both kept their identities close to the vest. Ryker also went by the name Ryker James keeping their last name Connelly hidden in the shadows.
Everleigh: Bye sis. Congrats again on the show!
Stretching her smile wider than she could imagine Cassidy tosses her phone back on the table and glances up to the deep corner of the bar to gaze at the television across the way and her eyes collide with a pair of snug and worn black jeans encasing a pair of strong legs and what Cassidy would call the most magnificent backside she had ever witnessed. Guiding her highs upwards her tongue lodges itself on the roof of her mouth as she watches the tight muscles of the mystery man’s back bunch beneath his tight deep red t-shirt as he lifts a beer bottle to his lips. Cassidy tries to swallow, to do anything to rid her mouth of its present dryness, but nothing works.
As if feeling eyes on him the man places his bottle back on the bar counter top and turns around slowly, assessingly, appraising each person as he scrutinizes them. Cassidy’s eyes are glued to him, she can do little to tear them away as if they are magnets and he’s the center drawing them in. He’s a force Cassidy is unable to fight against.
With eyes still pinned to him she hopes, prays that he passes over her in her small booth as she wills herself to tuck closer into the corner. Her prayers are unanswered as his gaze meets hers and restrains her body. She wants to smile, wants to cry, run away, hide, tuck away, any option will do, but instead she sits stock-still held captive by his eyes.
They stare at each other for seconds, minutes, hours; time is idle. Finally, allowing her to break free from his hold he turns to speak to the waitress just as she walks out of the kitchen holding a basket with what looks like Cassidy’s order.
Though the lighting is dim Cassidy can make out the dark man’s handsome features: strong jaw line covered by a hint of stubble, cheekbones most women would kill for, and though he wears a ball cap similar to hers it does little to hide the bright sea green eyes hidden beneath his dark brows and the shadow of the brim. His arms are large, strong, and covered in colorful tattoos she finds herself wanting to explore.
She watches as he smiles at the waitress and the woman practically fans herself as she hands the basket to him. As he retrieves the basket from her grasp Cassidy isn’t sure but she assumes he must have winked at the inexperienced woman because a bright blush spreads across the woman’s ashen cheeks bringing some much needed color to her features. Her eyes duck down and she peers at the man as she nods in agreement.
As the male embodiment of perfection, in Cassidy’s opinion, turns his body in her direction she feels her chest tighten and her fingers begin to quiver against her thigh as the inexplicable pull between them strengthens. At first Cassidy believes the feeling is one-sided, but as he approaches her isolated paradise she notices his step falter slightly when their gazes meet fully. Unable to explain how, Cassidy feels herself sit up straighter in her spot, her muscles and limbs moving of their own accord, but she never breaks eye contact. Not even when he stands before her and places the basket of warm gooeyness covered starch perfection on the middle of the table. Not even when he rests his balled up fists on the edge of the table and leans closer to her body. Not when his masculine scent pierces through the smoke and infiltrates her lungs. Or when he licks his lips showcasing the glint of a barbell punctured through his tongue. No, Cassidy finds herself frozen in place, locked in his stare, her body willing to succumb to his every whim and desire.
It’s only as his deep and gravelly voice cloaks itself around her tightly, securely, and drifts down her skin in a softness like a rose petal caressing her. Cassidy’s skin erupts in goose bumps and she feels tingling deep in her belly as a moan disguised as a gasp escapes her at his simple yet powerful words.
“Damn, you are exquisite.”
ARLAN WANTS NOTHING MORE than to stay in the studio playing his guitar. It was his dream, his passion, and he truly loses himself in the music and rifts. Every note bleeds into his skin until he feels the composition deep within his soul. Music is any and everything to him and no one can convince him otherwise, much to his father’s dismay.
He formed his band Exoneration when he met Ryker at a gas station in North Carolina as he was traveling through making his way to Nashville, Tennessee. He had heard the guy belting an Avenged Sevenfold song as he pumped gas and was taken aback by the kids talent. They had talked and Ryker agreed to join him on his trip to Nashville with a simple “good luck” from his parents on the phone. Harlan hadn’t told him how jealous he had been that Ryker’s parents were completely on board with their son exploring his talent at the age of seventeen, but you win some and you lose some. Harlan had just lost the parent lottery it seemed.
In Nashville they had met up with two guys Harlan had known through his father’s connections and after finding their way through a few jam sessions he knew that it clicked. Ryker was their missing piece. They had played a few local shows and, by the grace of God, they were signed to a deal six months later.
The past four years had been grueling and the rest of the band wanted, needed, a break, but Harlan didn’t know what to do with idle time. So he found himself at the studio the last few weeks writing songs and laying down demos for the band when they got together before their upcoming tour.
This tour was going to be epic and Harlan had a hard time holding in his excitement even though he was supposed to be the member of the band that was calm, cool, and collected. But they were headliners and it was turning out to be everything Harlan had imagined.
