Page 8 of Forbidden Lyrics

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” he admits, running his hand across his face. “I guess I’m private about my music.”

Uncomfortable with the amicable stranger in front of me, I rock back on my heels and point out, “You’re allowed to be. I shouldn’t have pried.”

“You were curious. They all are once they find out my connection to the band.”

I don’t know why his comment bothers me or who they are, but I bristle as I realize he’s lumped me in with them. It makes me feel like I’m simply another girl. Another fan in a sea of people.

And I don’t like it.

“Who’s they?” I murmur, unable to hide my curiosity.

“Anyone who hears me play. I’m not the face of the band because I don’t want to be. Fender––the lead singer of Broken Vows––is my half-brother. We agreed early on that if we were going to pursue a musical career together, I’d keep to the shadows. It works for us. He craves the limelight, the attention, the girls. And I simply want the music on paper instead of inside my head.”

My eyes widen in surprise. That’s insane. Not that there’s anything wrong with wanting a shred of privacy, and I’m sure being a rockstar isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. But performing? Singing in front of others? The lights, the stage, the adrenaline? I can’t imagine someone like him wanting to stay away from that kind of life. I’ve seen him at work. Heck, I’ve been swayed by his charisma myself, and that’s without any effort on his part. At. All. He could have the crowds eating from the palm of his hand if he wanted. Not that Fender isn’t freakishly talented, too, but both of them? On stage together? It doesn’t make any sense.

“You’re not tempted by fame?” I press, trying to understand him.

He shakes his head. “My father was tempted by it, and it ruined his life. I refuse to let that happen to me.”

“Oh,” I utter, finally understanding. At least somewhat, anyway. He’s scared.

Rubbing his hand over his face, Gibson adds, “He spent decades chasing his dream when the truth is simple. He was a dime a dozen.”

“And you think you’re like him?” I whisper, still blown away that we’re having a conversation that doesn’t involve daggers right now. “A dime a dozen?”

He stays quiet as he looks me up and down. Like I’m a fly that somehow snuck in when the door was open for too long, and his patience has run out.

It’s official. I’ve lost my footing on whatever tightrope I’d been walking as soon as I heard him sing. It’s time to get out of here. But I can’t move. I’m paralyzed. Mesmerized. By every muscle in his body. Jaw clenching, he grabs the neck of his guitar and stands to his full height, striding closer until he practically towers over me. All muscle. And olive skin. And dark hair. And hazel eyes. I swallow thickly as he crowds my space. But I don’t move an inch. There isn’t anywhere else for me to go. Setting his guitar in its stand next to the door, he mutters, “I think that’s enough chatting for one day. Run along, Dove.”

He backs away and––as if in slow motion––closes the door in my face, making me flinch when it clicks into place.

Okay, then.

Chapter Three

Dove

“You’re late,” Ashton accuses.

“I know. I’m sorry––”

“Get your stuff in your locker, and come back out. As you can see”––he motions to the crowd of people packed into the bar like sardines––“it’s a busy night.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.”

As I weave between the sea of people, I keep my head down and get bumped from shoulder to shoulder before popping out the other side near the back of the building. I’ve never seen the place like this. Sure, SeaBird is always busy, but this is something else entirely.

My hands shake as I twist the combination into the padlock before shoving my purse inside my locker. With a deep breath, I close my eyes and take a second to center myself. Right now, I’m a frazzled mess. And shaky nerves combined with trays of alcohol and way too many customers packed into a tiny building is a recipe for disaster.

I’ve already dealt with one of those today.

Running my fingers through my hair, I slowly let the oxygen out of my lungs, prepping for the chaos waiting for me at the bar.

Okay. I can do this.

I tie a black apron around my black shorts and T-shirt, grateful for the lack of a name tag attached to it. Without it, I’m nothing more than another face in a sea of people. And the less likely I am to stand out, the better.

Because standing out? Well, that’s not my forte, either.

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