Pretty Little Rocker, page 1
Pretty Little Rocker
Terri Anne Browning
Contents
1. Hayat
2. Ky
3. Hayat
4. Hayat
5. Hayat
6. Ky
7. Hayat
8. Ky
9. Hayat
10. Sparks
11. Hayat
12. Ky
13. Hayat
14. Jamie
15. Hayat
16. Hayat
17. Hayat
18. Hayat
19. Sparks
20. Hayat
21. Jamie
22. Hayat
23. Hayat
24. Ky
25. Ky
26. Hayat
27. Ky
28. Hayat
29. Jamie
30. Hayat
31. Hayat
32. Hayat
33. Hayat
34. Ky
35. Hayat
Chapter One
Hayat
There were days I woke up convinced I was going to make the day my bitch.
Then there were days I opened my eyes, squinted at the sun glaring through my bedroom window, and could swear I heard the cackle of fate letting me know loud and clear that I was its bitch for this moment in the game of life they liked to play.
But the joke was on those old hags, because I wasn’t anyone’s bitch.
Ever.
Head buzzing with the beat of the new song I’d been working on perfecting for the last few days, I took a shower. Washing my hair was a chore, but one that never failed to soothe me. I rarely attempted to tame the wild curls, the only physical attribute I’d inherited from my mom. They were no more docile than the rest of me. People needed all the warning they could get.
From the quietness of the house as I walked into the kitchen, I knew I was the only one home. My brother, Evan, would be at school, while Mom and Dad would both be at work. My mom, Lucy, was one of the executive editors at Harper Stevenson’s magazine. As the owner of the biggest nightclub on the West Coast, Dad made his own hours. He had a team he trusted, so he could delegate most of the day-to-day stuff, but today was important.
The contract for his current Thursday night live band was almost up. Normally by now, he would have already lined up the next band to fill the year-long commitment. But so far, he hadn’t found the right fit.
After a cup of the world’s strongest coffee and a slice of toast, I went into my studio at the back of the house and tried to get the drum solo perfect. My cameras were on, each of them positioned so they never showed anything of my body from the chest down. Tucking my hair into my hoodie so no one could use that to identify me—not to mention, my hair got in my way—I lost myself in being Havoc for a few hours.
Once I had enough material to edit for later, I did a Zoom meeting with a few of my sponsors, making sure to keep the camera off. The entire point of the Havoc social media persona was total anonymity. I didn’t want anyone knowing who I was. Not my millions of followers or even the sponsors that I represented in some of my monetized videos. My skills as a drummer were just that. Mine. I wasn’t going to use my rock-legend drummer grandfathers to boost my own fame.
Needing to stretch my legs, and be around people, I changed into a different pair of sweats and a tie-dyed sports bra before pulling on a cut-up, crop-top hoodie over it. Leaving my hair to hang in wild ringlets down past my hips, I grabbed my phone with its magnetic wallet attached to it and left the house.
First Bass wasn’t open yet, but security was in place at the back door when I used the employee entrance. Carl gave me a head nod, and I wiggled my fingers in greeting as I passed, the music from the auditioning band too loud to be heard over.
With the lights off except for the one on the stage, I easily blended in on my way to the bar where my dad sat with my godfather, Jace St. Charles. Both of them were so focused on the band onstage that they didn’t notice me as I took one of the high-backed stools.
My entire world revolved around music. Both my grandfathers were in legendary rock bands, Demon’s Wings and OtherWorld. But my godparents were rockers too. Jace was the lead singer of Tainted Knights, and Kin had her own band, as well as wrote songs for other bands. Then there was the whole Oscar thing. My godmother had unfathomable talent when it came to putting words and music together, evoking emotions some people didn’t know they were capable of feeling.
Music was a part of my soul.
Automatically, my fingers and feet began tapping along to the beat of the drums, while I tried to assess the other members of the band—Autumn’s Slumber, or so the logo on the drum set proclaimed. With masks covering the top halves of their faces, they were going for the anonymity thing, which I could respect. The masks were in varying designs of red, yellow, orange, brown, and black, leaving only their mouths uncovered. Paint in the same colors covered their shirtless chests in the form of handprints that disappeared into the tops of their jeans.
Biting my lip, I watched the singer with his guitar, the bass player, and the second guitarist. An ache began to pulse through me as I watched them. They created music like it was a spiritual experience for them, which was how it was for me. Not so much in a religious way, but it called to something in my soul. Always had. Always would. But something about these three made me want to be a part of their own sacred moment.
The drummer missed a beat of the cover song they were performing, setting me on edge, but I quickly shook it off and focused on the bassist. His fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, as did those of the guitarist beside him. I sang along to the words, moving my head to the rhythm when the lead singer’s voice hit the high notes in a way that would have made the original singer weep. His fingers flew over the guitar he was playing, even as the beauty of his deep voice echoed through the club.
