Bedding the Band

Chapter One: Meet the Band

OLIVIA

I've done it. The crowd screams as red spotlights swirl over the band taking position on stage for their next set, letting the lack of music hang in the smokey air. I grab Megan's hands and jump up and down.

I don't give a flying rat's ass that I'm a twenty-four-year-old woman jumping around like a teenager.

Megan's smile widens as she celebrates with me.

"We did it." I shimmy my hips and hold up my press badge for the security guard to check.

He rolls his eyes at me but lets us through.

Megan keeps close behind as the first guitar riff blasts through the crowd, followed by drumsticks beating out a bone-jarring tune.

This is it. My favorite band of all time is playing again after five years. And I have backstage access.

I peek around another security guard and catch my closest glimpse ever of The Eclipsed.

Hot damn. The years have been good to them.

Kai's hands fly over the drums, his fingers a blur of motion.

Soren and Ezra belt out lyrics, sweat already glistening on their tight bodies. Soren plays without a shirt, and I lick my lips at the sight of him.

Megan presses in against my side. She's been my best friend as long as I can remember, but I still feel the urge to jostle her back so I can get a better look at my band.

The music grips me with a tightness I can't explain.

That's why I need to get the story behind why they broke up five years ago. They were at their peak—not that what I'm seeing now isn't perfection—but why quit when you're on top?

Finding the answer is part of the reason I'm here tonight. The other part, well, who wouldn't accept the opportunity to see these guys in action?

Soren takes off across the stage, his stride full of cocky arrogance. He holds the bass tight to his chest and shakes his ass at the crowd.

They go wild, screaming so loud it's a wonder I still have eardrums left. Women throw their hands up, desperately reaching for Soren and Ezra as they prance around the edge of the stage.

I inch back from the shadowed corner where myself and all the other press members have private access.

Megan follows my lead and inches backward. I'm here for the music and the story. My boss wants a sensational headline, and I've been tasked with blowing the lid on the band's history.

The song ends and Ezra leaps straight into the next one. I recognize it within three strums of the guitar strings.

"Heatstroke" was one of their top hits, and it's no less popular now based on the intense frenzy happening in the crowd.

I can't move. The lyrics and Soren's smooth voice root me to the spot. I sink into the oblivion of the sound, their sound.

Memories crash over me, but I push back the bad ones and find the hope that comes from Ezra's soul-bending words.

I would give anything—anything—to learn how the man on stage comes up with his lyrics.

"A dark night," he sings in a silky voice that shoots straight through my blood and pools in my stomach. "There's no one to call."

I can't help sinking deeper. I've had a crush on these guys forever. Since they first showed up on the rock and roll scene.

"He can call me," Megan shouts in my ear.