Hidden Heart (10 page)

I’d heard of the Viper Room before, but nothing I’d imagined could have prepared me for the real thing. The iconic music club on the Sunset Strip was as dark and moody on the inside as its black-painted exterior suggested.

We were brought in through the back door, which I gathered was some sort of privilege, because the huge doorman told two groups ahead of us, “You gotta enter from the front.”

Inside, I took in the big, u-shaped red leather booths, the long bar, the black acoustic tile ceiling, the heat of the large crowd already gathered there. The place smelled like the inside of a shot glass, and the noise level was so different from the outside I had to fight the urge to cover my ears with my hands.

It was only my second time inside a bar, and this was a far cry from the small club just off Oxford, Mississippi’s town square. The crowd here had a seasoned feel to it, like these people had heard more music and seen more celebrities than any of us ever would. They were casually dressed but all had a city-cool feel to them. Tattoos and piercings were plentiful. Many of the girls sported a wild, sexy, rock-chick vibe, wearing lots of black with either stilettos, or on the other end of the scale, Chuck Taylors.

A wide dance floor skirted the raised semi-circle stage, which was occupied at the moment by a pop punk band. The four members all wore t-shirts and jeans and looked like the boys in your high school who seemed nice but whose names you could never quite remember—skinny, clean cut, young for their age. They were in their element tonight, bouncing around the stage with their instruments, sweating, and filling the club with sound and energy. They were good, but they were clearly human. If the crowd liked
them
, how would they react to Nox and his Elven bandmates?

Though I hadn’t seen him yet, I assumed Nox was somewhere in the building because he’d left the house before our bus did to join his band for setup. Amalia had told us on the way over The Hidden wasn’t the main act tonight—they’d play somewhere in between these guys and a much-more-famous alternative rock band.

The booths were completely full as were the black bench seats around the perimeter of the bar area. That left the dance floor, so that’s where my pod sisters and I were herded. Some of the girls must have gotten the dress code memo because they blended right in with the L.A. hipster crowd. Others of us looked like the out-of-place small town girls we were, in our sundresses and sandals. We all moved to the music as we watched the band, watched the people around us.

I didn’t have a fake I.D., but Gigi must have because she pressed an icy beer bottle against my bare arm then laughed and handed it to me when I yelped.

“Thanks. How did you even make it to the bar? It’s packed in here,” I yelled to be heard over the music.

“I’m from Las Vegas,” she said by way of explanation as if being born in that city imbued a person with some sort of special bar-navigation skills.

I nodded, pretending to understand. “So, what do you think of these guys?”

“They’re okay,” she shouted back. “But I’m only here to see
one
man. I hope he’s up next.” Her raised brows and naughty smile told me she was referring to our host.

As if on cue, the punk boys finished their last song with a crash of guitars and drums, screamed their thanks into the mics and encouraged everyone to tip their bartenders and give a warm welcome to The Hidden.

The welcome was more than warm. It couldn’t have been the first time the band had played this venue. There was too much anticipation. The screams from the crowd were actually louder than those of the fan pod, which was saying something because my eardrums were nearly blown out simultaneously by the two girls on either side of me.

As before at the TV show performance, the shirtless drummer—Rolf was his name—and two other band members, Anders and Matteus, took the stage first. Rolf started a driving beat, and Matteus joined in with a steady, sexy baseline, his face deadly serious. Anders, on the other hand, flashed the crowd a blinding grin as he played a keyboard run, setting up the melody for the first song.

Beside me, Gigi started screaming. She wasn’t
totally
oblivious to the charms of the other guys. I giggled at her reaction.

And then Nox stepped into the light, grabbing the microphone and immediately launching into a long, achy note that shot through my brain, ricocheted off my heart, and settled into the pit of my stomach where it set off a chain reaction of shivers and heat.

He grabbed his guitar and began administering chords and notes without one shred of restraint or mercy. Cradling the body of the instrument with one hip, he leaned back then forward as he played, working the stage, wearing an expression that made me blush with its journey from pain to ecstasy. He was lost in the music already, and I. Was. Screwed.

I should have known he wouldn’t be able to resist using his glamour on a night like this, in a place like this, in front of a crowd like this. Maybe he’d never intended to resist, had only said that this morning to get me here.

Well, here I was, and for at least the next forty-five minutes, I’d be under Nox’s spell. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this time. I’d been through it before and survived. Maybe I’d built up some sort of immunity or something.

Nox reached for the microphone again, and
oh God
I was
not
immune.

If anything, the effect of his singing on me was worse than ever. Instead of dialing down his power, he’d apparently cranked it to full capacity. Maybe he wasn’t as in control of it as he believed—he seemed immersed in the song itself, oblivious to his effect on the club-goers.

All around me girls reacted in ways that would cause them deep mortification if only they were aware, and I was powerless to defend myself from committing similarly embarrassing acts. As the band’s set went on, it only got worse. I did
not
want to blank out the way I had the other day in the TV station parking lot. But it was probably going to happen—I couldn’t even begin to remove myself from this situation.

I wanted to go outside for some air. I wanted to go back to Mississippi. I wanted to rip Nox’s clothes off and taste every inch of his glistening skin.

No, no, no. I have to fight it.

Song after song, I battled ferociously for self-control and dignity preservation. My new prayer became
not
that the performance would end, but that
when
it did, I wouldn’t have any opportunity to be near Nox.