I stopped singing along, too entranced by this man to dare miss a single moment of seeing him in action. Goose bumps rose along my entire body, his voice making everything inside me clench in a visceral way no one had ever caused me to react before. My breaths came in heavy pants, my legs rubbing together in search of relief. It was crazy. I’d heard hundreds of singers, each of them amazing in their own way.
He could have looked like anything under that mask, although fuck knew he had a body to kill over. All hard lines, tight muscles, tall, with the kind of ripped abs not even a skilled artist could perfect. It didn’t matter what his face looked like. He could have been scarred or have boils or be missing half his face beneath that mask. I didn’t care.
Because, that voice? That was what did it for me. That was what had my heart thrashing around in my chest, my nipples pebbling, my panties a ruined mess of slick desire that no one—no fucking one—had ever made me experience before in my life.
I couldn’t tear my gaze off the way his head was tossed back, his throat muscles straining as he belted out the notes like they had been written specifically for him. As if the pain and passion lived within his veins. His band members fed off his energy, playing in a way that made me think they wanted to please the vocal god who had bestowed his talents upon them—mere unworthy peasants.
And then the drummer missed another beat. I felt a muscle twitch below my eye. Two more missed beats. I grasped the edge of the bar top with my fingers. There was a drum solo coming up, but I knew before he even started, he would ruin it. He was destroying it. Not just the song, but Autumn’s Slumber’s chance—my vocal god’s chance. My bassist’s and my guitarist’s opportunity.
Like fuck I’d let that happen.
I had to protect them. Ensure their chance wasn’t stolen by some idiot who couldn’t appreciate the gifts of the other three men onstage.
Not thinking, just doing—something that had gotten me into trouble more often than I could count—I jumped up from the stool, already tucking my hair into my hood as I stomped up onstage from the shadows. The other three band members didn’t notice me, too lost in the music.
Pushing the unsuspecting drummer off his seat, I picked up two extra sticks from the bag sticking out from beneath the stool. Without missing a beat, I killed the drum solo, and the lead singer fell into the next high-note chorus, taking my breath away.
As the last chord of the guitar faded, I slipped from the stage, shooting the dumbfounded drummer still sitting on the stage a dirty glare on my way back to where my dad was sitting with Jace. Both men gave me raised brows but didn’t comment. Twirling the drumsticks I’d kept in each hand, I leaned with my arms on the bar top between my dad and Jace.
“Wish I’d recorded that,” Jace muttered with amusement close to my ear. “I want to watch it on repeat with Kin and Lucy.”
“Do you feel better now?” Dad asked quietly as the guys onstage finally realized that their drummer was still on the floor where I’d left him.
I shrugged, tapping the drumsticks on the bar top to the tempo playing in my head. “He was making me twitchy. And they were too good to ruin that audition because the prick wasn’t taking it seriously enough.”
“Maybe he was just nervous,” Dad tried to excuse.
Jace and I both gave him a look that said we thought he was full of shit.
Dad’s lips twitched with a hint of a smile, but otherwise, he remained stoic. When it came to the club, he was professional as always. I liked that he took his work so seriously. My parents—hell, my entire family—had driven into me how important having a good work ethic was. Success was earned, not something that
“Other than the drummer issue, what is your opinion on the band?” he asked us.
Jace scratched at the blond stubble on his chin. “They have a passion I haven’t seen in an indie band in forever. The bassist and the guitarist are skilled, but fuck, that frontman. He’s pure gold. If the fire-breather were here right now, she would snatch him up faster than any of us could blink.”
While he spoke, I watched the guys onstage while the house lights turned on, dimming the harshness of the stage lighting. The bass and guitar players were whispering furiously to the drummer, who was finally getting to his feet, now shooting dirty looks my way. My hair was still tucked beneath my hoodie, which was pulled tight. I couldn’t bear to cut a single lock of my hair, but it got in my way more often than not. Stretching my neck left and right, I prepared for the fight I could see the dumbass was itching for.
I wasn’t a dainty little girl. Delicate wasn’t in my vocabulary. Standing at six foot one without shoes, I had a slender, dancer’s physique. Modeling agencies tried to sign me all the time, but the only thing I cared about when it came to fashion was if it was comfortable. I was confident with my height and my curves.
But there were guys who sized me up and automatically thought it would be a good idea to fight me. And from the glint in the drummer’s eyes, I knew he was considering his chances of taking a swing at me.
Grinning at him, I winked and finally pushed my hood off my head, fluffing a little more lift back into my curls.
“Hayat?” Dad said with a sigh, probably sensing the edge of violence that was running through me.
He wasn’t wrong. I would have loved to stake one of the drumsticks through that asshole’s chest. Hayat Van Helsing had a nice ring to it. But the drummer wasn’t a vampire, and piercing someone’s heart was considered murder—which was frowned upon.
Pity.
“I like the whole vibe of the band. The anonymity with the masks, mixed in with their sound, it’s mysterious and attractive. Uncle Jace is right. Aunt Emmie would snatch them up in a heartbeat.” I twirled one of my curls around my finger in thought, trying to force aside the way my heart raced and my body pulsed as I snuck glances at the bassist, guitarist, and singer. Damn it. They were all delicious, and I had no idea what they looked like under those masks and paint. That didn’t stop the energy that pumped through me, causing my body to react in a very, very visceral way to being in the same room with them.
