Read Online My Heart's Blood (Hard Love & Dark Rock #1) by Ashley Grace - Free Book Online
Authors: Ashley Grace
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he got to the end of the chorus, I swear that he turned back toward me, found me in the crowd. I swear he aimed that pointing finger at me, and looked into my eyes, and sang those last two lines to me.
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
From there it just got even better. They went from that first song to "Heaven Can Wait," and before we'd caught our breath they'd launched into "The Processional Cult," moving from hit to hit like it was some sort of marathon race. Trace was streaming with sweat by the fourth song, his shirt stuck against his lanky, muscular frame, his hair so wet that it flashed spray in the lights when he whipped his head. A crazed fan rushed him after "XOXO No Regrets," clawing at his shirt until the collar ripped and security pulled her away. He just stripped the shirt off—the red tracks from her fingernails disappearing into his tattoos—and started the next song.
They ripped through a ton of their hits, and the songs sounded better than I could believe. The emotions were even more intense, the energy more raw and immediate, than what came through on the albums I'd cherished and listened to again and again and again, for years. And I wasn't the only one who felt that way. All around me the Amazon clique looked like they were losing it, their hair all messy, their skin flushed and damp with sweat. The bitch who'd tried to stomp my toes was actually sobbing, tears streaming down from both of her eyes. Even Becca looked transformed, her face flushed and her eyes shining like a little kid on Christmas morning. At one point I tore my eyes away from the stage to look back at the crowd behind me, and I saw a topless woman on someone's shoulders, clutching at herself like she was having an epic orgasm. Above the heads of the crowd a thick steam floated like spirit vapor.
Finally, after what must have been ten or twelve songs, the band paused. Micah Green turned to the side, tuning his guitar. Joey Jones grabbed a bottle of water and gulped it dry, then grabbed another and poured it all over himself, shaking his hair like a dog, his expression exultant.
And Trace put his guitar down, took the mike off the stand, and stepped forward to address the crowd.
"Thank you guys so much," he said, sounding a little breathless. "You guys are an awesome crowd. San Francisco always treats us well."
The crowd responded, people cheering and yelling. A girl farther back screamed "I love you, Trace!"
He held a hand up, waiting for the crowd to quiet again. A hush fell over us.
"Thanks, guys. Thanks. You might have heard that we're working on some new material, that we're thinking of releasing a new album. We'd like to play a few of those songs for you now, if that's all right."
The crowd roared again, fresh excitement in their voices.
"Okay," Trace said. "This first one's called 'Possible Commital'."
Behind him, Sergio Rodriguez played a quick flurry on the bass, and then dropped into a repeating two-note pulse that sounded eerily like a heartbeat. Joey Jones came in a few measures later, the beat sparse and ominous, the high hat ticking like a clock, sporadic rimshots cracking here and there like gunfire. Micah Green and Sara Sounding began to trade a pensive, dirge-like melody back and forth, each repetition working it farther under my skin, until a chill went down my spine and I shivered.
Trace began to stalk back and forth, head down and shoulders hunched, prowling the stage like a panther. Suddenly he went stock still, his eyes closed, his mouth pulled into a slight grimace. He brought the mike to his lips, and cried out a single word, stretching it long and ragged:
Alone!
The song kept going, the firecracker snare getting sharper and sharper until it nearly made me flinch with each strike, the keyboard and guitar growing thicker and darker and more pensive, like a sky clouding over with thunder heads. And
My love and my life, I give them both
This is my Heart's-Blood Oath
From there it just got even better. They went from that first song to "Heaven Can Wait," and before we'd caught our breath they'd launched into "The Processional Cult," moving from hit to hit like it was some sort of marathon race. Trace was streaming with sweat by the fourth song, his shirt stuck against his lanky, muscular frame, his hair so wet that it flashed spray in the lights when he whipped his head. A crazed fan rushed him after "XOXO No Regrets," clawing at his shirt until the collar ripped and security pulled her away. He just stripped the shirt off—the red tracks from her fingernails disappearing into his tattoos—and started the next song.
They ripped through a ton of their hits, and the songs sounded better than I could believe. The emotions were even more intense, the energy more raw and immediate, than what came through on the albums I'd cherished and listened to again and again and again, for years. And I wasn't the only one who felt that way. All around me the Amazon clique looked like they were losing it, their hair all messy, their skin flushed and damp with sweat. The bitch who'd tried to stomp my toes was actually sobbing, tears streaming down from both of her eyes. Even Becca looked transformed, her face flushed and her eyes shining like a little kid on Christmas morning. At one point I tore my eyes away from the stage to look back at the crowd behind me, and I saw a topless woman on someone's shoulders, clutching at herself like she was having an epic orgasm. Above the heads of the crowd a thick steam floated like spirit vapor.
Finally, after what must have been ten or twelve songs, the band paused. Micah Green turned to the side, tuning his guitar. Joey Jones grabbed a bottle of water and gulped it dry, then grabbed another and poured it all over himself, shaking his hair like a dog, his expression exultant.
And Trace put his guitar down, took the mike off the stand, and stepped forward to address the crowd.
"Thank you guys so much," he said, sounding a little breathless. "You guys are an awesome crowd. San Francisco always treats us well."
The crowd responded, people cheering and yelling. A girl farther back screamed "I love you, Trace!"
He held a hand up, waiting for the crowd to quiet again. A hush fell over us.
"Thanks, guys. Thanks. You might have heard that we're working on some new material, that we're thinking of releasing a new album. We'd like to play a few of those songs for you now, if that's all right."
The crowd roared again, fresh excitement in their voices.
"Okay," Trace said. "This first one's called 'Possible Commital'."
Behind him, Sergio Rodriguez played a quick flurry on the bass, and then dropped into a repeating two-note pulse that sounded eerily like a heartbeat. Joey Jones came in a few measures later, the beat sparse and ominous, the high hat ticking like a clock, sporadic rimshots cracking here and there like gunfire. Micah Green and Sara Sounding began to trade a pensive, dirge-like melody back and forth, each repetition working it farther under my skin, until a chill went down my spine and I shivered.
Trace began to stalk back and forth, head down and shoulders hunched, prowling the stage like a panther. Suddenly he went stock still, his eyes closed, his mouth pulled into a slight grimace. He brought the mike to his lips, and cried out a single word, stretching it long and ragged:
Alone!
The song kept going, the firecracker snare getting sharper and sharper until it nearly made me flinch with each strike, the keyboard and guitar growing thicker and darker and more pensive, like a sky clouding over with thunder heads. And
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