Read Online My Heart's Blood (Hard Love & Dark Rock #1) by Ashley Grace - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ashley Grace
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Trace gripped the mike with both hands, his whole body gathering around it, screaming into it:
Alone!
The song kept going, growing more and more tortured, more and more agonizing. The shivers were running up and down my body now, like squalls across the bay during a storm, and my chest felt so tight I could hardly breath. Trace screamed that same word again, emptying his lungs into it, the sound overloading the amplifier until his voice crackled with distortion.
ALONE!
He fell onto his side on the stage, writhing like he was on fire. The rest of the band kept playing, locked into the song as if they were possessed. It wasn't just the toe-stomping Amazon crying now; people all around me had broken down in tears. I felt my own eyes burning, and yet the horror I felt kept the tears at bay.
And then the keyboard faltered, a jumble of wrong notes clashing with the rest of the instrument. Sara Sounding shoved the instrument away from her, the stand crashing to the stage and a crackle and squeal of feedback assaulting our ears. She hid her face with her hands and ran off the stage.
Trace was on his feet, running after her. The rest of the band followed—Joey Jones dropping his sticks and knocking a cymbal over in his haste, Sergio Rodriguez yanking the chord out of his bass and pitching it to the stage. Only Micah Green left with something resembling control, carefully turning his guitar's volume knob down before unplugging it.
For a few seconds after the stage emptied, the air was filled with more droning, howling feedback. And then the soundman killed the speakers, and everything went dead quiet.
A few seconds later, the murmur and chatter of hundreds of voices swelled to fill that space.
I turned to Becca, feeling sick to my stomach. She had a stunned look on her face.
"Holy shit," she said. She gasped in a breath. "Ronnie wasn't kidding. Very fucking emo."
Chapter 14
Trace
The fluorescent lights of the back hallway weren't really any brighter than the stage lights had been, but something about their sterile tone made me feel even worse. Sara was about thirty yards ahead of me, her hands still covering her face and her shoulders quaking with sobs, but I was moving faster than her. And before I even caught up, her shuffling steps faltered and she veered over toward the wall. She leaned back against it, and then slid down to the linoleum tiles with her head between her knees.
"Sara," I said as I reached her side.
I crouched down and put my hand on her shoulder. She felt like skin and bones beneath her shirt, and a little part of my mind registered shock.
"Sara, it's me, Trace."
She didn't say anything in response, didn't look up at me. She just kept sobbing, her face buried in her hands.
I heard a camera click and whirr, and looked up to see the photographer who'd been with the Rolling Stone reporter earlier at the hotel, back before Joey had shook him loose and brought the reporter up to the pre-show suite. And then I heard Joey in the hall behind me, shouting.
"Hey, Arnold! Don't be a fucking dick, man!"
He came up between the photographer and us. A second later Sergio arrived, too, crouching on Sara's other side to shield her.
The photographer tried to step around Joey, raising the camera again. And then Micah was there. He grabbed hold of the lens, jamming the camera back into the guy's face hard enough to make the guy stumble.
"Hey! Are you crazy!" the photographer shouted.
Micah's finger pressed down on the lens-release button, and the lens came off in his hand. He threw it down the hall with real force, and I heard the sound of breaking glass.
"What the hell!"
Bernstein came up to our huddle, reaching down to catch hold of Sara's arm.
"Let's step into the green room, folks," he said, helping Sara to her feet and leading her toward the door. "Not you, Arnold. You're not invited."
In the green room we got Sara settled on a
Alone!
The song kept going, growing more and more tortured, more and more agonizing. The shivers were running up and down my body now, like squalls across the bay during a storm, and my chest felt so tight I could hardly breath. Trace screamed that same word again, emptying his lungs into it, the sound overloading the amplifier until his voice crackled with distortion.
ALONE!
He fell onto his side on the stage, writhing like he was on fire. The rest of the band kept playing, locked into the song as if they were possessed. It wasn't just the toe-stomping Amazon crying now; people all around me had broken down in tears. I felt my own eyes burning, and yet the horror I felt kept the tears at bay.
And then the keyboard faltered, a jumble of wrong notes clashing with the rest of the instrument. Sara Sounding shoved the instrument away from her, the stand crashing to the stage and a crackle and squeal of feedback assaulting our ears. She hid her face with her hands and ran off the stage.
Trace was on his feet, running after her. The rest of the band followed—Joey Jones dropping his sticks and knocking a cymbal over in his haste, Sergio Rodriguez yanking the chord out of his bass and pitching it to the stage. Only Micah Green left with something resembling control, carefully turning his guitar's volume knob down before unplugging it.
For a few seconds after the stage emptied, the air was filled with more droning, howling feedback. And then the soundman killed the speakers, and everything went dead quiet.
A few seconds later, the murmur and chatter of hundreds of voices swelled to fill that space.
I turned to Becca, feeling sick to my stomach. She had a stunned look on her face.
"Holy shit," she said. She gasped in a breath. "Ronnie wasn't kidding. Very fucking emo."
Chapter 14
Trace
The fluorescent lights of the back hallway weren't really any brighter than the stage lights had been, but something about their sterile tone made me feel even worse. Sara was about thirty yards ahead of me, her hands still covering her face and her shoulders quaking with sobs, but I was moving faster than her. And before I even caught up, her shuffling steps faltered and she veered over toward the wall. She leaned back against it, and then slid down to the linoleum tiles with her head between her knees.
"Sara," I said as I reached her side.
I crouched down and put my hand on her shoulder. She felt like skin and bones beneath her shirt, and a little part of my mind registered shock.
"Sara, it's me, Trace."
She didn't say anything in response, didn't look up at me. She just kept sobbing, her face buried in her hands.
I heard a camera click and whirr, and looked up to see the photographer who'd been with the Rolling Stone reporter earlier at the hotel, back before Joey had shook him loose and brought the reporter up to the pre-show suite. And then I heard Joey in the hall behind me, shouting.
"Hey, Arnold! Don't be a fucking dick, man!"
He came up between the photographer and us. A second later Sergio arrived, too, crouching on Sara's other side to shield her.
The photographer tried to step around Joey, raising the camera again. And then Micah was there. He grabbed hold of the lens, jamming the camera back into the guy's face hard enough to make the guy stumble.
"Hey! Are you crazy!" the photographer shouted.
Micah's finger pressed down on the lens-release button, and the lens came off in his hand. He threw it down the hall with real force, and I heard the sound of breaking glass.
"What the hell!"
Bernstein came up to our huddle, reaching down to catch hold of Sara's arm.
"Let's step into the green room, folks," he said, helping Sara to her feet and leading her toward the door. "Not you, Arnold. You're not invited."
In the green room we got Sara settled on a
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