The guy is probably still wrapped up in his unending office hours, but he could’ve at least let me know he wasn’t gonna show. I shake my head. Nothing makes a guy boring more quickly than a nine-to-five and a steady girlfriend.
Donovan said he’d try to come today, but I know what that means. He’s a busy guy with a billion-dollar business to run. I get it, or at least I try to. But sometimes I miss the old Donovan. The one I grew up with, the one who had time for me.
Cheering interrupts my sullen thoughts. To my surprise, Mick has managed to squeeze some enthusiasm from the crowd as the swelling of their voices once again rise over the thud of rock music playing over the speakers.
A severe-faced guy around my age walks up. “Are you warmed up?”
He stares at me with olive green eyes that are as bored as they are distant. I recognize him instantly as the owner of the bar. He looks like he’s never smiled a day in his life. You’d think someone running such a popular rock bar would be more personable. I can’t remember his name, but I make a mental note to figure it out. That way I can namedrop it for future gigs. There’s nothing wrong with a little schmoozing when you’re trying to make it big in the music world. In fact, that’s kind of the name of the game.
I gesture toward Alex’s flask with my patent smirk. “I’m as warm as I need to be.”
With a roll of his eyes, the bar owner presses a finger against the Bluetooth microphone tucked neatly into his ear. “They’re ready. Cue the lights before the drunks in the crowd start crashing the stage or something.”
“Alright now, y’all,” Mick announces buoyantly, the twang of his southern voice ill-fitting to the grungy atmosphere of the New York bar. The voices of the impatient crowd again pitch with eagerness as they clap and stomp their feet. “You may not have heard of Social Kingdom before, but I’ve gotta tell ya, they’re truly something else. You’re gonna leave this bar tonight wanting to hear more.”
Mick speaks as though he’d been listening while we were doing our sound check earlier, because I’m certain he’s never heard one of our songs before today; songs I’d written myself. Still, I appreciate his speech. He’s not wrong, after all. These people are about to have their little rock and roll minds blown.
As the crowd goes wild, Mick grins and nods while James, Alex, and myself grab our instruments and huddle closer to the side of the stage, the curtains flapping against our ankles. I suck in a breath, bouncing on my toes until my lungs start to burn. Only then do I slowly let the air held in my chest out through my nose while I count to ten. It’s a small ritual, but one that helps calm my nerves. You can’t exactly play your best if you’re shaking like a leaf.
One of my hands gently squeezes Camilla, who’s snuggled into my side. She’s my vintage Fender Stratocaster that I’d managed to find in a thrift store in high school. Camilla is the only thing I’ve ever loved that’s never let me down. She’s my soulmate, even if she is just a guitar. Her red paint, once fiery crimson, has faded in luster over the years, but her notes still ring true.
“Let’s welcome Social Kingdom to the stage!” the announcer calls, stepping to the side and gesturing us out with a beckoning hand. He’s grinning, but his jaw is clenched. Clearly the faith he’d had in us was all for the crowd’s benefit.
Little does he know just how hard my band can rock. Music is all that matters to me. It’s all that’s ever mattered. No matter what I’m going through, it’s always there. Writing songs and putting my emotions to music has always been my method of dealing with the madness that is life. It’s all I really need.
Together, the three of us pile out to join Mick on the stage, Alex rushing behind the waiting drum set and James struts behind me with his bass. The crowd quiets, gazing at us. I can hardly see them through the burning lights illuminating the stage, but I can tell they’re waiting to be entertained.
Swallowing, I step up to the mic and feel the familiar rush of whiskey and adrenaline as Alex’s first drum beats thump out. Eyes half closed, my fingers stroke over Camilla’s strings and my lips part with that very first note.
Chapter 2
Morgan
“Holy hell, Morgan,” Charlotte remarks, watching as I scrub my hands and arms with the pearly pink soap in our modeling agency’s bathroom.
At first glance, the soap seems to be the fancy kind you’d find in some swanky uptown spa. In actuality, it’s gritty like it’s made with sand, and its scent is so perfumed with fake roses that it makes my head spin. Usually the sharp texture of the soap is off-putting, but today I appreciate how it turns my flesh an irritated, but clean, pink.
The other model leans against the wall of the bathroom, arms neatly folding in front of her chest as she observes my incessant scrubbing. “Any particular reason you’re trying to scrub your skin off?”
I stop washing my arms only when it hurts to touch them, then grab a handful of equally scratchy paper towels to dry off. “I’m fine now,” I mutter irritably, meeting Charlotte’s eyes in the mirror and then looking away.
“Did something happen at that photoshoot you had scheduled this morning?” she asks, unmoving from her spot against the wall.
I cast another short glance her way, expecting to see prying nosiness in her expression, but her beautiful green eyes are concerned. I’m not used to other models being so kind. We’re all here just trying to break into this cutthroat career, one that doesn’t exactly breed compassion between women. Any other girl in this agency would’ve been trying to use this moment to break my spirit even more than it already was today.
“Morgan?” she presses softly.
I finally sigh, shuddering and taking a step back from the sink that still glistens with water. “It was beyond sleazy,” I mutter.
Glancing at my pink flesh I still don’t feel clean. All I can think about is that guy pretending to be a photographer touching me and contorting my body in different angles that were too suggestive to be a simple modeling shoot.
“Did you tell Hanson?” Charlotte asks of the owner of our modeling agency.
My chin bobs in a nod. “I did. He’s going to make sure none of us get sent out to that guy’s ‘studio’ again.” I use my fingers to do air quotes.
The supposed studio had been a tiny room in the back of a rundown house with little in it but a threadbare sofa. I’m just glad I followed my instincts and charged out of there after ten minutes instead of staying.
Both of us shudder and Charlotte bites her full lower lip before sidling in front of the mirror to run long, pale fingers through her crimson hair. Enviously, I watch her, forgetting to keep my face blank of expression as I typically do with the other girls in the agency. Even though I’m tall, Charlotte is taller. Her ruby hair and lips make her stand out in ways that I apparently do not. She’s always getting booked while I’m just trying to get any scraps of a job I can.
It’s not like I’m bad looking. I’m not. I’ve been told I look like a modern Kate Moss, blonde, leggy and sexy as hell. I know that sounds arrogant, but part of being a model is being confident, though standing next to Charlotte I feel like a wilting flower.