Today as Harlan laid down the last track for a new song he had written last night he sighed; his time is up. The producer on the opposite side of the glass knocks on the barrier and presses a button as he speaks into a microphone.
“That was a great song, man. Did you want to add that to the album list for Exoneration when the whole band gets in here next?”
Harlan takes his guitar and places it in the case by the door, contemplating his next move. The song is a personal one, like many of the songs he writes for the band, but this one is about finding that one person that is the end all – the game changer.
The concept had been floating in his head for weeks, small rifts ricocheting back and forth within his memory, but nothing had stuck. Not until early this morning as he tossed and turned in his New York flat and the melody and harmony had him sitting straight up in bed searching for his guitar and a notebook. An hour later Harlan had laid down a rough version of what he felt may be his best song yet. A song about finding love hidden beneath heavy rifts and powerful vocals.
“Thanks. Yea, let’s go ahead and add it, but if I change my mind I’ll let you know,” he replies as he stands up with guitar case in hand and shuts off the lights in the studio.
As he walks through the door separating the two rooms the producer turns to face Harlan as his eyebrows reach up to the middle of his forehead.
“Change your mind? That song is gold. A new rock anthem. That song deserves to be heard.”
Harlan rubs a hand along the back of his sweat covered neck, the moisture collecting between his fingers. He still has a hard time accepting compliments and criticism regarding his music, but he appreciates the producer’s words.
“Thanks. Yea, go ahead and keep it there. I’m headed out. See ya.”
“See ya,” the dark-skinned man retorts as he turns back towards the mixing board and replays Harlan’s latest song.
Stepping out into the dusky evening sky, Harlan grabs his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and quickly sets them on the bridge of his nose in the hopes of disguising himself. As a few woman glance his
way as they pass he regrets not wearing his ball cap. Incognito was the name of the game as far as Harlan is concerned.
With a flick of his wrist a cab stops before him and Harlan directs the driver towards his flat as he slides in dragging his guitar case with him – his prized possession, a custom carbon fiber Gretsch Black Penguin. No one got close to that guitar without Harlan’s permission and that included taxi drivers.
Back at his flat Harlan carries his guitar to its designated stand in the far corner. As always, he strokes the fine, slick body of the base and slides his hand up the slim neck in a caress. Harlan treats his guitar like he treats his women – with a gentle and caring hand until the possession becomes too much and he has to let loose with an explosion of need – and in the guitar’s case that means he’d go wild with an fast-fingered tune.
Stepping back Harlan glances around his open space, nothing extraordinary, just a bed, couch, and kitchen. A space to call his own when he needed a place to sleep. It beat the hotel rooms some of the other guys frequented.
Nothing pulls at him, just the urge to get out – get away. Idea firmly planted, Harlan jumps into the shower to wash away the sweat and grim from playing in the studio for the past fourteen hours.
Standing in front of his mirror he contemplates shaving, his 5’oclock shadow ever present on his face, but decides against it.
One more thing to hide behind, he thinks to himself.
With little care Harlan stalks to the dresser full of clean clothes thanks to a service he hired since he had little time to perform tasks such as those. He tugs on a pair of black jeans over a snug pair of boxer briefs. A deep red Henley t-shirt follows, then Harlan snags his favorite boots and places them on his sock covered feet.
Satisfied with his look he runs a hand through his still damp hair before grabbing his wallet and keys and making his way out the door. Just as he’s about to step over the threshold he halts, reaches across the wall to where a stand holds his ball cap. The faded black material fits snuggly on his head and Harlan nods to himself as he shuts his door and makes his way out of the building to hail a cab.
“Where to?” the older man requests as he turns around to look at Harlan.
“Um…,” Harlan begins, but then comes up empty. “I don’t know. I just needed to get out.”
“If it’s alright with you I know a place where you can get away from whatever it is that is bothering you. No one will bother you there.”
Harlan immediately starts nodding his head in agreement.
“That sounds great. Lead on.”
As the taxi begins moving Harlan feels the invisible weight on his chest begin to lessen. He stares out the window, content with watching the scenery. The ride takes much longer than he anticipated, mostly due to New York Fashion Week taking place and shutting down what seems like half of the city. Heck, someone has a runway set up in the middle of Time Square. But the ride is quiet, the driver seeming to realize that Harlan isn’t up for much conversation.
In his mind, last night’s dream continues to haunt him. He had always felt complete, fulfilled, with music, but the dream has him questioning everything. The dream hadn’t been clips of visions or memories; instead the dream was a mirage of senses, feelings, emotions, a presence. The hum of the car mixed with the internal beat of his heart gave them perfect background music to the feelings rushing through his body.
As the car glides to a stop Harlan looks up at a very nondescript building covered in the shadows of the trees lining the streets. He realizes that if he tried to seek this place on his own he very well would have missed it.
Noticing the lack of sign hanging above the door Harlan pauses after he opens the cab door.
“Don’t worry, son. It’s there. It’s the local’s secret.”
