Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2)

BOOK: Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2)
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Rock Star

Dream Weaver Novels Book 2

 

 

By Su Willia
ms

 

 

 

 

© 201
4 by Su Williams. All rights reserved.

 

 

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

Purchase only authorized editions.

For information contact

Su Williams at

[email protected]

Or

www.dreamweavernovels.com

 

Cover design © 2014 by Su Williams

Photo of
Mischa Kianne from the band Witchburn by permission of photographer Jason Burns

 

 

This book is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

 

Chapters

 

Prologue

Chapter 1   The Rock Show

Chapter 2   Missus Hyde

Chapter 3   Stand Up (Let me see your hands up!)

Chapter 4   For Those About to Rock

Chapter 5   Freak Like Me

Chapter 6   Love Bites (So do I)

Chapter 7   Disturbia

Chapter 8   Safe & Sound

Chapter
9   Jesse’s Girl

Chapter 10  Love the Way You Lie

Chapter 11  Whataya Want from Me

Chapter
12  Last Cigarette

Chapter
13  Fake Friends

Chapter
14  What Does the Fox Say?

Chapter
15  Perseverance

Chapter
16  Mad World

Chapter
17  I’m Not Dead

Chapter
18  Poison & Wine

Chapter
19  Uprising

Chapter
20  Just A Kiss

Chapter
21  Back in Black

Chapter
22  One Last Breath

Chapter
23  Sara Smile

Chapter
24  Cherry Bomb

Chapter
25  Shoot to Thrill

Chapter 26  Sugar, We’re Going Down

Chapter 27  Demons

Chapter 28  Familiar Taste of Poison

Chapter 29  The Boys Are Back in Town

Epilogue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

Nick

 

             
They are present.

             
Escaped.

             
Living.

             
If you can call their existence life.

             
They stand in the distance lobbing bombs of torment to my mind.

             
I fight.

             
They win.

 

              He was the catalyst to her harm, the one I love above my own life. He pulled the strings of the one who beat and broke her, took away the innocent place in her heart and destroyed it.

 

             
She comes to me in innocence. She trusts me with her world. And yet…I manacle her wrists, bruise the tender flesh. She cries out, and I muffle her cries with my hand. My hands. That do things to her that I would never do. My lips that speak things my lips would never say. I wound her. I break her. I take her. As if I had a right. As though she were mine to command, to use.

 

              I awaken in sweat-drenched clothes. Calling her name. Screaming for it all to stop.

             
They are present. And we must find them, and stop this evil they wield against us all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emari

 

Chapter 1 The Rock Show

 

              “Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh!” the crowd chanted. The 8150 arena was already sultry with fan sweat, and pyro and hazer smoke from the warm-up band; they were heavy into the flash and bang, shock and awe. My eyes already burned from the glycol smoke; which was actually cool, because the extra blood flow or something amped up the green of my eyes; made them more intense.

             
My eyes were my prominent trademark—trademark for the band; they appeared on every CD cover from the first. Rarely had I found a person with eyes as green as mine, at least not without some serious lenses. They’re emerald green, a gift from my mother, sparkling semiprecious gems. My eyes were enchanted, a magnetic spell cast on fanboys—and some girls, too—that magicked their hearts to mine.

             
But the eyes weren’t my only magic. Funny how being a musician has that affect on people; how they just want to be with you, to touch you, to talk to you. The charm heightens their awareness, charges every neuron in their brain and body until they do things they wouldn’t normally do, say things, give you things, give you themselves. But, I don’t generally like to take things. I’m a giver. I tried to be, mostly. You kind of have to be, to be any kind of artist. You have to give. Like giving your soul. It’s personal, intimate. You reach deep down inside and pluck out who you are and present your ‘self’, palms open. “Here I am. My heart and my soul. Take it.” And you blindly trust that they will cherish your gift, treat it tenderly and hand it back to you in one piece.

             
“Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh!” the chant thundered through the wings. In American, it sounds like ‘Come nigh’. Probably most Americans think that’s how it’s spelled too; probably think it means ‘come near.’ But in its native language, Irish, ‘cuimhnigh’ means ‘remember.’ Our subliminal plea to be held in the hearts of the masses, forever.

             
The roar of the crowd brought me out of my reverie and back to reality and Vail, Colorado’s 8150 Club.
Show time.
Kylen locked wrists with me and hauled me off the green room couch. “Time to rock, Sweets.”

