I tug him against me and stare up into his face. The truth is, who he is doesn’t change what he is. He’s still someone who made my world a little brighter when I needed a spark. The other truth? I kind of owe him an apology too.
“Hey, Eli. I’m really sorry for not recognizing you. I should have. I recognized Luke, Casey, and even Mike.”
“Sweeny. We just call him Sweeny,” he says casually.
I smile up at him. “Okay. Sweeny. Anyway, I’m sorry. You’re amazing, you know that? You deserve to be recognized too. If I’m being honest with myself, it was kind of my job to know who you were, and so really, the failure lies with me.”
He shrugs and plants a kiss on my hair as he walks us toward the stairs to get our stuff. “Eh, don’t worry about it. No one ever recognizes the bass player.”
The end.
For more Eli, Liberty, Burn Card, and Night Shifts Black check out The NSB Rocker Series and The Turner Artist Rocker Series by Alyson Santos.
Alyson is a writer, musician, and cat lover. Explore love in a new way by checking out these other titles by Alyson. For updates, reveals, and more subscribe to Aly’s newsletter and join her fun, laidback reader group on Facebook: Aly’s Breakfast Club.
THE TURNER ARTIST ROCKER SERIES
RISING WEST
FALLING NORTH
BREAKING SOUTH
THE NSB ROCKER SERIES
NIGHT SHIFTS BLACK (NSB #1)
TRACING HOLLAND (NSB #2)
VIPER (NSB #3)
LIMELIGHT (NSB #4)
AN NSB WEDDING (NSB #5)
STANDALONES
YOUNG LOVE
TRAITOR (TWISTED FATE #1)
HAUNTED MELODY
PARANORMAL BOOKS BY MOIRA HALE
GIFTED (Gifted, Vol 1)
CURSED (Gifted, Vol 2)
It’s time to believe.
I’m a writer, musician, and cat lover. Not always in that order.
I write what needs to come out, whether it’s pain, tears, or laughter. I write people and relationships, about the beauty and horror of what we do to ourselves and each other. I write Love. Vengeance. Compassion. Cruelty. Trust. Betrayal. Forgiveness. Darkness, and the incredible way humans destroy and heal each other.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Wilder, the lead singer for Wild Knights, isn’t looking for love when his band stops to play a show in California. But from the second his eyes land on Simone, she steals his very breath—right along with his heart.
1995
Wilder
“Well, this is Riverside,” Lucas says. My best friend and the lead guitarist for our band pushes the gear shift into park and everyone piles out of the van.
“I thought it’d look nicer,” Matty grumbles, stepping to my side. He shakes out his jet-black hair, thrashing it around as if he’s behind his drum kit, then stands straight to pull it back into a rubber band.
I squint my eyes, stretching my hands to the sky and working the kinks from my back as I take in the unimpressive sight. Another town, another empty parking lot. But I can’t complain—not when we’re living life, on the road, and doing what we love. The fall air is crisp and I’m thankful there’s no rain spewing from the clouds overhead.
“We unloading first?” I ask Lucas.
“Let me check and find out.” He jogs over to the box office built into this older venue. It’s got a vintage vibe, and a thrill of excitement spurs at the thought of tonight’s show. There’s nothing like a live audience. Doesn’t matter how small the crowd or dive the bar, I’ll never tire of it.
I glance up to the marquee and chuckle at the sight. They’ve misspelled our band name. Again. Fuck. We should really change it. What should read “Wild Knights” is just “Wild Nights.” People always drop the K, or don’t realize how to spell it, which makes us really difficult for listeners to find. We thought we were so clever, but when over half the gigs we play get it wrong, it’s obviously not. That and most fans appear more confused than entertained when we explain the name and, well, it’s just embarrassing. Hell, I should be thankful we’re even on the sign. As the band that plays before the opener, we don’t get much, if any publicity.
“I’m starving, dude.” Matty yawns and scrubs a hand down his face.
“I could go for anything that’s not beef jerky or protein bars.” Keat pats his belly. He proceeds to burp so loud a few birds fly from the roof of a nearby building.
“So could we, Grossman,” Big John says, hopping from the van and stretching his long legs. “How the fuck did I get stuck in the back? Again. Especially when this dude is letting it rip like he’s trying to start a fire with his ass.”
Everyone laughs and I crinkle my nose as I join in. The five of us become Neanderthals after a few weeks of travel in our sixteen-passenger van. By the time we pack in our equipment, instruments, and bags for five full-grown men, it’s more than a little cramped.
Lucas struts back across the parking lot with a stack of papers in his hand, waving them above his head as he comes closer. “We’ve got flyers.”
Everyone groans.
“How many?” I blow out a long breath, my stomach grumbling with hunger. “And can we stop for lunch first?”
“Only a hundred,” he says, which honestly isn’t as bad as some places. “They want a packed house tonight, and if we get them there it could mean a bonus.”
“There’s an outdoor mall about a half a mile from here.” Matty glances up from his cell and points in one direction. “We could eat and hit up a few shoppers.”
“What day is it?” Big John scratches his head.
“Saturday,” Matty says. “Yeah, this will be good.”
Keat nods. “What about the equipment?”
“They said we can unload now.” Lucas hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s someone who’ll let us in the back.”
“Well, let’s get on with it.” I’m not looking forward to handing out flyers all afternoon, but at least I’m not stuck in the van. Someday we won’t have to hustle so hard, but until then at least my bandmates are some of the coolest dudes I know.
• • •
“Let’s split up.” Matty wipes his face with a napkin and takes a sip from his soda. “Cover more ground.”
“Sounds good.” Lucas pulls the flyers from his backpack and divides them into two piles. “Wild and I will take the second level; you three hit the ground floor.” We’re currently sitting on the third floor of the outdoor shopping mall finishing up lunch.
“Please don’t make me talk to strangers.” Big John groans. He’s a giant of a dude; at six-foot-five and pushing three hundred pounds, he also looks intimidating as hell. But while the man kills on bass, he’s shy as hell.
“We got you, brother,” Keat says, then lets loose a belch. Thankfully, his keyboard skills are much better than his social ones.
Matty grabs the second stack of flyers and pushes from the table. “Meet up in an hour?” He wads up his trash, shoots it into the nearby can, and sinks it.