Bend (A Stepbrother Romance)
Read Bend (A Stepbrother Romance) Online
Authors: Ellen Callahan
Copyright 2015, All Rights Reserved
This book contains mature content that is suitable for adults only.
This book is a work of fiction; any names, places, song lyrics, and/or situations portrayed within are products of the author’s imagination; any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
This is a standalone novel - no cliffhangers!
Editing: Wyrmwood Publishing
Cover photo: Geber86 / istock
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Special thanks to my online writing group and my offline friends.
Extra special thanks to J for plying me with coffee and letting me ramble.
As for K, I know you just skipped ahead to the good bits. You can’t fool me!
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CHAPTER ONE
Cadence
His appearance onstage amidst the smoke and the golden lights was like the landing of a god. I was so mesmerized that I didn’t even hear the swoons and shouts of the audience behind me. My camera shook in my hands.
He was electric. Black ink traced sinuous lines up thickly muscled arms, disappearing beneath his tight, sleeveless tee.
Keir Sonder
. As close to the stage as I was, I could even see the stormy color of his eyes—
like rain over the ocean.
I would have stared up at them for much longer if I wasn’t close enough to catch a glimpse of the bulge in his pants, as well.
Not a bulge. A full-on outline. His black jeans could have been painted on. It was a wonder that the beast they contained didn’t burst into view in an explosion of buttons and denim.
Look busy
. I had to remind myself to stop gaping and snap some photos before someone wondered why anyone let such a star struck girl so close to the stage.
Look professional
. I lifted my camera as the band began to play.
Jackal’s Reign was Keir; Keir was Jackal’s Reign. Every other spot in the band had been filled by multiple people through the six years since he’d formed the musical entity.
I’d been a fan since the very first song I heard. I’d been to a dozen concerts since, but never quite like this. I was close enough to the stage that I could see him up close, hear every breath, every heavy landing of his boot-clad feet. I could practically smell him, just sweat and soap and liquor.
I fumbled with my lens cap.
“You new, or something?” one of other photographers barked at me as he nearly tripped over my feet. The crowd behind us was loud, the band louder, and my earplugs didn’t let much else in, but I could read the disdain on his face clear as day.
“Sorry,” I mouthed, stepping back and finally lifting my camera to take a few shots.
Great.
I was going to blow my cover in no time. Truth was, I’d pulled a few professional strings to get myself the pass to be there. Because front row against the rail wasn’t close enough. I was posing as a concert photographer for a music blog, all so I could get closer to him—right up against the stage itself. So I could see him up close and memorize the color of his eyes.
He began his first song with a guttural string of words spoken directly into the microphone, his full lips brushing the metal.
Dark stains of judgment
Mark the cloud over my head
I can’t bleed for you with skin this thick
I zoomed in and snapped a fast series of pictures. Maybe none of these would appear anywhere for anyone to see, but I’d have them. I’d treasure them. I’d remember this forever.
My friends and family never really understood my obsession with Keir and with Jackal’s Reign. His music was too loud, too aggressive, too downright masculine for a petite girl like me. I didn’t listen to all that much rock music otherwise, but something about it just called to me. Something about him. Every chord, every note, every song was strung together with an undercurrent of melancholy—not sadness, exactly, but longing. Not hopelessness, but just an unnamable sense of being a little lost.
Breathing mists of danger
The incense is a disguise
I can’t bleed for you with scars this thick
And if his songs were aggressively delivered, well, that made his music all the more compelling. Keir was aggressive. He was sex and sin and mystery personified.
Exactly the sort of man who could bring a girl like me to her knees.
Not that I know what that would be like
.
His first song ended. A stagehand delivered him a guitar so he could play along with the next, opening with a catchy riff that dissolved into fast-paced madness. I zoomed in closer to capture his fingers on the strings, utterly ignoring his bandmates, whoever they were this tour. I had to remind myself not to get too lost in my own imagination, wondering what else those agile fingers could do.
There was jostling down the line as Keir strode from one end of the stage to the other. We tried to follow. Another photographer—this one a tall woman—stepped right in front of me and ruined my shot.
“Not cool!” I shouted, not expecting her to be able to hear me.
