Total pages in book: 200
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“If I recall, I said I probably knew it better.”
“Well then, you probably shouldn’t have opened your mouth,” he shot back. “You’ll be responsible for both lead and rhythm, which means I need to trust not only your skills but your instincts. Show me ‘Flayed Alive.’”
You mean like you intend to do to me before the day is over? Sweet.
Wisely, I kept those thoughts to myself. Not every battle was worth fighting, and since I was technically there to learn, there was nothing I could argue. It was time to put up or shut up, and I was done letting Houston have his way. Lucky for me, I knew exactly what he was up to.
“Flayed Alive” wasn’t a mainstream song. The underground work appeared on their first EP, meaning only a true fan knew of its existence. And the icing on Houston’s cherry-topped evil cake is that Calvin wasn’t their guitarist at the time.
Nope. That honor belonged to Houston.
Calvin wasn’t a founding member of Bound. He didn’t join the band until a deal was already on the table, and rumor had it that none of the three watching and waiting for me to butcher their song had picked him. If not for Calvin and now me, Bound would have been one of the few bands that started and ended with only their original members.
Aw, was that why they hated me?
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Houston folded his long frame onto the couch directly in front of me while Loren and Jericho exchanged wary looks. Neither made a move for their instruments, so I guess I was in this alone. Without bass and drums…
Fuck it.
Taking one last look at the scenery behind Houston, an unobstructed view of downtown Los Angeles, I inhaled the fresh air coming through the open doors of the veranda and cleared away the brine that wasn’t there.
I didn’t realize how high up we were until now. It was a beautiful home though it didn’t seem at all like their style. It was too elegant and modern with clean, white lines—too much like a trophy. I pictured them in a dark castle on a foggy hill much higher than this one, far away from civilization and neighbors, with a haunted graveyard out back.
I let out a short laugh before I could catch myself.
“Something funny?” Houston inquired.
“Yeah.” I snorted. “You think you can stump me.” His brows dipped, and I cut off his response with a six-bar riff.
With each note, slashes of black and gray whipped the air around me like lightning ripping through the sky, followed by red bursting before pooling down like an open, bleeding wound.
The song was morbid and dark, cutting, and angry.
It hurt.
I wondered which one of them wrote it and decided I didn’t care.
The chord progression underneath was a little tricky and not one I practiced often, so I stumbled through the first and second verses with gritted teeth. The greens, yellows, blues, and pinks occasionally lighting up the room made it obvious each time I played the wrong note. I didn’t catch on until I reached the chorus, and by the third verse, I’d gained confidence. So much that I tweaked the rhythm of the fourth verse, giving it a smoother transition back into the chorus. It was a minor change, one I doubt they’d notice, and it made me smile at my treachery.
When the song ended, I watched the colors I knew only I could see fade before meeting Houston’s black stare.
“What the fuck was that?”
“The beginning was a little rough but—”
“I’m talking about the shit you pulled on the fourth verse. Why did you change it?”
I guess that hadn’t gone unnoticed.
Not knowing what else to do, I shrugged. “You said you needed to trust my instincts. I thought what I played sounded better.”
“This coming from someone who can’t handle more than a three-note chord? Where did you learn to play? Guitar Center?”
“You seemed to approve of my skills, or else why am I here?” When his only response was to stare at me, I glanced at the silent emo, who gave me a subtle nod of his head. Somehow that gave me the courage to dig the hole they would throw me in after a little deeper. “If you want me to do better, insulting me is not the way you’re going to get it.”
Houston tilted his head to the side, a strand of brown hair falling forward, and his tone deceptively soft when he spoke. “So how will I get it, Fawn?”
“You could show me—”
“We’re here to teach you our songs for the tour, not how to play.”
Frustrated, I strangled the fretboard of my Strat. “Then neither of us will get what we want.”
Chuckling, he stood before making his way over to me. I held my breath until the clove scent of his soap forced me to exhale just so I could get another whiff.