             
“Yup. All right guys. All in.” I extended my arm in front me, palm up. Palm up to catch the blessings that rained down on us. We were a secular rock band, but we still believed we were blessed. If not, our fans surely did, and those adorations were gratefully received. Kylen placed his upturned hand on mine. Jack added his next, Drey came next and Yvy topped off the stack, palm down—to hold the blessings in. We joined the chant of the crowd, pumping our stack of hands in the midst of our circle. “Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh! Cuimhnigh! Let’s Rock!!!” We broke apart, revving ourselves up for the show. This was our pep rally. We’d done this before every show since the first. We were superstitious that if we didn’t, the show would be a flop. Granted, we’d definitely played a few stinkers over the last couple of years or so, but none that were complete disasters.

             
Jack left the green room first. He would warm up the crowd—as if they needed it; the club was virtually effervescent with this hot mob tonight; but, rumor had it, the 8150 always was. The rest of us haunted the wings on either side of the stage, absorbing the vibe that rushed the stage in raw waves. Nerves gave way to passion as Jack’s drum solo swelled with the fervor of the crowd. The throb of his bass drum thrummed in the rhythm of my heart. Lights and lasers flashed across the stage, never fully illuminating any one place, turning the venue into a surreal other world. I sucked in one last calming breath, stepped out onto the stage, and followed the glow in the dark arrows to my mike.

             
“Ladies and gentleman,” a light flashed on behind me, defining my silhouette at the front of the stage. “On drums, Mr. Jack Leonhardt.” A group of spot lights converged on him. The crowd cheered riotously and Jack thundered a fill. “On lead guitar, Mr. Kylen Toth.” The lights raced to the guitarist. The crazed crowd erupted as Kylen added his smooth, seductive guitar to the drums. “On rhythm guitar,  Mrs. Yvy Iusi.” The roar continued as Yvy’s anointed fingers stroked the strings of her guitar. “On bass guitar, Mr. Drey Iusi.” The crowd stomped to the thump of Drey’s bass. “And I’m Emari Sweet,” the spotlight flooded me, “and we are,” I paused for dramatic effect, but the crowd beat me to it. “Cuimhnigh!”

             
The energy was raucous and deafening, and totally alive and thrilling. Energy so sated with devotion that there were no words to describe it, as it filled the arena, gorging every corner and spilling into the night beyond the walls. I closed my eyes and spread my arms to absorb the waves that passed over me. They were hot and sweet and violent and passionate. It was a tangible energy that washed through the room like the ocean. Like standing on the beach of some alien planet, where the waters were electric and celestial. Like nowhere else in this world or any other. And this was home. Nothing else mattered at this moment. This was my drug of choice.

             
As the intro music bled into the chords of our first song, my foot struck something solid at the base of my mike stand. I didn’t remember sandbags during rehearsal. Searching the stage, I also noticed the tie-downs on all the PA equipment; our stacked monitors were strapped to anchors on the stage. I looked out over the audience who was now bouncing to the pulse of the band. My head swam and I grabbed my mike stand for support. Kylen grinned and strolled, half-drunkenly, to my side. He leaned close to my ear and shouted over the music. “Welcome to the 8150 and the bouncy stage!”

             
My eyebrows crunched together as I surveyed the stage and audience, once again. Sure as hell, the whole damn stage was moving with the crowd’s enthusiasm. Holy…It didn’t take long for the bounce to become a part of the fevered intoxication. This would be a high to remember. The bounce and zeal inebriated each of us.

             
Sometime during the second set, as tradition and perspiration dictated, I stripped off my soaked vintage tee, typically a gift from a fan, whirled it over my head and launched it into the audience. My eyes followed its tumbling arc into the uplifted hand of a man whose eyes caught and captured mine. I stumbled over the lyrics and an anchoring sand bag; and felt, for the first time ever, remotely abashed in my black skinny jeans and cherry push-up bra.

             
His eyes were crazy blue, so dark they were almost black, radiant with some unknown energy that mesmerized me. And to top it off, he was hot, more closely resembling a rock-god than any of us on the stage, with his tousled black hair, perfect, pouty lips, carved cheekbones and those amazing eyes.

             
I had to pull away from his gaze before I lost my way completely, and threw myself back into the concert. Toward the end of the set, I allowed myself a glance in his direction, in the hopes I could send a roadie after him to bring him to me back stage at the end of the show. But, to my utter disappointment, he was nowhere to be found.

