Page 4 of The Darkest Note

Breeze leans forward nosily. “Your brother?”

There’s a painful scratch against my heart when I shake my head. Trying not to let Breeze see how much it affects me, I shrug it off. “As if he would care enough to call me before I performed.”

If he did call, it probably wouldn’t be to say anything encouraging.

Her eyes turn wide. “It says ‘unknown number’. Maybe it’s a scammer.” She flicks her wrist. “Hand it over. I’ll deal with it for you.”

“It’s not a scammer.” I shut the phone off because I don’t want to think about anything other than the performance.

“Who is it then?” Breeze insists.

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t know, how are you so sure it’s not a scammer?” She plants her hands on her hips, causing her bangles to dance.

Yup.Definitelynot a conversation I want to have right now.

I lift my head and point to the stage. “Look, they’re bringing out the piano.”

Breeze looks that way and her eyes brighten. “I’m going to check it out. You stay here and try not to hyperventilate.”

I eye her suspiciously as she crosses the stage. When I see her chatting it up with one of the guys in the crew, I realize why she was so eager to leave my side.

Typical.

I’ve known her since we were in diapers. Breeze will never give up an opportunity to flirt.

With her effusive presence gone, I’m back to being stuck in my own head.

I glance towards the exits one last time, wondering if I should back out now rather than step into this new and frightening chapter.

But those thoughts skitter away when the door bursts open. The air backstage shifts and something deep inside, some primal part of me, warns me not to look directly at whatever caused the disturbance.

I force my gaze up anyway because I never listen to that voice.

Three deities stalk backstage, all broad shoulders and brooding eyes. They move as one, like a pride of lions about to close in for the kill, bodies knifing effortlessly through the crowd that parts for them.

Predators. And proud of it. Their presence sets off a chorus of squealing from the people backstage.

They ignore the noise. Unbothered. As if this clamoring, this worship, is only right.

I can’t look away even if I want to. A steady thrumming fills my head. The perfect background music to their gait. A diminished chord progression.

A# D# G

Wild and dramatic. The sound of a hurricane at its peak, winds strong enough to uproot a tree and send it lashing into a building.

They draw closer. The music in my head swells as I notice the finer details of their faces. Hard jaws and cheekbones chiseled by the gods. Straight noses. Full, pursed lips.

The two at the front look exactly alike although one is blonde and the other is raven-haired. The third has thick brown hair and almond-shaped eyes.

They’re all wearing faded shirts that stretch across their large, barrel chests and taper down to narrow hips. Blue jeans cling to long legs that go on forever. Their incredible height sets them above everyone else and their gait is better than any model on any catwalk. Ever.

I’ve never seen people who look as hauntingly beautiful and effortlessly intimidating in real life.

Are these The Kings? The boys who were powerful enough to shut down the entire show?

The two brunettes at the ends break off. One is twirling drumsticks while the other clutches a guitar bag. The blond in the middle gets flocked by two girls who edge up under his armpits for a selfie.

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