Page 1 of Heart of a Rebel

1

Eloise

Itmustbefreeingfor the guys in the band—the lack of inhibition, the immaturity, the reckless abandon.

Half the time I’m convinced Sebastian, Noah, and Rome are only making music to be pawed at and fawned over. Like right now, as I watch them from across the bar and wonder if I’m the only one in this for the right reasons.

The groupies who flock to our shows are bad enough for a local band in Fairfield, California. What happens if Enemy Muse actually makes it big? Landing a record deal will amplify the troubles brewing inside them. And while I know deep down the guys care about the band as much as I do, their lack of self-control proves fame is going to test them on a whole other level.

Some days it feels like I’m the only one holding the four of us together. While they’re getting their dicks sucked and spending our gig money on alcohol, here I am, once again, the only one trying to focus.

Because I’m here for the music. I’m here because there’s nothing else worth doing with my life. There’s no better feeling than the one I get with my guitar in my hands. Making music is my purpose.

“Eloise…” Sebastian is already slurring as he slings an arm around the back of my chair. “Stop working and join us.”

His whiskey brown eyes barely manage to focus as he pushes his dark blond hair off his forehead. He started drinking with the rest of the band the moment our set ended, so it didn’t take long beforea littlefun turned intoa lotsloppy.

“I’m busy.” I scribble down a few more words and try to ignore the heavy Bourbon scent on his breath.

I love my brother, but I’m not delusional. He’s a trainwreck in the making.

It doesn’t help that he’s the twenty-one-year-old lead singer in our locally famous band. Being handed all the things I worry one day will be his downfall. Since day one, he’s embraced the spoils of even mild success and enjoyed every bit of it. He might work his ass off behind the scenes, but his impulsiveness and vanity are trouble.

Sebastian tries to pull my notebook out of my hands, but I slap a palm over it, pinning it to the bar top.

“You can write tomorrow,” he says. “We just finished our set, let’s party.”

“Noah and Rome not enough fun for you?” I narrow my eyes and glance over his shoulder.

Noah is seated at a table with his girlfriend, Kali, sitting in his lap. She’s playing with his shoulder-length blond hair, and he’s downing shots like they’re water. Rome is across from them laughing, talking to some girl in a leather miniskirt.

“It’s not the same without you, sis.” Sebastian shoots me one of his ridiculously blinding grins, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.

Sebastian doesn't actually want me to come over there to hang out and party. He wants me to chat up the ladies because he knows I’ll be able to keep them around longer, giving him a chance to circle in. I’m not sure when the guys in the band turned me into their unofficial wing woman, but it’s how they seem to view me lately.

I talk to our fans because I like hearing their thoughts on our shows and music—not so the guys can get in their pants.

“I’ll join you guys in a minute, okay?” I sigh, knowing he’s not going to let this go. “I just need to get this last verse out or I’ll forget what I was trying to say.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. He may be wasted and beyond the point of caring about work right now, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand. We co-write all the songs for the band, giving us both a clear understanding of pushing through when inspiration strikes.

“Fifteen minutes.” Sebastian points at me as he walks away, re-joining the guys at the table across the bar.

Another round of shots is being delivered and it churns something sour in my stomach. As much as I know we need this, and that staying in Fairfield isn’t good for any of us, I’m not sure hitting it big will be much better.

“Can I get you a drink?”

I jump at the deep voice coming from behind the bar, realizing I’ve been spacing out staring at my brother.

Turning, I’m met with the sharpest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Focused, rich, the color of cinnamon. An edge to them that is both fascinating and terrifying because it cuts to the core of me.

The bartender looks down at my glass. It’s pooling with half-melted ice. “You’re empty.”

“Water, please.” I push the glass his way.

It’s not that I don’t drink, but when the guys are havinga night, it’s usually better if I stay sober in case I need to drive their wasted asses home later.

The bartender nods and takes my glass. He fills it to the brim and slides it back in my direction.

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