Clearing my throat, I shrugged like I wasn’t affected. “I know you have been struggling to find a new band to fill the Thursday slot. This is the one, Dad. But if you hesitate, they’re going to get a better offer, and you’re going to be kicking your own ass over losing out.”
He pressed his lips into a hard line, but it was obvious he was taking my opinion seriously. After a long moment, he muttered a curse and walked over to the stage.
“Gentlemen, a moment of your time, please.”
Chapter Two
Ky
Setting my guitar on its stand, I took my time walking off the stage to where Harris Cutter stood. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, dark hair sprinkled slightly with gray, a muscle ticking in his jaw, he considered my bandmates and me.
Getting this audition had taken a miracle. Somehow, the recording I’d slapped together in my makeshift studio had gotten the club owner’s attention enough to offer us a live audition. Sparks, Jamie, and Hamel had been just as nervous as I was when we got there, but once we started playing, nothing else had mattered.
But even as lost in the music as I’d been, I didn’t miss the way Hamel kept fucking up. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt and say it was his nerves because this was a huge opportunity for Autumn’s Slumber, but I couldn’t fully convince myself of that.
Harris pointed at Sparks, then Jamie, and finally me. “You three have talent. You don’t just make music up there—you create magic. I want to offer you the contract.”
My heart started pounding against my ribs, excitement zinging through my blood. But Harris’s lips twisted in a half snarl when he looked at Hamel, who crossed his arms over his chest defensively, causing my heart to drop into my stomach. Along with a ball of white-hot rage that I needed to tamp down before I ripped the little fucker apart. Hamel was seconds away from meeting my dark side, and he didn’t have a clue. “But you are a deal-breaker for me. If Hayat hadn’t saved that last song, I would have already been showing you all to the door.”
Sparks and Jamie glanced at me, both of them mouthing, “Hayat?” I shrugged.
“I was doing fine until that crazy bitch shoved me to the floor and took over,” Hamel sneered toward the bar area, but my focus was solely on the six-and-a-half-foot man in front of us.
I didn’t miss the threat of pain that crossed Harris’s face when my drummer called Hayat a crazy bitch. If we lost this contract because of him, I was going to kill Hamel with my bare hands. That was going to be a mess I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up, but if he didn’t shut his idiotic mouth, I’d make a call and have every last drop of DNA wiped away after I drained him in the spa tub back in my private bathroom.
“Fucking chick thinking she can pound a pair of sticks on a drum set and pretend to be a star for two minutes. Pathetic.”
I heard a growl behind Harris, but what caught my attention was the sweet sound of a giggle. I almost looked around the huge man in front of me to get a glimpse of the source of that melodic sound. Jesus fuck, I’d never gotten hard over a giggle before. But there I stood, my cock like a steel beam in my pants.
Harris turned slightly, just enough to let us know he was no longer including Hamel in the conversation. “Find yourself a new drummer, and the year-long contract is yours. Every band who has ever been given this contract has ended up with a record deal, almost every single one of them managed by Emmie Armstrong’s team.”
“They won’t replace me,” Hamel said confidently, a cocky smirk on his face. “We come as a package deal or not at all.”
“He doesn’t speak for us,” my guitarist assured Harris. Sparks’s jaw was clenched in a way that told me he was considering ending Hamel’s pathetic life in more imaginative ways than I was. “We’ve been considering replacing him for a while now.”
“Yeah.” Jamie nodded in agreement. “We’ve lost out on a few gigs because of him. But we haven’t had a chance to find a replacement.”
“Fuck you guys! You need me,” Hamel snarled. “You’re not shit without me.”
Jamie and Sparks both huffed out a laugh, rolling their eyes at me. I grimaced in an attempt to fight my own amusement. This was an important meeting. Laughter was appropriate at certain times and places, and this wasn’t one of them.
Harris shifted his gaze to me, one brow raised. “Your choice, boys. The contract is on the table for Autumn’s Slumber to snatch up. But with the stipulation of finding a decent drummer. I will even go one step further and offer to host auditions here next week.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. This was what I’d been hoping for. And Sparks and Jamie weren’t wrong. We’d been discussing replacing Hamel for a while now, especially after he lost us a gig opening for an up-and-coming band three weeks ago.
Finding another drummer, one who meshed with the rest of us, who wasn’t put off by our obsessive need for anonymity—hence our masks and body paint—would be difficult. But it wasn’t a challenge I was going to turn down if it meant playing weekly at First Bass. Exclusive gigs like that were rare, but the real prize was what came with it.
Potentially getting signed with Emmie Armstrong, not just to have her as our manager, but to get a record deal with her and Shane Stevenson at ASM—Armstrong Stevenson Music. Their record label had the top musical talent in the world. Getting a deal with them was like winning the golden ticket into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Minus the sinister plot of potentially never leaving the factory again.
