Page 1 of Never Say Die
CHAPTER ONE
Aiden Moore was absolutely certain the moon would show up for a ritual sacrifice. He searched the sky for its face and found the bright, white sphere looming behind rainclouds high above the ocean, hiding from a predetermined future.
Fucking coward.
His boot clipped a rock, then another, sending stones toppling over the edge of a mossy cliff on the outskirts of Malibu. Rich folk didn’t waste their time on the Ocean Grove trailhead. It was, at once, too harshly overgrown and too moderate. People carrying purse-dogs would linger in the dirt lot, satisfied with a Facebook check-in and a portrait-mode snapshot of their running shoes. Fitness junkies sneered their noses at the bumpy trail and complained to their friends during post-workout juice-brunches aboutforestry maintenanceandwhere do my taxes even goandit’s not that good of a burn, anyway. No one worth a damn swatted their way through Ocean Grove’s spindly branches unless they were looking for a place to get off, get well, or worse, and he certainly hadn’t lugged a backpack full of store-bought pig’s blood and freshly plucked dove feathers to the cliffs for nothing.
So, where the hell was Shay fucking Bennett?
Adrenaline sank into his marrow, quickening his thoughts. Everywhat iflashed at his heels.What if this is too crazy? What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m making a mistake? What if I regret it?Aiden swallowed to wet his throat.
For eight years, he’d listened to seasoned musicians backstage at shows yap about the business—what they’d gone through, what they’d do differently. But it was always the four-person bands from truck-stop towns in middle America who nodded and gritted their teeth. It was always the openers playing hand-me-down instruments and agreeing onexposurepayment who would do whatever it took to get where they wanted to go. Buy a van, leave your hometown behind, head west to the city of lights. Get blinded. Hooked on something cut with bleach and gutter water. Peek at the dirt caked under each Hollywood star. After a while, you’re missing Mom’s Sunday dinners. Dreaming about church cookouts with a needle stuck between your toes.
He’d known too many hopefuls like that. Seen bands come and go—guitarist last spotted on Sunset Boulevard, vocalist court-ordered to attend a twelve-month wellness program, talented drummer found dead in Venice Beach.New players on the block rarely held their own. They got sidetracked by lights and nightclubs. Top-shelf this and Colombian that. Record deals on silver-plated platters shaped like dreams they’d carried from one place to the next. Well, Aiden wasn’t from some haybale, cow-tipping turnoff, and growing up in this soulless city had taught him a few things.
First, free drugs were neveractuallyfree.
Second, don’t fuck your bandmates. Don’t fuck their boyfriends either.
Third, hormones change everything. Especially your voice.
Fourth, not one single talented, ridiculously good-looking, checks-every-stupid-fucking-box musician got where they wanted to go without doing a few things they never thought they’d do.
Despite the laughably edgy, black eyeliner wearing, satanic frat-boys who somehow became overnight millionaires—murder was most people’s bugaboo.
Footsteps thumped packed dirt near the tree-line, followed by a breathy curse. Aiden whipped around. Backpack straps dug into his narrow shoulders, but he relaxed once Shay stepped into view. Like always, Shay Bennett played the part of the dedicated 90s-grunge front-man, dressed in a tattered black long-sleeve and dark denim. He swatted his palms together, gaze heavy on Aiden, and laughed in his throat.
“So, you corner me after rehearsal, ask me to meet you at some ass-backward hiking trail, and I’m supposed to believe it’s because you’ve got somethin’ new to say. . . ? A hard-on for me, maybe?” Shay asked. Aiden arched a brow, and Shay barked a laugh. “C’mon.Seriously, Aiden?” Shay shook his head, running knobby fingers through his short, bleached hair. “I thought that was one of your rules—don’t sleep with bandmates.”
“You’re not in the band anymore,” Aiden said, and scraped his teeth over his bottom lip.
He remembered that headline.SHAY BENNETT, UP-AND-COMING VOCALIST, LEAVES HOMEGROWN METAL BAND TO JOIN CHAIN REACTION FOR THEIR SUMMER TOUR.Seven years, a few leads, hundreds of festivals, thousands of rejections, and all it’d taken was one juicy offer for Shay to leave Aiden and Knight’s Blood behind. He’d been a rusty nail in their coffin twelve months ago, burying Knight’s Blood with every otheralmostLos Angeles had squashed under its heel.
Betraying the band hadn’t been the worst part, but Aidenactively avoided the rest. TheI’ve known you since we were twelvepart.Theyou took care of me after top surgerypart. Thewe were friends—best friendspart. TheI might’ve loved youpart. Thewe could’ve been something part.But rage had swallowed whatever future they’d had anyway.
Shay gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “True.”
“Why’d your opener back out?”
“I got you a gig. That’s all you need to worry about.” He flicked his eyes from Aiden’s boots to his weathered leather jacket. “Don’t embarrass us tomorrow.”
Anger needled his throat. No onecouldembarrass Chain Reaction, especially not a trashy dive-bar band accepting free handouts from their ex-front-man. “I brought you a thank you baggie. Not that you need it, but. . .” Aiden shrugged. Panic jabbed between his shoulder blades.Do it. Don’t do it. Do it. Don’t do it.His breath quivered. “Figured you could lower your standards and do a few lines with an old friend.”
“We’re not friends,” Shay said. He rolled his pretty eyes. Big, blue, Bambi eyes. Stage eyes. “That’s what you said a while back, right?”
Yeah, at Mayhem in Glendale, the morning the news broke. Aiden had stormed into the adjoining motel room, fully expecting to split his knuckles on Shay’s teeth. Shay’d been too cowardly for that, though. He’d left in the middle of the night. Stranded them without a singer at one of the biggest festivals in Southern California six hours before they were supposed to perform. Aiden had broken two lamps, kicked over a mattress, and thrown himself to the ground like a toddler. He’d cried, but who wouldn’t? Dreams, shattered. Best friend, gone. Band, destroyed. Life, over.
Aiden took a step. Another. The sheathed hunting knife clipped to the back of his pants shifted. A leather handlepinched his skin. “You reached out to Thomas about opening for you guys, now I’m reaching out to you. Yes or no?”
Shay’s mouth turned at the corners. “Fine. I’ll bite.”
You always do.The backpack slipped off his shoulders. He swallowed hard, forcing bile to stay in his stomach, and pawed through his bag. His thumb met the round lid on the plastic tub of defrosted blood. Loose pages slid across his palm. Feathers brushed his wrist. The tiny, cellophane baggie was wrapped safely in his extra shirt, hidden beneath everything else. He dangled the neatly packaged white powder.
“Speaking of Thomas, when’re you trading him in for an actual vocalist?” Shay teased. He snatched the baggie and punctured it with his teeth. “That’s why you guys are lagging, you know. Shitty vocals won’t book you any gigs.”
“That’s why,” Aiden said under his breath. He turned his gaze toward the waves, rolling, crashing, climbing. “Definitely has nothing to do with our lead singer selling out.”
“Here we go. . .” He sprinkled a bump onto the curve of his thumb and snorted.
