Page 1 of Reverb
Chapter One
Mish Sullivan hated hospitals. The harsh light, the antiseptic smell, the curtains and lack of privacy, and all the bad memories being in one dredged up. All those times back when she’d been a teen, sitting at her mom’s side, waiting for the inevitable to happen. More recently, she’d sat at Ray’s hospital bed, her heart in her throat for the leader and singer/songwriter of their little band when he’d had a horrendous allergic reaction after being roofied by their former shitbag of a manager.
Twisted Wishes wasn’t so little now. They had a reasonable new manager, and they were about to go on their own headlining tour across the US. This time, it was Ray sitting by her bed, pale and upset while the rest of the band, plus their social media coordinator, lingered behind him, all looking shaken.
She really needed Ray to calm the fuck down before that expression of horror on his face spread to the rest of the guys. Last thing she needed wasfournervous wrecks. The guys were all too strung out most of the time as it was.
“I’m fine, sweetheart, really.” Mish patted Ray’s hand. She was, too. Mostly. Yes, her right hand was sprained and in a brace, her knees were bloodied and bruised, and fighting off that shithead had ended with her ripping her brand-new patterned stockings. And she’d fucking loved those things. She had a few other scrapes here and there, but nothing major. “None the worse for wear.”
Ray made a sound that was a weird combination of a laugh, a sob, and a grunt. “The fuck you are. He nearly broke your hand!”
Not quite true. She’d slugged that guy in the jawbeforeshe’d lost her footing and landed weirdly on it. Bad piece of luck. The crowd at their pop-up concert had been so thick and the venue security too thin. She’d been knocked around and dragged in the rush to get the band out of there, and that certainly hadn’t helped her hand any.
She’d had worse in bar fights. Nothing was broken this time, there was hardly any blood, and she hadn’t needed stitches.
Zavier, their drummer and Ray’s husband, put a hand on Ray’s shoulder. His blue eyes locked on Mish’s and the look he gave her, while sympathetic, was also worried. Fucking Zav. He was going to take Ray’s side in this. Coddle her. He was usually the most levelheaded of the lot.
She cut him off even as he opened his mouth. “I fell wrong, that’s all. I’m fine. They’re gonna spring me from here soon, and we can all go home.”
Though she wouldn’t be playing until her hand healed. No way she could move her fingers on the strings of her bass when everything wasthisswollen. Thankfully, they had a couple of weeks before their tour. She’d exercise the hand as it healed. Keep it limber. They planned to marathon some practices before the tour started anyway. She’d be healed up by then.
“He came at you with scissors.” Soft words from Dom, their guitarist. He was still in most of his makeup and all of his studded leather, but he’d turned back into the quiet, thoughtful version of himself.
“He just wanted some hair, the weirdo.” She waved his concern away.
Behind Dom, Adrian—their social media/tech guy and Dom’s boy toy—crossed his arms. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He was the oldest out of all of them and as even-keeled as Zav. His thoughtful frown wasn’t a good sign.
“Adrian...” Last thing they needed washimto go mushy-brained about this.
He shook his head. “It’s not an isolated thing, Mish. You don’t see the emails.”
But he did. Mish flinched when her stomach tumbled. “I want out of here.” Though it galled her that Adrian might be keeping secrets from her, she didn’t want to hear that she had a stalker, or obsessive fans, or whatever it was that he was going to tell her. “Can one of you find a doc or a nurse?”
Before any of the boys could do what she’d asked, their band manager, Marcella, strode into the room. Thank god. Someone who’d understand that none of this was that big a deal. Just...the normal stuff of being a rock star.
Mish turned to her. “Will you please talk some sense into these boys and tell them everything’s fine?”
Marcella sighed. “You have a badly sprained wrist that will keep you from playing for several weeks, plus cuts and abrasions. The tabloids have photos of you bloodied up out there on the scandal sites, and people are speculating that the tour will be canceled. Everything isnotfine.”
“See?” Ray pointed at Marcella, as if to underscore the point.
“Fuck that. I’ll be fine by then, and I’m not porcelain, Ray. I got a little banged up because of some dork—that’s it. If I were Zav, would you be this upset?”
Probably the wrong person to pick. “If that had happened to Zav, to myhusband, I’d be hiring a security guard for his ass.”
Zavier frowned. “The hell you would.”
“See?” Mish pointed at Zavier. “He doesn’t need protection, and neither do I.”
Ray stepped closer to Zavier, fire in his eyes. “The hell Iwouldn’t, Zavier...”
Marcella cleared her throat. “Actually, you need protection.Allof you. Hiring a guard for the band is a fantastic idea. You’re too big now not to have someone working for you, especially with the more...exuberant fans.”
Like the one who’d come after her. “I don’t need a damn bodyguard,” Mish said, even as her arms and knees started to ache from the fall. “Besides, I bet that guy looks worse. That’ll stop people.”
“That guy is in a holding cell at the police station,” Marcella said. “And the booking photos are on the internet, too, with comments about your temperament. Frankly, you all need someone watching over you. This isn’t a you thing, Mish.” She waved her hand around the room. “It’s anall of youthing.”
Ray nodded, and Zavier had a resigned look in his eyes. Shit.
