Black Lilith: Book One (Black Lilith #1) (3 page)

Thankfully, the door opens behind him.

“Everyone put your pants on!” one of the band members—the guitarist—says as he enters the room, all long limbs, and gawkish enthusiasm. He drapes himself on the singer’s shoulders and messes up his hair. “That show was awesome, we totally slayed it… Oh, hi!” he says, finally noticing Mikayla. “Didn’t realize we had company.”

“I’m not a groupie.”

“Yeah, me neither,” the guitarist replies. He pushes himself off of the singer and holds out a hand to shake hers. “I’m Dash… awesome lead guitar. You must be Mikayla? Slate told us about you.”

Mikayla shook his hand, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the singer is frowning in confusion.

“Slate didn’t tell us about her,” he says.

Dash gives him a look. “He did. Just now. You know… at the end of the set when you ran off muttering about checking on something?”

The door bangs open again, and Slate enters the room with two scantily-clad women draped on his hips. The bass player follows, still holding his instrument and giving Slate a look of wry amusement. When Slate notices Mikayla, he holds up his hands in triumph.

“Mikayla!” he shouts. He drops the two girls and rushes over to pull her into a sweaty hug. Despite the circumstances, she can’t help but smile and return it. His enthusiasm infects her as easily as it had that morning when he’d offered her the job. “You’re here! What did you think? Have you met everyone?”

“
What
is going on here?” the singer asks. Mikayla pulls herself out of Slate’s arms to find him standing at the edge of the group with his hands on his hips, looking deeply annoyed.

Deciding to put him out of his misery, she steps forward and thrusts out her hand for him to shake.

“I’m Mikayla Strong,” she says. “I’m your new personal assistant.”

The singer’s eyes go wide, and he doesn’t take her hand. Now that she thinks that she has an excuse to look at his arms, she takes a moment to examine what she could see of his tattoos. In the stage lights they had looked dark and mysterious, but up close she could see that they were actually a vibrant blue—swirling over his skin in blue and gray, like a Van Gogh painting. In among the blue and gray are vinyl records with bright labels, a vintage microphone, and some headphones at the crook of his elbow. It’s a beautiful design. Mikayla had never considered getting a tattoo before, but seeing gorgeous work like that always made her pause.

There’s an awkward delay as her hand hangs in the air, unshaken before Dash starts to snort beside her.

“You hit on her, didn’t you?” he asks. The singer’s cheeks go red, and he sputters indignantly, prompting Dash to laugh out loud. “Unbelievable.”

Slate shakes his head in mock disappointment. He takes one of the magazines from the table, rolls it up, and waves it threateningly at the singer. “No! Bad Logan! No hitting on the PA!”

The singer—Logan, Mikayla’s brain supplies—holds his hands up in surrender. Then he turns to the bass player. “Tommy… I’m sorry, man—”

“It’s fine,” the bass player replied. His voice was quiet and easy; the sort of voice that she would have liked to have read her to sleep. He’s got a half-smile/half-grimace look on his face. “You didn’t know.”

“Why are you apologizing to
him
?” Mikayla asks.

Slate ducks his head to speak into her ear. “
Shakespearian drama
.”

“Your girlfriends look bored,” she whispers back.

The girls don’t look bored, really. But they were clearly thinking that this evening would be going in a different direction by now. They’re lounging on the couch together watching the band with mild interest. One of them reaches over and takes a piece of cold fried chicken from the bucket.

“So… hey!” Slate says, suddenly realizing something. “You said you’re the personal assistant. So you’re taking the job?”

Mikayla’s eyes flicker to Logan, who’s avoiding her gaze. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and seems to be chewing on his tongue. She had wanted to make a sly remark about her virtue, but seeing the lead singer looking so distressed about hitting on a potential employee makes her rethink that. She doesn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable.

Besides, she thinks, if they’re going to be working together then she needs to make sure that they get off to a good start.

“I am if it’s still available,” she says, speaking to Slate. “I looked over the contract from the last PA… her duties don’t look like anything that I can’t handle.”

