All the stage lights that had been dimmed lit up, and the house band got into place. Ash was at his mic, sleek and sexy in his tight black jeans and Ramones T-shirt, his black hair artfully mussed and his piercings sparking in the light. He had new ink on his arm; a white-blonde mermaid that he swore up and down had nothing to do with me.
When he looked at me, he licked his lip deliberately, his eyes holding on me too long, and I bristled a little. He was getting a little too familiar lately, and flirty, in front of my band. And now there were cameras on him, too.
No way Liv was gonna miss that lick.
The lights beyond the screen went up, and there was the mysterious blur that was our next, and last, audition.
At least I fucking hoped it was the last.
Liv cued the band as soon as we were rolling, and they kicked into a song. It was “Stone Cold Crazy.” And it was loud. Fast and tight, especially given the fact that the band probably hadn’t rehearsed it together lately—or at all.
But these guys were pros.
Impressively, our mystery guitarist held his, or her, own.
Within seconds, Zane was on his feet. Even Jesse twitched a little in his seat, leaning forward. He closed his eyes and listened.
The guitarist was good. Really good. Somehow, he or she was trading off solo riffs with Raf, without even being able to see him. You could just feel everyone—us, the band onstage, even the crew and security guys who were standing around watching from the shadows—getting sucked up into the vibe.
Toward the end, Zane leapt up onstage and started singing with Ash. The two of them totally slayed the end of the song, and when it finished, Zane crushed Ash in a big man hug, laughing. “Hells yeah,” he growled into the mic. “Nailed it.”
“Booooo,” Jesse taunted.
“Sit your ass down!” I called out. I knew from where he was standing Zane couldn’t see behind the screen, but it was probably killing him not to go barreling back there and see who it was.
He hopped down from the stage, swaggered on over, high-fived Dylan, and dropped back into his seat.
“So at least we’re sure Zane’s in the band,” I said dryly.
“Like what you heard, Elle?” Zane asked, panting from the exertion of his performance. He was gleaming with sweat as he swiped his blond hair out of his eye; Zane went straight to eleven anytime he took a stage.
And, yeah. Obviously I liked it. We all did.
We all just kinda stared at each other. Zane grinned, but no one said a thing. Pretty sure at this point we were communicating telepathically. It happened, now and then, after playing and creating and touring together for so long.
Synchronicity.
We’d all liked this one. Even Jesse didn’t have a critical word to say. Yet.
Shit… Had we just found our guy at the eleventh hour?
“Remind you of anyone?” Woo put in. Our record producer, on the other side of Zane, had been sitting back, pretty quiet most of the time, laughing more than talking. His name was David Worster, but everyone since the beginning of time had called him Woo. He’d been like a fifth member of our band in the recording studio, even playing some guitar on certain songs when we needed it over the years. He’d been with us since the beginning, and we’d recorded three of our four albums with him—our best albums. So his voice, when he used it, carried weight.
“Shit, yeah,” Zane said, breaking the loaded silence. “Reminds me of Seth.”
No one else seemed to want to say it.
“So, now may be a good time to ask yourselves,” Woo said. “Do you want a Seth Brothers fanboy?”
“Could be a fanwoman,” I said. Why did they always just assume the best guitarists were guys?
“Could be,” Woo agreed.
“It’s a dude,” Zane said. “He’s got broad shoulders.”
“You can’t see shit through that screen,” Jesse pointed out.
“And maybe she has broad shoulders,” I said.
“And who the fuck cares if he’s a fanboy?” Zane added. “He’s hired.”
“He’s as good as Seth,” I agreed, “why wouldn’t we want him? Or her?”
“Unless he’s fugly or something,” Zane amended, “he’s hired.
“Whoever he is, he’s good,” Jesse said mildly. He’d been mild about this whole process, reserving his enthusiasm. Maybe because he was our lead guitarist, Jesse had been the hardest one to win over.
But this guy—or girl—was good.
Better than good.
Dylan still had his jaw on the floor, so I gave him a jab. “Pick it up, baby, you’re drawing flies.”
“Say something!” Zane produced a drumstick out of nowhere and threw it at him.
Dylan caught the drumstick without even looking. He shut his mouth, slowly. Then he said, “Think I’m having a ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ moment.”
Zane whooped with laughter, elated.
“You have any questions for our mystery guitarist?” Liv prompted us. She was holding a mic of her own. She hadn’t appeared on-camera, but she spoke to us sometimes, prompting our conversations. “You know he can hear you right now.”
“Yeah,” Zane growled into his mic, addressing the guitarist. “Dylan wants to know if you sold your soul to the devil, or what?”
“Not that I recall,” a male voice said.
And we all went still.
Because we all knew that voice.
I knew, when I looked around at my band, that we all recognized it. We all heard him.
Liv gave the cue for the screen to move, and as it slid aside, we all saw him, too.
Seth Brothers.
My heart skipped a beat.
Get Dirty Like Seth
Coming Soon: Dirty Like Dylan
Dirty Like Dylan (Dirty #4)
One woman.
Two rock stars.
A threesome that will change everything…
Photographer Amber Malone sucks at love. She’s been dumped, duped and dated more a-holes than any girl should ever have to.
Then she meets rock star Dylan Cope, drummer for the mega-successful rock band Dirty; gorgeous, charming and all-around nice guy.
