I tasted the syrupy sweetness of cherries on my tongue, even though I hadn’t eaten since last night, as I watched Houston Morrow shift between crooning and screaming into the microphone he clutched as if it had personally wronged him. The camera zoomed in on the raging storm and the thick strands of dark brown hair and his eyes, which reminded me of evergreens—an entire forest of them. Each droplet of his sweat seemed perfectly timed with the arousal pooling between my thighs. I didn’t bother pressing them together. I already knew it wouldn’t help.
Neither would soothing the ache—unless he had all night.
On cue, the camera moved to the most ostentatious display of arrogance and sex. Loren James stood on the stage behind Morrow, but he performed as if he were front and center. My hands clutching the arms of the chair and the rest of me clinging to control had two distinct reactions. As one grip tightened, the other loosened. The stage lights bounced off the silver medallion hanging from the bassist’s neck. The chain swayed over pectorals exposed underneath his unbuttoned black shirt while the glinting metal of the trinket called attention to his nipples. His shirt was so dark and delicate that the material made his tan skin and elaborate coif of dark-blond hair appear pale. He flirted with the crowd, the music, and the camera with a smile I could feel in my bones.
I sighed with want for something I could never have just as the camera panned again. Furthest from the front of the stage, but still somehow a relentless beacon, sat Jericho Noble. The true heart of Bound. He drove the beat and tempo that kept the crowd on their feet and their hands in the air as he hammered the drum kit and kept time. He always looked as if he’d been caught in the rain with his inky black hair falling over his eyes and curling around his ears as he twisted and bounced his head in perfect rhythm. I knew that when he inevitably looked up to tease the crowd, I’d find silver eyes flecked with gold and a black spiral piercing at the corner of his bottom lip.
At last, the camera settled on the scruffy beard and shoulder-length blond hair of Calvin Everill as he provided Houston with backup vocals. I felt the heat warming my freckled cheeks fade as sorrow took hold. Despite his shady personal life, he had a gift no one could replicate, though I’d been his pupil for years. Eventually, I learned to trust myself as a guitarist and even preferred my own style.
Still, there was this stirring in my gut that began the moment I learned of his death, and it wouldn’t abate. Conceitedly, it felt like the weight of the world had settled on my shoulders. I was trapped inside a well of confusion, wondering why I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was all that remained of Calvin Everill’s legacy.
Like all the times before, I brushed aside what was undoubtedly a fantasy rather than a warning of destiny. I was pretty certain every guitarist who fancied themselves a student of Calvin’s felt the same. Besides, there had been nothing admirable or worth idolizing about Everill beyond his skill with a guitar—or any of Bound’s surviving members.
Was it coincidence or fate being cheeky that Morrow, James, and Noble were the ones who’d founded Bound and were now the only ones left?
“There you are!”
I finally tore my gaze away from the television just as some girl with brown braided pigtails and a colorfully striped sweater rushed into the waiting area. She had stars in her eyes, and I wondered who put them there. I stared at her, making sure I was who she was looking for even though no one besides the receptionist and me was around.
“Sorry, I’m late,” I greeted while standing and holding out my hand. “Braxton.”
“Casey. I’m Oni’s assistant. If you’ll just follow me. Everyone’s already waiting in the conference room. I’m afraid the meeting started without you.”
I inwardly cringed.
That meant all eyes would be on me when I walked into the room, and I wouldn’t be able to hide or play off my tardiness.
Casey rushed off, and I tried to keep up while thinking of an excuse to give Oni. The artists and repertoire rep wasn’t known for her welcoming personality. She was a bit of a hard-ass, but I’d been raised by the worst of them, so I told myself I could handle anything she threw at me.
I just hoped it wasn’t the door.
I wasn’t like the other musicians who’d clawed and scraped for this moment, this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Did I earn it? Yes. But it had never been my intention. Now, I couldn’t blow it, and it wasn’t because Oni had made it clear this would be my only shot.