Page 2 of Rebel

“Shut up,” I hiss at him. “Fine, Beck. Take it away. Blow us all away with your incredible talent.”

“I will.” She smirks as she counts in the music.

The music starts up, and despite her bravado, she closes her eyes nervously, licking her perfect lips. Her hands shake slightly as she grips the mic. There’s a guitar around her neck, but she doesn’t touch it yet. It’s an older Fender Stratocaster, and from the coloring, I’d say it’s rare and pricey. The first note she lets out is in the wrong key, and I wince, but she carries on, getting into the rhythm and fixing it until the music flows from her. That’s when the transformation comes over her, one we all feel. Her eyes open, and her body sways along as she gets bolder.

I lean forward, my breath catching in my throat. I’m scarcely able to take my eyes off her. She’s raw, that’s for sure, and she needs coaching on stage presence and vocalizing, but her voice?

She sounds like a goddamn fallen angel.

Shit.

When the last note fades, she’s breathing heavily, and her eyes focus on us like she forgot we were here. For a moment, so did I. Trav gets to his feet and whistles, clapping.

Kolton grins and looks at me. I quickly school my expression because despite her talent, she’s trouble. I can see it a mile away. No one comes here who looks like her, with that talent, without baggage. Trust me, I know. Beck Danvers has a story, and I have a feeling it won’t end well for us. I won’t put my bandmates through that shit again.

We’ve faced enough for a lifetime.

“Nope, not her,” I snap.

“She’s good—no, she’s fucking great. I haven’t heard a raw voice like hers in years,” Kolt argues.

“She’s clearly untrained,” I protest, ignoring her.

“So we fucking train her. You were like her once. She’s powerful, good,” Trav counters, annoyed.

“You know I can hear you, right?” she drawls, and Trav grins.

“And she clearly takes no shit from you. We need that.” Without waiting for my thoughts, the two knuckleheads turn back to her and grin.

“You’re in. Welcome to Dead Ringers.”

TWO

Part of me didn’t actually believe I would do it. I didn’t think I would get into the audition, let alone become Dead Ringers’ new lead singer. I hoped, but I never . . .

“And this is the game room.” Trav grins sheepishly. “It’s a bit of a mess. We aren’t used to houseguests.” Nodding, I grip my duffle bag tighter. “Is that all you own?”

I bring my eyes up to meet his bright blue orbs, and he winces again, scrubbing at his head and mussing his styled black hair, which is shorter on the sides and longer on top. His nose and lip rings glint in the light as he watches me. He has to look down since he’s so tall. He’s skinny too, but I can see muscle peeking out from under his clothes, as well as lots of tattoos. He’s hot in that bad-boy rocker way, and he even has the eyeliner to go along with the look.

“I mean, it’s cool if that’s everything. I was just going to take it to your room for you.”

“My room?” I tilt my head. They dragged me here after the bar, barely even giving me a minute to grab my shit from the back room. I got some hasty introductions on the short drive here, but that was about it.

“Well, yeah.” He blushes hard. “Shit, we didn’t even tell you, did we? It’s in our contract. We have to live together. Bonding or some shit. It, um, came up after, well, after something happened. So you’ll be living here with us in your own room and with privacy of course. Is that okay?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” I shrug, looking around. It’s true, I don’t, but sharing a house with three rock stars? This should be fun. I guess it will help me get close to them though.

“Oh, well, that’s good, I guess.” He sounds unsure. Kolton and Chase disappeared as soon as we pulled up to the grand mansion on the hill. “So it belongs to our management, but you can decorate or do whatever you want. There are a few house rules. Here, let me take that while I show you to your room.” He reaches for my bag, and I step back.

“It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I mumble, not wanting to part with a thing inside.

He blinks but nods, and I follow him out of the basement game room, around the foyer, and up the stairs. When his voice comes, it’s unsure. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to make of me, and that’s fine, but then I remind myself I need to be friends with these people, which means making an effort, something that used to come naturally to me.

I was always a people person.

Before.

“Okay, well, no houseguests—i.e., no hookups here at all. Take it elsewhere.” He shoots me a sideways look. “That came in because of?—”

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