Never.
No. Not never. No. It just won’t work, and I hate that it makes me sad to know that.
“Take care, Luc,” I whisper before walking out the door.
You, you left me behind.
So cruel and unkind.
Fame and fortune you’ll find.
All thoughts of me free from your mind.
Life was good. I was happy with you.
We had a love, I believe to be true.
If you felt the same, you’d have made it work.
But instead, you walked away like a total fucking jerk.
One last hurrah, one last fuck.
I’ll say goodbye and good luck.
I wish success for you and your band.
Go on back to your adoring fans.
You’re just a man to me.
You need to sing and be free.
I need to let you go.
So you can put on your show.
Your fans adore and worship you.
That’s what you need, I know it’s true.
It’s time to move on and start to live.
I once gave you all I had to give.
Now, mine is mine, and yours is yours.
I will see you no more.
What’s meant to be is how it is.
Thank you for one last fuck and kiss.
Take it easy, Singer Man.
Go on and enjoy your fans.
It’s time for me to find me.
Now I know you, and I can never be.
Dear John, Dear John.
I hate that fucking Dear Jane Song.
You’ll never know how much that is true.
Let me just say goodbye to you.
The end, for now.
Lucian, Burners Book #1 will be released in 2021.
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Anne Mercier is the International Bestselling author of the Rockstar series, Truths series, Forbidden Fantasies series, The Way series, and the Kiss duet. She writes adult contemporary romance, new adult contemporary romance, and mature young adult romance. She was born and raised in Wisconsin and still lives there today.
When Anne’s not writing she enjoys reading amazing books, listening to music, keeping up on all things Avenged Sevenfold and Milo Ventimiglia, chatting with readers and friends, and binging Netflix series.
It’s All About The Romance
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an NSB and Turner Artist story
ABOUT THE BOOK
No one ever recognizes the bass player. Bassist Eli Blake is used to living in the shadows of his iconic bandmates. But then came the creepy basement. And the locked door. And the broom-yielding girl who looks so damn eager to smash his face in. Now he’s trapped with a murderous assistant manager who’d clearly rather be stuck with anyone else. Except… she’s kind of cute—and her glares keep melting into a different kind of heat. See, when no one recognizes the bass player, nights with a rock star become incredibly complicated. Time to find out if all’s fair in love, hate, and Bass(ment) Wars.
Eli
Missed call from Liberty Blake (4).
Liberty: Chris is leaving!
Liberty: Pick up your phone Eli!
Liberty: Ahhhh I need you!!!
I prop up in my bunk and squint at the phone screen. Four in the morning is too damn early for my cousin to be frantically trying to get my attention. This can’t be good. The bus isn’t moving, so we must have parked at our next tour stop: some old timey theater that’s supposedly haunted. When I peek past the curtain into the aisle, everyone else is still asleep. Of course they are. We just went to bed two hours ago after last night’s show. I release an exhausted sigh and drop back to my pillow. Eh, with the time difference, it’s probably a bad time to call L.A. anyway.
My phone buzzes, and I squint at the bright backing light.
Liberty: Eli!!!! Call me. Please!!!!
Ugh.
On the bus. Give me a second to get somewhere to talk, I type back before she blows up my phone again.
Rubbing my eyes, I force my legs over the edge of my upper level bunk, trying to keep my movements as quiet as possible. I land on the floor with ninja-level stealth, proud of myself for functioning at all at this hour of the morning. Cool air chills my skin, and I pat my bare chest in the dark. Yeah, I’ll need clothing. My mouth feels chalky as well. And a toothbrush. At least mints and a bottle of water. Hell, who knows how long this will take. Might as well grab my overnight bag and brace for a marathon. Liberty doesn’t freak out often, but when she does, it’s monumental.
Chris is leaving.
I think back on her initial text. What does that mean? If it means what I think it does, I’ll need more than an overnight bag. Good thing today is an off-day.
The front lounge of the tour bus is empty, so the driver must have already relocated to his hotel room after our short drive from New York to Philadelphia. I fish around my bag for a t-shirt and shorts, sliding them on in the eerie dark of pre-dawn. Will I finally see what a sunrise looks like? After pulling on my sneakers, I fire off a quick text to Sweeny explaining my sudden departure and warning him not to wait for me. We were supposed to hang out later today, but who knows when I’ll be able to meet up with him now. With the level of angst in Liberty’s messages, I’ll be lucky to get her back from the cliff in time for tomorrow night’s show.
I slip off the bus, cringing at the exit door which suddenly sounds like a jet engine. Is it always that loud? The early morning air is cooler than I expect, and I’m glad I grabbed my hoodie. I yank it over my head and rub the rest of the sleep from my eyes.
The theater looms ahead, dramatic and intimidating against the ominous night sky. There are no signs of activity inside. Will I even be able to get in? I’m not looking forward to a long night of pacing this parking lot if I can’t. The closest door is locked, and I tug at the wrought iron handle a few times as if that will somehow jar it loose. No such luck. There’s another door further over, and I could burst into (quiet) song when that one gives with an angry creak.
Musty, stale air rushes at me when I duck inside. The door clanks shut behind me, and I shudder at the definitive clatter. It’s like I’m a prisoner that’s just been swallowed whole. If this place is haunted, I’m about to find out as I fumble for the flashlight on my phone. Typically, there are plenty of places to hide in the backstage bowels of these venues, but it’s not often I have to fear a corpse or ghost during my search for privacy. My phone vibrates again, and I stop to read another text from Liberty.