Read Online Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) by Clara Stone - Free Book Online
Authors: Clara Stone
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claps his hands and everyone’s attention goes to him. “All right, boys, let’s see if we have our last bandmate.”
“Hey!” Joel says, the same time Jackson says, “Glad you made it.”
And suddenly, I take a liking to them. I grin, feeling my nerves fade a little at their warm welcome. As I make my way over to the drum set, I notice Tom is sitting on the arm of the couch, and realize there’s someone else in the room. I pause, taking in the sight.
A large guy is passed out on the cushions, taking up the whole of the couch, a bunch of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, and beer bottles littering the floor under his loosely hanging arm. A half-used homemade cigarette rests precariously between his index and middle finger.
Jarod notices my hesitation and turns to follow my gaze. “Oh, that’s just Tony,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. He swings by now and then to hook us up with stuff, if you know what I mean.” He winks and walks over to take his place behind the mic.
I grew up with a mother who used drugs and alcohol as easily as air and water, so I definitely know a thing or two about what he’s referring to. I look again at the big lump on the couch. He looks so familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t clearly put my finger on it.
I swallow the uneasiness forming a rock-sized lump in my throat and tear my gaze away. I glance quickly at Tom, who now has his laptop drawn over him as he clicks and types away, and then continue over to the drum set.
I feel a sort of thrill come alive in my blood as I look at the most gorgeous set of drums I’ve ever laid eyes on. Black, swirled with a blood red color on the sides. I run my hand over the crash cymbal, feeling the cool metal against my skin, before going to the snare drum. Not even Heaven can compare to the kind of emotions that rage inside me as I take a seat.
“Here you go.” Jarod’s voice is too close behind me. I spin to the side in my seat and stare up at him, startled. He looks at me, grinning. In his hands are two red drumsticks.
I don’t realize that I’m reaching for them until they’re in my hands. I twirl the sticks between my fingers and grip them like they’re my lifeline. Excitement courses through me, shooting up my spine and raising goosebumps over my exposed skin.
“Let’s see what you can do with them, yeah?” Jarod asks, smiling warmly.
I nod, surprised at his not-so-creepy smile.
“See if you can follow this,” Jarod says to me, then turns to the band and counts us in. “Take it from the top. One, two, three, four . . .”
I take a deep breath and forget about everything but the music that vibrates over my skin. Finally, for these next few minutes or hours, I’m home.
AFTER THE MEETING with Wilson, I was shuffled through office after office, debriefed and prepped and otherwise given the crash course on how to do everything I’d already done on my own. But since this was my first “official” undercover assignment, they had to make sure I was “trained” enough. By the time I stumble through the door of my apartment, hours later, my mind is spinning and I’m exhausted.
When my cell phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the caller id before answering it. “Hello.” I sound tired even to myself.
“Well, it’s about time, Harrington Brad Lovelly.” Shit. It’s Blake. And she’s pissed. The last time she called me by my full name was when she caught me smoking in the backyard my sophomore year of high school.
I look at the ceiling and groan, setting my keys on the table. “Hey, Blake.”
“Don’t you ‘ hey , Blake ’ me,” she snaps. “I’ve been worried sick about you!” She starts going off, reprimanding for my behavior and I flop onto my couch, too mentally spent to stop her. I have been missing for almost eight weeks without calling . . . I should’ve expected she’d be pissed.
I let her take her frustration out on me for
“Hey!” Joel says, the same time Jackson says, “Glad you made it.”
And suddenly, I take a liking to them. I grin, feeling my nerves fade a little at their warm welcome. As I make my way over to the drum set, I notice Tom is sitting on the arm of the couch, and realize there’s someone else in the room. I pause, taking in the sight.
A large guy is passed out on the cushions, taking up the whole of the couch, a bunch of empty chip bags, candy wrappers, and beer bottles littering the floor under his loosely hanging arm. A half-used homemade cigarette rests precariously between his index and middle finger.
Jarod notices my hesitation and turns to follow my gaze. “Oh, that’s just Tony,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about him. He swings by now and then to hook us up with stuff, if you know what I mean.” He winks and walks over to take his place behind the mic.
I grew up with a mother who used drugs and alcohol as easily as air and water, so I definitely know a thing or two about what he’s referring to. I look again at the big lump on the couch. He looks so familiar, like I’ve seen him somewhere but can’t clearly put my finger on it.
I swallow the uneasiness forming a rock-sized lump in my throat and tear my gaze away. I glance quickly at Tom, who now has his laptop drawn over him as he clicks and types away, and then continue over to the drum set.
I feel a sort of thrill come alive in my blood as I look at the most gorgeous set of drums I’ve ever laid eyes on. Black, swirled with a blood red color on the sides. I run my hand over the crash cymbal, feeling the cool metal against my skin, before going to the snare drum. Not even Heaven can compare to the kind of emotions that rage inside me as I take a seat.
“Here you go.” Jarod’s voice is too close behind me. I spin to the side in my seat and stare up at him, startled. He looks at me, grinning. In his hands are two red drumsticks.
I don’t realize that I’m reaching for them until they’re in my hands. I twirl the sticks between my fingers and grip them like they’re my lifeline. Excitement courses through me, shooting up my spine and raising goosebumps over my exposed skin.
“Let’s see what you can do with them, yeah?” Jarod asks, smiling warmly.
I nod, surprised at his not-so-creepy smile.
“See if you can follow this,” Jarod says to me, then turns to the band and counts us in. “Take it from the top. One, two, three, four . . .”
I take a deep breath and forget about everything but the music that vibrates over my skin. Finally, for these next few minutes or hours, I’m home.
AFTER THE MEETING with Wilson, I was shuffled through office after office, debriefed and prepped and otherwise given the crash course on how to do everything I’d already done on my own. But since this was my first “official” undercover assignment, they had to make sure I was “trained” enough. By the time I stumble through the door of my apartment, hours later, my mind is spinning and I’m exhausted.
When my cell phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the caller id before answering it. “Hello.” I sound tired even to myself.
“Well, it’s about time, Harrington Brad Lovelly.” Shit. It’s Blake. And she’s pissed. The last time she called me by my full name was when she caught me smoking in the backyard my sophomore year of high school.
I look at the ceiling and groan, setting my keys on the table. “Hey, Blake.”
“Don’t you ‘ hey , Blake ’ me,” she snaps. “I’ve been worried sick about you!” She starts going off, reprimanding for my behavior and I flop onto my couch, too mentally spent to stop her. I have been missing for almost eight weeks without calling . . . I should’ve expected she’d be pissed.
I let her take her frustration out on me for
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