“Fucking awesome!” Slate replies. Then he high-fives Dash with so much enthusiasm that he nearly knocks the guy over. “Sorry dude! Okay… intros…”

“I think I’ve met—”

“Proper, non-awkward intros!” Slate interrupts, speaking over her. He slides a hand down her back to rest just over the top of her jeans. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he wiggles his eyebrows back at her, making her snort. She gets the feeling that communicating with Slate will consist mainly of eyebrows and snorts. “First… the lead singer, Logan Todd.” He pushes Mikayla forward a step.

Playing along, she raises her hand to shake Logan’s. “Nice to meet you.”

Logan purses his lips and takes her hand. Before she can even register his touch, he’s snatched his hand away again and stuffed it under his armpit. “Likewise.”

All three of the other band members shake their heads in disgust.

“That was so transparent,” Slate says.

“I’m embarrassed for you,” Dash adds.

Without warning, Logan launches himself at Dash, knocking him to the ground. The two men quickly devolve into a loud, swearing mess on the floor. Both of the girls Slate brought into the green room watch them with mild interest. One of them moves the bucket of chicken along the table so that it won’t get knocked off.

“Does this happen often?” Mikayla asks as Logan wraps his arms around Dash’s head and tries to shove his face into the carpet.

“Almost daily,” Slate replies. “That’s Dash Todd, by the way,” he adds, pointing at the red-faced lead guitarist. “He’s Logan’s baby brother.”

“I’m awesome!” Dash shouts from the floor.

“You sure are,” Slate agrees. Then he takes Mikayla by the shoulders and turns her around so that her back is to the wrestling men. “They’ll be at it for a while. This is Tommy.” He gestures at the bass player, who gives Mikayla a small finger wave. “He’s pretty much the best bass player in America.”

“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Tommy tells him, but a pleased flush covers his cheeks.

“Bitch, that’s not even the biggest lie I’ve told tonight,” Slate says. “Speaking of which…” and then he looks at the two girls on the couch, “…I’m going to find a semi-private corner. Tommy, entertain our guest and make sure the Todds don’t scare her off?”

And before she knew what was happening, Slate had whisked the two girls out of the room, and she was sitting on the couch with a beer in her hand. Tommy had hospitably pressed it into her hand, and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she’s not drinking tonight. He’s got a soft face and full lips that seem permanently quirked downward in an almost frown. He seems pleased with her company, as he sat down next to her on the couch and turned his whole body to face her.

“So how long have you guys been playing together?” Mikayla asks, rolling the beer bottle in her fingers and ignoring the still-swearing bundle of limbs on the ground beside the couch. From what she can tell, Logan is winning—brute strength apparently trumps youth and enthusiasm.

“Since high school,” Tommy replies. His pleasantly calm voice makes her smile. “And yes, before you ask, I am the same age as Logan and Slate. People always think that I’m younger.”

She certainly had. “Well, you all sound great together. I don’t know much about music, but I like your stuff.”

“Thank you! That’s so nice to hear,” Tommy says. He seems genuinely pleased with the praise. “You’ll probably learn more about music if you’re going to be traveling with us.”

“I suppose,” Mikayla replies.

The swearing and grunting stops. Logan jumps up onto his feet, his hair a mess and his shirt in disarray. She looks from his heaving chest to his flushed cheeks and wants to smack herself.

“Okay… next set in twenty,” he says, before turning on his heels without another word and leaving the green room.

Dash sits up on the floor and glares at his retreating form. He shouts, “Don’t you dare light up a joint before our next set,” but Logan is already gone. So he pushes himself off of the floor and drops down onto the couch next to Mikayla. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” she replies.

“You gonna drink that?” he asks, pointing at her beer.

She hands it to him, and he downs half the bottle in one gulp. Tommy reaches over the side of the couch and grabs his bass, settling it in his lap and absently plucking at the strings. It should be uncomfortable sitting on the lumpy couch, being squeezed between a sweating man on one side and with the neck of Tommy’s bass resting across her stomach on the other. But for some reason, Mikayla relaxes into the cushions. She lets Tommy’s music wash over her.