             
I pined over the inky-eyed stranger, as I soaked in the hotel shower after the show, and obsessed over those incredible eyes. The steamy water coursed over my skin, rinsing away the layers of sweat and hazer smoke. Once I’d scoured myself clean and toweled off, I slipped into my holey sweats, and under the covers of my queen-sized bed and let the thoughts of the handsome stranger drift away.

             
Our accommodations here in Vail were actually very nice. Most promoters took very good care of the bands they booked through their venues, making sure we were well fed and had a decent place to flop after the show. Most even realized there were girls in Cuimhnigh and made sure I had my own private room, and, of course, Yvy could sleep with her husband. Although, in the early days, there were a few misinformed, or uncaring, promoters out there.

             
My memory drifted to a house that we were supposed to stay at in one town. ‘The Band House’ they called it. We pulled up to the dumpy, dilapidated house, ready to crash for the night after a problematic show, a long ‘meet and greet’ afterward, and drinks at a great dive bar with a couple of fans; only to find a party raging full bore. There was a keg perched on the dining room table, surrounded by dozens and dozens of hard liquor bottles; bongs smoldered on the coffee table and hookahs still oozed who knew what. We were sure the more ‘potent’ stuff was being dealt in the back rooms, away from prying eyes. And we didn’t want to know what could be occurring in the beds we were meant to sleep in. None of us said a word; just turned around and left. Cuimhnigh didn’t glorify drug use like some bands, and by the looks of things, the house could’ve been raided at any moment. None of us had any criminal records and didn’t want to start. Not with the tour going so well. Needless to say, we paid for our own accommodations that night at a Super 8ish type of motel. At least we had relatively clean beds, and Kylen was always willing to share.

             
My mind wandered to a place that we laughingly, now, called the Spider Inn. We’d heard of the Roach Motel; hell, even stayed at a few. But they didn’t hold a candle to the Spider Inn. The promoter put us up in a motel on the outskirts of town; a long, white, L-shaped, two story building, with turquoise trim and cracked, rusty, white-painted wrought iron railing. I refused to hold the handrail as I dragged myself up the steps to our second level room, because of the massive spider webs anchored to the rail. There were no less than four huge webs, and at the center of each was a spider bigger than a fifty-cent piece, with their horny legs all splayed out in a way that, I’m sure was very spider hot, but only served to creep me out.

             
I glanced along the railing and found every few feet, the baby spiders had weaved their baby webs every two to three gaps. I groaned, hoping the room would be my sanctuary, but it didn’t take long to find a web stretched across the corner of the ceiling in the main sleeping area and another in the bathroom. I showered only out of sheer necessity and desperation, and shook out my clothes before I dressed to make sure there were no cling-ons. Kylen had chosen the bed furthest from the spider web and I pattered across the threadbare carpet and launched into the bed beside him.

             
“Are you my bed buddy tonight?” he asked chuckling.

             
“Yep. As long as you protect me from him,” I nodded toward the web and its occupant.

             
“Oh, him. Well, he and I have had a convo and have come to the understanding that if he stays away from me with his multiple shoeless feet, I’ll stay away from him with my shoed ones.”

             
“Hmph. Well, I don’t trust any creature with too many eyes and legs no matter what the agreement is.” Regardless, I snuggled down next to Kylen’s warm body—after I’d nearly stripped the bed and searched all around it and through the sheets and blankets for any other arachnid-type crawly things. Kylen chuckled again as I wiggled and squirmed to warm up the blankets. Crisp cotton hotel sheets always felt like they were stored in a deep freeze. Kylen’s amusement disintegrated. I jerked and twitched all night long, sure his agreement had been broken. Every tickle of thread or brush of breeze elicited a physical response. The dark circles under his eyes in the morning proved he’d gotten no more sleep than I had. He grumbled dirty words at me that Jack seconded, and swore we’d never bunk together again. Yeah. Until next time.

 

              I returned from my journey down memory lane and the warm soft blankets that enshrouded me. The guys were only yards away, in an adjoining room, and this room seemed reasonably spider-free. I hunkered down and escaped into the world of a book, where the scariest creatures were humans that turned into wolves when the bite of winter touched their skin. I sighed at the comfort and safety of this fantasy world, and read until my lids drooped and sleep drew me under.

 

 

BOOK: Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2)
12.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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