One

The cacophony of screams, conversation, and the low hum of a microphone too close to an amplifier threatened my steady hand. That and the six-foot-four drunk guy next to me. I was a second away from climbing on him and giving him a head-butt. I was wiry. I could probably do it with a minimum of fuss.

No one would even notice.

Probably.

The head-butt was a personal protection tip from the “house mom” of my complex that came in handy a little more than I liked to own up to. Having three strapping older brothers who loved to fill my brain with worst case scenarios hadn’t hurt either. I lived in Venice Beach and spent most of my time there and around The Strip. Ways to keep safe littered my brain like ticket stubs on a club floor after a concert. Tons of info stomped on by life, mixed with shitty beer.

Didn’t matter how big a dude was, hit him in the knee or give him a good crack to the head and he’d go down. I’d tried it out a few times. So far I was two for three as far as positive results went. Tonight, it was damn tempting to try again.

But I wasn’t in the mood for a migraine, so he was safe.

And as usual, the setting made me forget about gigantor next to me. I craned my neck around. My focus was Ripper Records’ new darling. The other acts were a bonus just to get my cousin, Lila Crandall, off my back. I knew she was trying to be helpful. Any other artist would be thrilled to get called in for a job.

Me?

Not so much. I was maybe a step up from a starving artist. Okay, half step, but I wasn’t legit starving. Being in the art program at J Town meant I had a roof over my head. Add in the fact that it offered me a workable studio as well, and I was in heaven.

Besides, the only reason I’d said yes to Lila, the she-dragon of Ripper Records herself, was because of the venue. This old place was full of interesting bits. I was hoping I could get a few ideas that would work for the ever-changing collection I’d need to put together to keep up my end of the deal to remain a resident at J Town.

I took out my phone to get a few digital pictures of an ancient mural on one wall. It had been painted, repainted, and half-painted over again, leaving an odd two-faced situation.

I itched to find the owner and demand for him—or her, but come on, let’s be real, a woman wouldn’t let that stand—to let me finish the work. Rework it so both the new and old worked in harmony with an added side of discord, instead of the full-on crazy it had going on right now.

No time to get distracted, Zoe.

I returned my focus to the stage. Until the new dude came out, I really wanted to capture the lonely microphone stand in the center of the space. Peeling duct tape kept one of the three feet from coming off. Solder burns had bubbled and busted open in three separate sections. The art was the fact it was still here and not in some dumpster. The stand was battered, and a perfect symbol of rock and roll surrounded by the rest of the glossy, high-end equipment scattered across the stage.

Arrested Upgrade—perfect title for the piece.

Now, I just needed a better angle to get it all in frame.

However, the problem with my favorite camera was a lack of zoom. The gritty and surprising effects of Polaroid-style film made up for it. Sometimes the picture was perfection, sometimes it was pure shit, but it was always interesting.

And that was why I had to get the photo before the next opening act came out and ruined the composition I was fairly obsessed with.

I’d have to be the one to zoom, dammit.

I ducked under gigantor’s arm and pushed my way to the far left of the general-admission pit. It was late and the natives were restless. No one gave two craps about the first girl who had performed. I couldn’t even remember her name.

Poor thing.

She’d been pretty good, but the Blue Rhino definitely wasn’t her crowd. I was fairly sure th

e girl had burst into tears the moment she’d walked off the stage. Personally, I wasn’t sure why Li’s boss, Donovan Lewis, lead shark at Ripper, had gone for either of the openers tonight. The Zeps were unapologetic rock. The old school kind with a hard lean into classic. Heck, I even had a few of their songs on my work playlist.

They didn’t need openers. It didn’t make sense. Especially a pop-like aesthetic like the girl had been. And the other dude was an unknown. British or something was the only clue I’d gotten from listening to people around me.

The house music lowered from its ear-splitting decibel. “Shit.” I boosted myself over the barricade. I had a few more minutes—probably more like seconds—before the next guy came out.

“Get down off there.”

I flipped over the card on my lanyard. If I had to do this damn job, at least I had an all-access pass.

The burly bearded guy grunted then backed off. I swung my leg over the second metal barrier with a hiss. What I wouldn’t give for long legs some days. Then again, I could crawl into pretty tiny spaces when I wanted to. And I’d need to for this picture. I shot up the rickety stairs to the side stage, then crouched and took my shot just as the house lights went out.

“Dammit.” The pop and wind of film followed by the quick jerk as the photo released sealed its fate. I shoved it into the pocket of my large hobo bag with the rest of the Polaroid-style pictures to wait for it to develop.

A frisson of electricity climbed up my spine, and I would’ve sworn it shot up my neck to buzz under my slouchy hat. I had no choice but to look up. I didn’t even realize I was taking pictures until two of them dropped onto my shoe. The lights around me flared and a purple spotlight swirled around a lean, endless pair of legs in jet-black material. Silver glitter pinstripes shimmered in the low light, drawing my eye up to the impressively muscular thighs and…

Well, then. Impressive line of his trousers. Sparkly trousers, no less. They were paired with a semi-matching boxy jacket. Actually, not matching at all. The blacks were different. No one else probably noticed, but color was my world. And the pants were onyx black while the jacket was decidedly warmer. His silky white shirt was half open. Something metal flashed against his skin. I popped off a few more pictures.

Two.

Three.

Four.

All stuffed into my bag in an endless repetition.

Little pieces of the whole.

Maybe I’d tack them together on a black canvas with smudged chalk.

I’d name it Neil Diamond.

He swung his guitar around his back and tipped the mic stand down with him as he tried valiantly to get the crowd to pay attention to him. I smirked as I took one more shot of the purple guitar strap that slashed across his back. Heck, I didn’t even hear the song he was singing.

It was moody, that was about all I could comprehend.

My entire world had become this dude, and I had to get each angle. The microphone stand was forgotten in the ambient purple and glitter smorgasbord. I swallowed a giggle—or maybe it was a moan; no one could hear me, I was pretty sure—as I took one last shot of the bulge he was sporting. Trick of the light?

Maybe.

The light flicked from soft purple to blinding white and I squinted against the change.

The room was silent save for the stomp of the singer’s foot. I dropped into a crouch. I didn’t even remember standing to take those pictures.

The camera kicked at me, demanding film.

“Fuck, fuck.” I dug into the bottom of my bag. No cartridges. I couldn’t have used them all up. “No, no.”

I was afraid to look away. Afraid the magic would be gone. Glitz and glamour hugged the man from ankle to neck. Even his hair was a riot of curls and artifice. They coiled around his ears and down to his shoulders to flip up at the ends. Soft, where the rest of him was glam.

Tags: Cari Quinn Rock Revenge Trilogy Romance
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