Because if I
was
around him—if he sought me out after the show for any reason—I’d be in big trouble. I would do anything he wanted me to. I might even be the aggressor, losing control of myself and mauling him like one of these crazed fangirls.

              The cool glass surface of another beer bottle pressed against my wrist, and I looked to the side to see a cute twenty-something guy standing beside me. He had a preppy, college-boy look about him with light eyes and messy brown hair. He smiled, and the fog lifted from my brain slightly.

              “Want this? You look hot.” He winked to cue me to his double entendre.

              “Oh, thanks, but I’ve got one…” Glancing down at the empty bottle in my other hand I realized I’d finished it. And I was super thirsty. “Actually, I’ll take it—thanks.” I smiled at the guy and lifted the bottle to my lips. No one had ever bought me a drink before.

              He drank from his own bottle then leaned closer to me, struggling to communicate over the volume of the music. “What’s your name? I’m Mickey.”

              “Hi. I’m Ryann.”

              “Hi.” He grinned again. “Where you from?”

              I tried twice to tell him, but he didn’t seem to be able to understand me with all the club noise. He shook his head and tapped his ear.

              “Want to go out and get some fresh air for a minute?” he asked.

              I glanced at the exit door then back at the stage where Nox was completing a guitar solo and edging toward the mic again. A break from the music and his glamour was exactly what I needed—for a minute or
longer
. 

              “Yeah.” I nodded to Mickey, and he grabbed my hand, turning so our fingers were joined behind his back as he led me through the crowd toward the front entrance.

              Stepping out onto the sidewalk was like breaking through a barrier between worlds. The heavy door closed behind us, and the brightness and noises of the busy street replaced the dark musical allure of The Hidden and its front man entirely.

I took in a deep draught of night air, relieved to be free of the intoxicating music. But I still didn’t feel quite myself.

              Though I’d had only the one light beer and a sip of the one Mickey had given me, I felt drunk—no, not drunk exactly—but definitely not sober. I stumbled a bit on the sidewalk and Mickey’s arms came around me, steadying me.

              “You all right, baby?”

              “Yeah.” I nodded, embarrassed, and tried to pull away from him toward the club’s exterior wall, intending to lean against it for support.

              Mickey didn’t loosen his hold, but took a few steps with me until we both reached the building. Looking up from the sidewalk, I saw we weren’t actually in front of the club anymore but against a side wall in a small alley of sorts. I was grateful for the relative darkness because the streetlights and headlights had begun to blur and grow spokes as if they were starbursts instead of circles of light.

              I blinked slowly, trying to clear my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t usually drink, so—”

              “No worries. So where were you saying you come from?”

“Mississippi.” I had to fight to form the syllables of my home state’s name correctly with my tired tongue. “A small town there.”

“Ah.” He grinned widely. “A farm girl—I thought so. I’ll bet you came out here to break into modeling, right?”

I shook my head, wanting to argue. A small town and a farm weren’t the same thing. And being tall and being a model
really
weren’t the same things. But before I could put the words together, Mickey was asking me another question, leaning close to my ear, though it was unnecessary since I could hear perfectly well out here in the relative quiet.

“You come here with a couple friends?” His nose nudged my cheek as he spoke, and the fumes of something much stronger than beer wafted across my nostrils.

              I pulled my head back to re-establish some distance between us. My hair brushed the rough wall behind me. “Yes. More than a couple, actually, a whole bunch. I’m in Nox Knight’s fan pod—we came together.”

              “Right. I saw that whole mob of hotties come in at once. Must be hard for them to keep track of all of you in a place like this.”

              I nodded in agreement, a small part of my foggy brain wondering at the strangeness of his observation. That same part of me propelled me away from the wall and toward the opening of the alley, toward the shiny busyness of the West Hollywood thoroughfare.

              “I should go back inside. They’re probably looking for me. And I need to sit down.”

              At that moment, my knees buckled. I would’ve dropped to the pavement if Mickey hadn’t caught me and propped me back against the wall, pinning me upright with the front of his body.

              “Whoops, Farm Girl. Almost lost you there. You
are
a lightweight, aren’t you?” He laughed. “I shouldn’t have wasted a whole one on you.”

              My head swam with confusion.
I’m not a farm girl.
And wait—
a whole one—whole what?
I tried to ask him what he meant, but my mouth was refusing to work for some reason. And my eyelids felt like heavy garage doors. It took all my strength to pry them open again.

              What I saw was an evil-looking grin on Mickey’s formerly friendly face. And then the nasty smile was moving closer. His mouth landed on my neck, fastening on the tender skin with too much force and making me squirm from its gross wetness.

Oh God
. I was going to have a huge hickey from a make-out session with a guy I didn’t even know or like. This wasn’t what I’d planned for the evening. How had I gotten myself into this situation? Having my brains glamoured out by Nox was looking harmless by comparison.

              I pushed weakly against Mickey’s chest with my dead-feeling arms. He pulled his mouth away enough to mutter, “You want to touch me, baby? Go right ahead. Here, I’ll help you out.”

              Gripping my wrists, he pulled both my hands down the front of his body and held them against his crotch before diving at the other side of my neck and working his way to my collarbone with lewd, open-mouthed kisses.

              “No,” I managed to say, struggling to get away from him. He was shorter than me but far stronger. The more I struggled, the harder he pressed me against the wall. My lungs fought to pull in the necessary air for consciousness.