But she did. Without even turning around, she backhanded my camera, nearly knocking it out of my hands. As if she was swatting at a fly instead of a thousand dollars’ worth of equipment.
“Bitch!” I shrieked.
This time, she did turn. Her lip curled as she mouthed, “Amateur.”
Oh, fuck her
. I wasn’t part of the music scene but I was
not
an amateur with my camera. I used my shoulder to try to bull past her but she planted her feet and refused to give an inch. When I raised my camera, she deliberately elbowed my arm.
So when she raised hers, I stamped on her foot. No one was coming between me and Keir—not her, not tonight! She shifted with a grunt and I slipped around her, feeling like a ninja. I smiled up at him onstage as I snapped another photo.
It took a moment to realize that I’d caught his eye during our little scuffle. He, Keir Sonder, rock god, was looking right down at me! Or maybe right down at the cleavage that my ripped-up band t-shirt bared, but I didn’t care either way. I bit my lip and forced myself not to look down at my shoes out of nervousness. He sang his chorus right at me, and then he winked. He winked! At me! My heart fluttered in my chest with such urgency that I thought it would flap its way out of my throat and fly away.
The moment was over in a mere instant. He was back across the stage, playing next to his bass guitarist, and we were being ushered out as the song ended.
Two songs was not enough, but it was all that we were allowed to photograph before being shuffled away. I’d have to enjoy the rest of the show from the crowd like all the regular fans.
But I wasn’t a regular fan. I was a superfan. And he’d looked right at me! Was that a flirt? A downright eye-fuck? I’d certainly felt pretty damn exposed in that short second.I pushed my way into the mass of people pressing in as close to the rail as they could and wondered if my press pass would be good for anything else. Because that one short second wasn’t enough. I had to get even closer to Keir Sonder. Assuming my heart didn’t simply give out if I did.
But what a way to go
.
═ ♪ ♫ ♪ ═
“Backstage?” The word was not registering in my head. My lips flapped around it like it had some foreign meaning.
“Yeah. Let’s go.” The security guy that had elbowed his way through the dispersing crowd to find me wore a scowl of impatience. The concert had ended, the house lights were turned up, and I was standing in a daze, sweat-soaked and as ecstatic as a religious convert. Hell, I’d probably spoken in tongues while I’d shouted at the stage with all the other worshipers.
“Why me? What for?”
“You the photographer?” he asked, one eyebrow quirked. I nodded. “To take some fuckin’ pictures.” He turned on his heel and left me gaping.
I scampered to catch up. Had they found me out? Was I in trouble? It didn’t matter—I’d gotten up close, I’d taken my pictures, and I’d even enjoyed the whole show. A scolding wouldn’t dampen my euphoric state. Nothing could touch me after seeing Jackal’s Reign live.
He led me past two more security guards and through a door to the side of the stage. “Band’s in there,” he said, pointing at a door down the short hallway. I could hear them from where we stood—laughing, arguing—and I looked up at the big man beside me.
“Do I just walk in?” I asked. Keir Sonder was in there. Maybe I’d actually get to talk to him tonight—to shake his hand!
Oh, man
. I bit my lip to keep from hyperventilating. I’d dreamed about this for years.
“Yeah, go in,” he said, “Take some pictures, or whatever you kids do.”
All right, I’d definitely had enough of this guy. I moved ahead down the hall, leaving him to gripe by himself.
I’d nearly reached the door when the rock god himself burst forth into the hall, followed closely by a stick-thin girl on high heels. I stumbled and froze where I was as they passed me. Even there in person, off the stage, the man was larger than life—broad-shouldered, tall, the hallway seemed too small to contain his presence.
My heart sank as I recovered from the shock of his sudden appearance—they were heading for the exit.
There goes my chance
. He’d leave with this model-esque woman and I wouldn’t get to meet him at all.
I snapped a photo anyway, savoring my last view of him before he disappeared into the night.
But they stopped just at the door. He turned to the girl and said, “Get out.”
“Keir!” she whined. “Don’t do this to me, baby.” She was slurring her words and teetering on those heels. I snapped another photo.
Keir Sonder kicking a drunk model out of his party might be worth a mention on a slow news day
.