Page 27 of Her Dark Angel

“So, how did Dark Angel form?” I ask. It’s been something I’ve been curious about since learning I would be fake dating Nash. I’m sure a quick internet search would provide the answers, but hearing it from the horse's mouth is much better.

Nash raises a curious brow at me. “Do you really want to know? It’s not interesting, I promise.” When I nod, he shifts in his seat. “Okay. Well, the four of us have been friends since pre-K. As we went through school, we bonded over our shared love for music. In high school, we started hanging out at Hudson’s house after school to play music with whatever shitty instruments we had. It was Luca who suggested we should form a proper band when we were eighteen and about to graduate. So, we did exactly that, and that’s how Dark Angel was created.”

“So, your origin story is like a lot of other bands,” I say with a shrug.

Nash senses the sarcasm in my voice and rolls his eyes. “I told you it wasn’t interesting.”

“What happened next?” I ask, eager to hear the rest of the story. I’m hoping it’ll give me some insight into who Nash Beck truly is.

“Well, we started slow by doing gigs in local pubs and recording music when we had the chance. We all worked shitty casual jobs in hospitality, not thinking we would make it big, and needed the income. At one of the gigs, a scouting agent was present and enjoyed watching us perform. We had grown a reputation around town and had formed a small fanbase. After that gig, we were signed to Black Box Record Label. From there, the band only grew more popular as we did small tours around the country. It soon turned into number one hit after number one hit, and the rest is history.”

I nod slowly. I remember the first time I heard Dark Angel on the radio when I was on set taking a break four years ago. Nash’s deep voice as he sang the rock hit was almost mesmerizing. I could picture him on stage, rocking out, while his female fans swooned over him. But then I saw him on the news and learned how much of a troublemaker he was. That said, I still think he is a great performer despite what he does with his life off the stage.

“What about your dad?” I ask, curious to know what he thinks about his son being one of the biggest rockstars in the world right now. “What did he say when the band took off? I know about your mother’s passing, and I’m sure she would be proud of you.”

Nash’s features instantly darken as he tears his eyes from me, his nostrils flaring. My face falls seeing the instant shift in his mood and the black clouds forming around his head.

Shit. What did I say to make him this visibly upset?

My eyes widen when he pushes himself up, the chair skidding behind him. Thankfully, everyone has left the arena and it’s just the two of us. “Let’s go.”

“B-but?—”

“I said let’s fucking go, Kinsley.”

His hands are fisted at his sides and he’s unable to look me in the eye. I can tell by the way his body is vibrating and his tense jaw that he’s trying to hold onto his composure. I’m only making it worse by not following his orders.

I huff and fold my arms over my chest. “Why? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t know how to shut the fuck up and stop asking questions about shit that doesn’t concern you,” he snaps, his voice booming across the arena.

“I’m allowed to ask questions,” I say in an attempt to defend myself. I know he’s pissed off and I’m only making it worse with my defiance, but he doesn’t have the right to tell me what to do. “You can’t just?—”

My eyes widen when Nash snaps at the waist to meet me at eye level. His mismatched eyes are intense and filled with a fire I have never seen in them before. His chest is heaving as he looks me dead in the eye, and all I can do is blink in response as my heart beats rapidly.

“Don’t you ever mention my parents again, you got it? They are off fucking limits to ask about.”

Instead of telling him I can do and say whatever I want, all courage goes out the window as he pins me in place with his gaze. He looks like a lion ready to kill, and I’m the helpless prey caught in its trap with nowhere to go. No way of escaping. And it’s suffocating.

I swallow hard and nod because that’s all I can do. I’m quickly learning Nash has a short temper and it’s wise not to be on the receiving end of that fury. I need to know when to push him and when to reel it in. And right now, I need to fucking reel it in.

“Good. Let’s go.” He stands to his full height and walks away from the table.

Not wanting the paps outside to think we are fighting, I stand from the seat and rush after him. We fall into step beside each other as a tense silence settles between us. When we step outside and the shutters of the cameras go crazy, I fight to keep the fake smile on my lips from slipping because we have a role to play.

But deep down, I’m trying to piece together who Nash Beck is.

9

NASH

1975

12 years old.

The front door opening and slamming shut draws my attention from the AC/DC album blasting from the record player in the corner of my room. I open my eyes and sit up on my rickety single bed, the box springs groaning under my weight. The dark blue sheets beneath me are scratchy and old, but it’s my only set.

As I strain my hearing to listen to the voices, I focus on the multiple posters of rock bands—namely KISS, Pink Floyd, and Aerosmith—littering the walls of the tiny bedroom.

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