“That’s nice,” she says.

Tommy smiles softly. “Thank you.”

Dash finishes the beer and belches, completely ruining the mood. “Tommy writes most of our songs,” he says.

She turns her head to look at Tommy properly. “Really?”

“We all pitch in,” Tommy replies, the tops of his cheekbones going pink as he avoids her eyes and focuses on the strings beneath his fingers.

“We shout encouragement while Tommy makes magic happen,” Dash corrects him. “I’ll throw in a sick riff and Logan might change some of the lyrics but… like, ninety-eight percent of the songs are Tommy’s masterplan.”

“No kidding?” Mikayla asks. “That first song? The one you opened with? Was that you?”

Tommy nods, his lips curling into a thin smile. “I wrote that for Logan,” he says. “
Stray Ink
, that’s what it’s called.”

“Is it on iTunes? I’d love to download it,” Mikayla tells him. And not, she adds in her mind, because it will remind her of Logan’s dancing every time she hears it.

“Don’t bother… I’ll send you the files,” Dash says.

They fall into a pleasant, comfortable silence with Tommy still plucking at his bass while Dash pulls the label off of the beer bottle and tears it up into thin strips. She wonders what her mother will say when she tells her that she took a job as a band’s personal assistant. That she’s using her degree in event management to shepherd musicians. She’d been on the fence about this job, but now that she’s met the band, she thinks that she could happily work with them. And not just because of the pay.

Logan might be kind of—confusing, and Slate is a—hound, but he seems to have a good heart, and she couldn’t imagine going back on her word and disappointing him. Tommy is a sweetheart and Dash is adorable in the way that only little brothers can manage. At least, that’s what she assumes. Mikayla is an only child, so her experience with younger brothers is limited.

“By the way,” she says. “I’ve never been a personal assistant before. I’ve also never been on tour. And I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I don’t know much about music. I can’t think of anyone less qualified for this job.”

Tommy watches her with his warm brown eyes over his guitar. “I’m sure you’ll be fine. Slate wouldn’t have offered you the job if he didn’t think you could do it.”

“Really? Because when we met he caught me talking to myself and thought I was a groupie.”

Dash snorts. “Yeah, but lots of people think you’re a groupie.”

She shoves him in the shoulder, and he tosses his beer label shreds at her, showering her in a storm of white mess. She yelps and tries to brush it all off. Tommy pauses his playing to pluck a couple of pieces out of her hair.

“I don’t know why Slate thinks I’ll be good at this.”

“He’s pretty good at reading people,” Tommy says evenly. “And you know we’ll be here to help you, right?”

Mikayla wants to wrap Tommy up in a blanket and take him home with her. “Thanks,” she says.

“We’re all kind of new at this,” Dash says. “We only got the contract about a year ago… this is our first big tour. We can figure it all out together.”

As least she wouldn’t be alone in her ignorance. She leans back on the couch and thinks about all the things that could go wrong with an inexperienced assistant, and a group of young men. One of whom can’t look her in the eye, while another is almost certainly having a threesome while she, Dash and Tommy are sitting in the green room exchanging pleasantries.

Tommy strums his bass, humming a melody along with the chords, and the music makes Mikayla want to lean over and rest her head on his shoulder. He seems to be making it up as he goes along. Dash nods slowly in an unheard rhythm.

Her mind wanders to how she would imagine Logan dancing and singing to the song, and she quickly shoves those thoughts aside.

She
works
with him now.

He is
off limits
.

So many things could go wrong. She’s trained in events, not administration. But maybe if she keeps a tight hold on the schedule and plans carefully, she might be able to make the tour go smoothly for them.

Dash leans his head against the couch and looks at Mikayla out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you’re not a groupie? Or is Logan just not pretty enough?”

She shoves him so hard he falls off the couch.