Where Lightning Strikes (Bleeding Stars #3)(4)

“Already told you, this isn’t gonna happen. Not sure why you keep calling, because I assure you, Mr. Banik, it’s a waste of your time.” I spit his name as if tasting it was as nasty as this conversation made me feel, the Mr. lacking all the respect it normally imbued.

“Just hear me out.”

I released a dark chuckle. “I hear you just fine. Basically what I’m getting is your balls are actually big enough to make the suggestion I leave my band. That sound about right to you? You ever heard the word loyalty before, Mr. Banik? How about betrayal?”

There it was. That word again.

Loyalty.

That’s what this was all about.

My loyalty.

Baz’s loyalty.

My stomach tightened in a gnarled knot, dread and worry and staunch disbelief. I swallowed hard and he sighed, and I could just see the greasy piece of shit running his grimy hand over his bald head.

“The only thing I’m suggesting is you look at your options.”

Eric Banik, manager of Tokens of Time, had been hounding my ass for close to a month. He wanted me to step into the shoes of their lead who had gone and bailed. I was all too sure the three remaining members were desperate to add a name to their roster who’d propel them forward.

“Those *s should know exactly what it feels like for someone they trust to leave them high and dry. Put out an ad in the paper. Have f*cking auditions. I don’t give a shit what you do. Find someone else.”

Tokens of Time had opened for Sunder a couple times back in L.A., and their lead had up and deserted just when they were finally catching on. He’d signed on as some * solo artist, wearing his own damned name like he’d earned the right to parade it like a badge.

“Your lead is getting married.” He said it like he was trying to knock some sense into me. Like the consequences of that was clear as day.

“Sebastian is already married,” I shot back.

“Married again or whatever the f*ck they think they’re doing. Maybe the first time it was just a test run and this time it’s for real. But you know Sunder is as unstable as it’s ever been.”

Sunder had survived a thousand controversies. Outlived a million rumors. Made it through jail sentences and overdoses and the death of our drummer, Mark, which had been one of the most painful, tragic losses any of us had ever experienced.

We’d endured the bullshit Baz had gotten wrapped up in with Martin Jennings, an association that had gone deeper and darker than any of us had ever imagined.

The rest of the band—me and Ash and Zee—we’d taken up Baz’s back during that time. Believed in him when everything around us was crumbling, our world tour cancelled, and the threat of our label dropping us hanging over our heads.

We’d made it, and I had to believe Baz wouldn’t let us down now.

My silence seemed to encourage Eric, and he continued, voice dipping in persuasion. “You’re exactly what we’re looking for, Lyrik. You’re talented and you don’t take shit from anyone. You have the vibe we need. You write the best damn lyrics we’ve ever heard and play the guitar like you were born with it. And look at you. You know as well as the rest of us you should be out in front. You need to lead. You’re too good to stand in the shadows.”

Long ago I’d adopted the policy not to give a f*ck.

Shunning stress and worry and all the bullshit most people wore on their shoulders like some kind of burdened brand.

Me? I shucked off the weight.

Let’s be real. Approaching life with this view? It was a whole f*cking ton less painful. Learned that shit the hard way.

I had two exceptions to that rule.

My family—my parents, my baby sister, and my niece.

And Baz and the rest of the boys who made up the band.

The few people in this world who I could count on to be loyal and I gave it in return. Guess you could say the guys had been grandfathered in. Granted a privileged spot in my shriveled, blackened heart before it’d been burned.

“Don’t call me again.”

I ended the call without another word and continued down the cobbled stones running in front of the aged buildings along the river walk.

I rounded the corner and darted down the narrow lane, strolling along the shaded street before I bounded the exterior staircase cutting up the middle of the old craggy building. Taking them two at a time, I deposited myself on the small landing leading to the two apartments occupying the top floor, their doors situated directly across from the other with the landing in between.

This secluded place sat right in the heart of the Historic District in Savannah, Georgia.

Was lucky as shit to nab it, too. Knew it was rented out most of the time, short-term to tourists and drifters like me who were just passing through.

My door was on the right, and I wiggled the key into the lock and let myself into my temporary home. It was a converted warehouse, now a trendy studio with exposed brick walls and high ceilings, a partition wall to section off the bedroom. Double French doors led out to a balcony I was guessing once upon a time had been a fire escape.

I tossed the keys onto the little table sitting just inside and raked a hand through my hair, shaking off the conversation and allowing my thoughts to go traipsing back to the girl.

God, that girl.

My blood was still pulsin’ a little too hard for comfort, my dick all too eager to take a ride.