Glancing back at the building Harlan takes a deep breath and stands to his full six foot three height. At least he is big enough to take on anyone that tries to jump him.
As he timidly opens the door he is immediately assaulted by the smell of smoke, stale beer, and wood. Normally, the overwhelming smell would be too much for Harlan’s senses, but he finds that the combination isn’t that unpleasant.
Scanning the room he finds most people casually drinking and chatting. A television hangs in the corner playing a baseball game drawing some of the other patron’s attention. A group of younger guys around his age come in through the door and scoot past him, heading towards the bar.
Harlan watches as a waitress fills a few beers and drops them off at a few tables before heading back into the kitchen. One of the older customer’s closest to him notices his perch at the entrance. Not wanting to draw more attention to himself Harlan pulls the brim of his hat down more, covering his eyes, and saunters towards the bar.
Harlan places himself in the back corner under the television, hoping the shadow of the device cloaks his body in darkness. The waitress must have realized she had a new client because she immediately rushes from the kitchen and asks him what he’d like to drink.
“Just a Bud, Ma’am.”
The poor woman blushes slightly as she hands him his beer and then with eyes cast down moves back into the kitchen.
Harlan takes a healthy sip of the cold brew, the foamy liquid gliding easily down his throat before placing the bottle back on the table. Strangely the room goes quiet around him. Unsure of the reason, Harlan examines the room and finds the crowd still talking, the television above him still playing, and the small jukebox across the way still lit up.
Strange.
Before Harlan can question his hearing loss an inflection begins to play deep within his body. Every beat of his heart, breath of air, blink of his eyes, synchronize a tune that only he can hear. The same melody from his dream. But instead of being in his mind he can feel the melody skim across his skin, each beat a tap on the surface, resonating in each nerve.
Harlan feels the strength of a presence surround him and his breath quickens. The feeling so similar to what he had felt in the early morning light prompting his need to create music. But unlike then, his desire isn’t in music. No, he’s possessed by a passionate desire to seek the parallel of his soul.
Scanning the room once more his eyes skim past a booth tucked in the opposite corner, but circle back when his heart immediately picks up on a stronger beat. Something flutters in his stomach, a feel skin to butterflies that he hadn’t felt since his first kiss at the young age of eleven. He can’t make out much of the figure in the corner except that it’s a female wearing red high-heeled shoes. She, like him, has a ball cap pulled down far onto her face masking her features, but from beneath the brim he notices a few small strands of blond hair that gleam under the dim light above the table.
Interesting.
As if his body recognizes her all sensations halt except for the steadfast beat of his heart. From the corner of his eye he watches as the waitress exits the kitchen with a tray up on her shoulder bearing a red basket of fries covered in cheese.
“Miss,” his gravelly voice commands. “Are those for the table in the corner?”
The woman hesitates, obviously trying to decide if my intentions towards the other lone female in the room are admirable or not.
After trying to search my eyes she smiles slightly and says, “Yes, they are.”
“I want another beer,” an antagonized man at the other end of the bar hollers.
The woman before him sighs heavily and Harlan simply takes the basket off the tray.
“I’ll handle this and you take care of him, alright? It’s no trouble,” he says with a smile he has been told could melt the panties off of the queen.
As expected the waitress blushes heavily before casting her eyes down once more and turning away.
Harlan grabs the neck of his beer and turns around with the intentions of dropping off the junk food and heading home. Unfortunately his plans are thwarted when he gets closer and finds himself completely captivated by the beauty before him.
The woman had
sat up in her chair while he had been grabbing the fries and he can now make out the high cheek bones on her flawlessly pale skin. Still shadowed by the brim of her hat he can’t make out her eye color, but the doe eyed shape is recognizable. Her supple mouth hangs open slightly and her chest moves rapidly beneath what looks like a black silk shirt that hangs loosely on her body.
His steps falter when their eyes meet and he relies solely on muscle memory to right himself because he is completely entrances by the siren before him. Harlan doesn’t even have the chance to ask himself why she would be in a bar like this one. Perhaps she’s escaping something just like hm. Harlan doesn’t even care. Something brought them to this moment and as the rhythm pulsing inside and around him intensifies he has to question if it is pure luck or Fate working her best hand that they’ve met in this moment.
As he reaches the table he drops the basket in the center of the table and presses his fists firmly on the sticky table edge. Bowing his head he breaks their eye contact and their melody instantly stops. The noise of the bar and crowd flush his senses and Harlan finds himself needing to fight back the feeling of drowning. As his breathing slows and his consciousness seeps back to its normalcy Harlan continues to feel her eyes boring into the side of his head exploring, questioning.
Harlan turns his attention back to her, their eyes meeting once more. Her deep chocolate eyes hidden by shadows almost glow in the dim light. He wants to speak. Needs to speak, but he feels his throat closing up, suffocating him.
Coming Consumed: Welcome to Carson, Book Three Page 18
