He shrugs. “I pay attention.” A grin emerges through his tough expression, exposing a shallow dimple in his cheek. My heart jumps in my chest. “I saw some guy up here earlier today when we arrived, so I knew it was possible, and it didn’t take me long to find a spare key.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, then lean back on my hands, tilting my head at him. “I think I like you.”
His raised eyebrow gives him away. He’s reading way too much into that. Crap. “No, no,” I backpedal. “I just mean you were a little creepy back there. You know, voice in the shadows and all. But you’re kind of cool now. And I like your hair.”
He grins. “Thanks.”
I laugh again, this time nervously. I like your face, too.
“How old are you, anyway?” I ask.
“Fifteen. You?”
“Same. You’re not from here.”
He shrugs. “My mom lives in California, my dad is from here, so it’s easier to say I’m from all over. I don’t like to claim any one space as home.”
I frown because that’s exactly how I’d prefer to be. It beats the reality I’m facing now. I’m about to leave a place that I love. The only place I could ever think to call home. And I may have just found someone who understands.
“One day we won’t need our parents,” he says, cutting into my thoughts. His words are few, but heavy.
“What?”
“If it helps with whatever you’re going through right now, just remember that. Remember that one day, you’ll be on your own anyway, and there’s nothing they can do or say to hurt you. You’re living this life for you, not them. Play by their rules now, sure, but only you get to decide where you’re going.”
He’s right, but it doesn’t resolve how lost I already feel by the thought of moving and not being with my father. We were happy here. At least, I was happy here.
I want to ask the boy why he’s here. Why he seems angry. Where he lives in California. I have so many questions, but I’m distracted as I track his movements. He slides closer until one of his legs is pressed against mine, his face so close, and all the words become a jumble on the tip of my tongue.
“You’re pretty,” he says, examining me as if I’m abstract art. His eyes flicker between my eyes and mouth, and oh, how I want to be his muse. Air crackles with an unmistakable energy, and before I can stop it, a fire spreads over me—my skin, paint to his canvas.
His closeness awakens my senses in a way that only sees him, feels him, hears him, smells him…
And just as I wish for a taste, he starts to lean in.
His lips are nearly to mine, so near I think I stop breathing, but just for a second. There’s a commotion at the entrance of the roof that startles us apart. Our heads turn toward the sound of rattling of metal against wood … silence … a shuffle of feet against cement … and then a bang of a door crashing against the wall.
My dad’s voice booms through the air, a hint of panic in his voice. “Pumpkin, are you up here?”
My heart jumps into my throat while my eyes grow wide. “I’m here,” I call out in a rush and pull away from the boy. My dad will never understand what I’m doing with a strange boy on a dark roof late in the night. When I should be home packing. Giving the boy one fleeting glance as I stand, I hope my hesitation to leave him is clear. His eyes register curiosity, but nothing else.
My dad calls for me again and I jump. “Coming, Dad.”
Tearing my eyes from the boy’s with a final apologetic glance, I run. When I round the edge of the wall, I find my dad gripping the open rooftop door. His expression reveals concern and curiosity more than anything else. For that, I’m grateful. My father rarely gets angry, and he never gets angry at me. But I’ve never given him anything to get angry about. A strange boy luring me to the rooftop at night might bring out a different side to him.
“How did you get up here?”
“Uh … the door was open,” I lie, stepping past him to the stairwell. “I just needed some air.”
My dad pulls me back and wraps his arms around me, squeezing tight. He’s happy I’m safe, and as upset at him as I am, this simple gesture warms my heart. I can’t imagine my mother ever showing concern for my well-being. “I’m sorry, pumpkin. I know you’re upset, but you can’t be up here alone. Go home. Get some sleep. We’ll talk about the arrangements in the morning, okay?”
The arrangements. My stomach churns, but I nod. I won’t let him see me cry. “Okay.”
He shuts the door of the roof and we make our way down the steps. As my dad ushers me out of the venue and into a taxi, I look up to the roof one last time. The boy is still there, wearing the same expression I left him with—one I know I’ll never forget.
Hope.
I never did get that taste.
Chapter 1
Lyric
Yes. My name is Lyric. As in song lyrics. As in the music that was playing during my conception. Because my parents are—were—rock stars.
I’m not complaining. I’ll take Lyric over any of the other asinine possibilities they came up with back then. One drawback: it’s not a name that goes unnoticed. Ever.
I’m known as Lyric Cassidy, daughter of a rock icon and a pop goddess who had a swift affair in the nineties. Although my parents were never married and broke up when I was five, they are still one of the most popular couples to grace the music industry. And let’s just say, it makes my passion for the music industry … complicated.
Let me rephrase that.
My fate in the music industry is sealed. Nothing about that is complicated—and therein lies the problem.
Music is my everything. It’s the air I breathe. The beat I walk to. The blood in my veins. It’s what lulls me to sleep at night. What carries me through the storms of my life … like the one that just passed.
Except I’m not a musician myself. Not professionally, anyway. I just want to be surrounded by music, however and whenever possible. But the limelight? Well, that’s not for me.
It was always a given I’d fall for a rock star. The bad boy type with the raspy vocals who could make an entire sold-out arena swoon. I fell for one, and then he broke my heart when he fell into bed with my best friend. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. It wasn’t to anyone else. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know the importance of shielding my heart like my life depended on it. I know now.
The affair left me with a gaping hole in my heart, aching to be filled. And so I filled it with music. And then my heart was sealed, wrapped up in a tangle of guitar strings, never to be infiltrated again. Have you ever tried flicking a guitar string? Those fuckers are strong.
My bosses were made aware of my situation before I even told them I wanted a new assignment. They had another job lined up for me—by pure coincidence, I’m sure. The job was mine if I wanted it, they said, and I didn’t hesitate for a second. It wasn’t until they sent the contract over and I saw who I would be working for that I thought to rescind my acceptance. But in the end, I signed, desperate to leave my mess of a life in Seattle. And just like that, the job was mine.