He nodded. “Right,” he said, waving his arm toward the tall blond who had addressed me at the audition. “That’s Liam. Over on the drums is Kam, and bass is Will. Our, uh, manager is hanging around here somewhere too, but you’ll meet him later.” He scratched the back of his head, distracted. “Go get yourself a drink or something and watch the first set. We’ll get you on for the second and go from there. If you handle yourself, the job is yours. If not . . .” He shrugged.
Easy.
***
I clutched my song tightly in my hand and made my way over to the bar. I hadn’t been so nervous since going for my driver’s license.
While my ID might not be accurate, it was real. At fourteen, thanks to a dodgy-looking dude I’d met off Craigslist and $1600—don’t ask me where the cash had come from—I had acquired a passport and birth certificate identifying me as Micah Lawson, eighteen years old and born in Orange County.
When you’ve lived a lie for long enough, you began to believe it. It took moments like this, finding myself inside a bar and about to order a drink, to remind myself of who I really was, and what I was running from.
“What can I get you?”
I smiled at the cute guy behind the bar as he leaned across the counter. His gaze wandered over me, lingering on the point where the center of my dress dipped down between my breasts. I rolled my eyes.
Attention from men was something I received often, and it was always unwanted. Friendships and relationships were something I usually avoided. Dee was the only real friend I had, and that suited me fine. It was rare for me to truly open up to anyone. The less people knew about me, the easier it was to keep track of everything.
&
nbsp; “Just a glass of water, thanks. With lime if you have it.”
He nodded and gave me a wink. Hooking my ankle around the base of the barstool behind me, I pulled it closer and sat down. I unfolded the song and studied it. It was a popular hit from The Verse called “Still Surrender.” I knew my weird teenage obsession with eighties British rock bands would pay off eventually.
My heart began to pound as I listened to the guys kick off in the background.
This is really happening. This was it. Fuck this up, and it was over.
I’d spent years trying to break into the industry. Open mic nights, auditions . . . I had done it all. I’d been rejected so many times I was used to it. Singing meant everything to me. It had dominated my life since I’d left home. This was as close as I had come to getting my foot in the door, and that was what made it so damn scary.
“One water with lime for the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I looked up as the barman pushed the glass across to me. I smiled and reached for it, his fingers brushing over mine. His leering smile told me the contact was not so accidental.
“Thanks,” I said, jerking my hand away. I looked back down at my song, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.
“So, what brings you to The Bell?” He nodded toward the stage. “A fan?”
“Not exactly,’ I said, blushing. “I’m with them. Well, technically it’s still an audition,” I added.
He whistled, his blue eyes narrowing. “Impressive.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a voice behind me.
“So you’re the pretty little thing I hear can hold a tune,” the sexy voice drawled. I turned around and gasped. No way. What the fuck was ex-bad-boy-of-rock-turned-recluse Saxon Waite doing here?
He laughed, obviously enjoying my shock. His gorgeous eyes twinkled in amusement as he casually dangled a drink from his hand. I took in his dark, tousled hair and lopsided smirk. He hadn’t changed much since he had dropped out of the spotlight a few years ago under a whirlwind of controversy. At the height of his career, Saxon Waite had been the definition of bad boy rocker, always managing to find himself in hot water. That was part of what made him so damned sexy. What girl can resist a bad boy rocker?
My eyes traveled down over his tight black shirt tee shirt that showed off the tattoos that covered his right arm. He wore faded jeans and a pair of black boots. Yep. There was no question he was still one of the hottest rock gods ever.
“Shut your mouth, honey, before our friendly barman over here gets any ideas.”
“You’re Saxon Waite,” I mumbled, ignoring his little dig.
I closed my eyes and groaned as he chuckled again. I sounded like a cross between a cat being strangled and a hyena. I didn’t get starstruck—I’d run into Brad Pitt once at Starbucks and we’d had a ten-minute conversation about the weather—but this was Saxon Waite.
At fourteen, I’d had posters of Saxon all over my god damned walls. Fourteen-year-old Micah had touched herself thinking about this guy. I blushed, cringing at the thought.
“I am,” he confirmed with a sexy grin. “Do I get to know your name?”