Page 1 of Pretty Little Rocker

Chapter One

Hayat

There were days I woke up convinced I was going to make the day my bitch.

Then there were days I opened my eyes, squinted at the sun glaring through my bedroom window, and could swear I heard the cackle of fate letting me know loud and clear that I was its bitch for this moment in the game of life they liked to play.

But the joke was on those old hags, because I wasn’t anyone’s bitch.

Ever.

Head buzzing with the beat of the new song I’d been working on perfecting for the last few days, I took a shower. Washing my hair was a chore, but one that never failed to soothe me. I rarely attempted to tame the wild curls, the only physical attribute I’d inherited from my mom. They were no more docile than the rest of me. People needed all the warning they could get.

From the quietness of the house as I walked into the kitchen, I knew I was the only one home. My brother, Evan, would be at school, while Mom and Dad would both be at work. My mom, Lucy, was one of the executive editors at Harper Stevenson’s magazine. As the owner of the biggest nightclub on the West Coast, Dad made his own hours. He had a team he trusted, so he could delegate most of the day-to-day stuff, but today was important.

The contract for his current Thursday night live band was almost up. Normally by now, he would have already lined up the next band to fill the year-long commitment. But so far, he hadn’t found the right fit.

After a cup of the world’s strongest coffee and a slice of toast, I went into my studio at the back of the house and tried to get the drum solo perfect. My cameras were on, each of them positioned so they never showed anything of my body from the chest down. Tucking my hair into my hoodie so no one could use that to identify me—not to mention, my hair got in my way—I lost myself in being Havoc for a few hours.

Once I had enough material to edit for later, I did a Zoom meeting with a few of my sponsors, making sure to keep the camera off. The entire point of the Havoc social media persona was total anonymity. I didn’t want anyone knowing who I was. Not my millions of followers or even the sponsors that I represented in some of my monetized videos. My skills as a drummer were just that. Mine. I wasn’t going to use my rock-legend drummer grandfathers to boost my own fame.

Needing to stretch my legs, and be around people, I changed into a different pair of sweats and a tie-dyed sports bra before pulling on a cut-up, crop-top hoodie over it. Leaving my hair to hang in wild ringlets down past my hips, I grabbed my phone with its magnetic wallet attached to it and left the house.

First Bass wasn’t open yet, but security was in place at the back door when I used the employee entrance. Carl gave me a head nod, and I wiggled my fingers in greeting as I passed, the music from the auditioning band too loud to be heard over.

With the lights off except for the one on the stage, I easily blended in on my way to the bar where my dad sat with my godfather, Jace St. Charles. Both of them were so focused on the band onstage that they didn’t notice me as I took one of the high-backed stools.

My entire world revolved around music. Both my grandfathers were in legendary rock bands, Demon’s Wings and OtherWorld. But my godparents were rockers too. Jace was the lead singer of Tainted Knights, and Kin had her own band, as well as wrote songs for other bands. Then there was the whole Oscar thing. My godmother had unfathomable talent when it came to putting words and music together, evoking emotions some people didn’t know they were capable of feeling.

Music was a part of my soul.

Automatically, my fingers and feet began tapping along to the beat of the drums, while I tried to assess the other members of the band—Autumn’s Slumber, or so the logo on the drum set proclaimed. With masks covering the top halves of their faces, they were going for the anonymity thing, which I could respect. The masks were in varying designs of red, yellow, orange, brown, and black, leaving only their mouths uncovered. Paint in the same colors covered their shirtless chests in the form of handprints that disappeared into the tops of their jeans.

Biting my lip, I watched the singer with his guitar, the bass player, and the second guitarist. An ache began to pulse through me as I watched them. They created music like it was a spiritual experience for them, which was how it was for me. Not so much in a religious way, but it called to something in my soul. Always had. Always would. But something about these three made me want to be a part of their own sacred moment.

The drummer missed a beat of the cover song they were performing, setting me on edge, but I quickly shook it off and focused on the bassist. His fingers moved effortlessly over the strings, as did those of the guitarist beside him. I sang along to the words, moving my head to the rhythm when the lead singer’s voice hit the high notes in a way that would have made the original singer weep. His fingers flew over the guitar he was playing, even as the beauty of his deep voice echoed through the club.

I stopped singing along, too entranced by this man to dare miss a single moment of seeing him in action. Goose bumps rose along my entire body, his voice making everything inside me clench in a visceral way no one had ever caused me to react before. My breaths came in heavy pants, my legs rubbing together in search of relief. It was crazy. I’d heard hundreds of singers, each of them amazing in their own way.

He could have looked like anything under that mask, although fuck knew he had a body to kill over. All hard lines, tight muscles, tall, with the kind of ripped abs not even a skilled artist could perfect. It didn’t matter what his face looked like. He could have been scarred or have boils or be missing half his face beneath that mask. I didn’t care.

Because, that voice? That was what did it for me. That was what had my heart thrashing around in my chest, my nipples pebbling, my panties a ruined mess of slick desire that no one—no fucking one—had ever made me experience before in my life.

I couldn’t tear my gaze off the way his head was tossed back, his throat muscles straining as he belted out the notes like they had been written specifically for him. As if the pain and passion lived within his veins. His band members fed off his energy, playing in a way that made me think they wanted to please the vocal god who had bestowed his talents upon them—mere unworthy peasants.

And then the drummer missed another beat. I felt a muscle twitch below my eye. Two more missed beats. I grasped the edge of the bar top with my fingers. There was a drum solo coming up, but I knew before he even started, he would ruin it. He was destroying it. Not just the song, but Autumn’s Slumber’s chance—my vocal god’s chance. My bassist’s and my guitarist’s opportunity.

Like fuck I’d let that happen.

I had to protect them. Ensure their chance wasn’t stolen by some idiot who couldn’t appreciate the gifts of the other three men onstage.

Not thinking, just doing—something that had gotten me into trouble more often than I could count—I jumped up from the stool, already tucking my hair into my hood as I stomped up onstage from the shadows. The other three band members didn’t notice me, too lost in the music.

Pushing the unsuspecting drummer off his seat, I picked up two extra sticks from the bag sticking out from beneath the stool. Without missing a beat, I killed the drum solo, and the lead singer fell into the next high-note chorus, taking my breath away.

As the last chord of the guitar faded, I slipped from the stage, shooting the dumbfounded drummer still sitting on the stage a dirty glare on my way back to where my dad was sitting with Jace. Both men gave me raised brows but didn’t comment. Twirling the drumsticks I’d kept in each hand, I leaned with my arms on the bar top between my dad and Jace.

“Wish I’d recorded that,” Jace muttered with amusement close to my ear. “I want to watch it on repeat with Kin and Lucy.”

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