Halo (Fallen Angel, #1)(3)

Or…I could man the hell up, walk into that room, and show them exactly why I was the perfect guy for the job. Life was about risks, right? If I didn’t try, I wouldn’t fail, but I’d also never get anywhere, and I wasn’t content playing covers at mostly empty dive bars for the rest of my life. Not when I knew what I was capable of.

With my decision made, I took a step forward just as the door to studio 1B opened and Killian Michaels appeared in the doorway, yelling out for four whiskeys. When he saw me, his eyes lit up and he waved me over.

“Hey there,” he said, smiling my way, and I almost looked behind me to make sure there wasn’t someone else he was calling out to. “I see you found the place okay?”

I forced my feet to keep moving as I nodded. “Yeah, hi.”

“Hi.” Killian glanced over his shoulder, back into the studio, and then faced me again as I came to a stop in front of him. He stood tall, about the same height as me, with a shock of dark hair that was longer on top and styled back in a way that screamed indifference, though it had probably taken him a half hour to perfect. It was so strange to see him standing there in regular jeans and a hoodie instead of the rocked-out persona he used onstage.

“I’m Killian,” he said, holding his hand out like everyone in the free world didn’t know who he was.

“Halo.” I switched the guitar to my other hand and gave him a firm handshake.

One of Killian’s eyebrows rose. “That your real name?”

“Is Killian yours?” It came out before I could stop it, but instead of being offended, Killian laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

“I like a smartass. Come meet the guys.”

He led me inside, and immediately my senses were overwhelmed. The first thing I noticed were the thick crimson curtains that were artfully draped from floor to ceiling and took up an entire wall. The second thing that caught my attention was the massive chandelier in the middle of the room that made the ones in the hallway look like ants. Good God, this is how the other half lives.

“Hey, hey,” came a voice behind me, and with his hand still on my shoulder, Killian turned us around to where Jagger, the keyboardist for TBD, strolled inside. Dressed to the nines in a long-sleeved black collared shirt and matching slacks only a few shades darker than his skin, Jagger was the impeccably put-together charmer of the band, which was evident as he came to stand in front of us.

“You’re late,” Killian said.

Jagger ignored him and gave me a winning smile. “You must be Halo.”

“And you’re Jagger,” I said. As I shook his hand, it was hard to miss the gold Audemars Piguet on his wrist, or the diamonds winking from the rings on his fingers.

“I didn’t miss the show, did I?”

“No, he just got here,” Killian said, shooting him a look that made me think Jagger’s late arrival wasn’t unusual.

“Then I’m not late.” Jagger winked and then went to where the other two members of TBD were sprawled across the velvet couches in front of a row of windows.

Shit. They’re right there.

As Killian brought me front and center, he nodded toward the man covered from neck to toe in colorful tattoos. “Halo, meet Slade.”

With a piercing stare and his head shaved except for the two-inch-thick section at the top that he sometimes mohawked out, the drummer of TBD may look intimidating, but he wasn’t the bad-boy member of the band. No, that honor went to the man on the opposite couch.

“And this is Viper,” Killian said, and as I looked at the lead guitarist, my first thought was that this guy didn’t look at all pleased to see me. With an ankle thrown over his knee, and casually stroking his lip with his forefinger, his body language may have read relaxed, but his dark eyes said something completely different. They were narrowed, assessing, and even if I didn’t know from my years following the band that he was the toughest critic of the group, I still would’ve been wary based on that look. There was a reason he’d earned the name Viper, after all. Observant, but quick to strike—that was what all the stories about him claimed over the years.

My heart began to pound a bit harder, and I prayed they couldn’t hear it.

“Guys, this is Halo. I watched the video he sent in last night—really good stuff.” Killian faced me again and said, “Show us what you got.”

“Okay,” I said, but my voice came out raspy.

The door to the studio opened again, and a woman entered with a tray of four glasses half-filled with amber liquid. She passed one to each of the band members, and when Killian took his, he offered it to me.

“Need some liquid courage?” he asked.

I wasn’t one to down hard liquor first thing in the morning, but I wasn’t sure I’d get through this audition without it, so I gratefully took the glass and swallowed it in one go. It was a smooth burn going down, nothing like the cheap stuff I was used to. But of course it wasn’t. This was the big time, with fuckin’ chandeliers and velvet in studios instead of ripped egg crates covering a room the size of a closet.

With all four pairs of eyes on me, I bent down to unlatch my guitar case, which I managed to do on the first try—amazing, considering my hands had begun to shake.

Just breathe. Don’t think about the rock gods sitting six feet away. They’re just another dive bar crowd half listening.