My broken heart belongs to someone else. One passionate kiss won’t change that, no matter how much I wish it could.
The lights go up on stage, and the crowd starts cheering in wild applause. My path outside is well and truly blocked. I stifle a noise of frustration, finally turning around to see what all the fuss is about.
It doesn’t look like much to me. A man is sitting on a stool with a guitar in his hands. With no introduction, he begins to play -- effortless, throaty, melancholy and sweet.
He lifts his head. I freeze, staring at him in disbelief.
It’s him. The man from the alley. The dark-eyed stranger who kissed me like it was the end of the world, and we were the only two people left on earth.
Dex Callahan. Tabloid idol. Rock God. Sexiest man alive.
And then his eyes lock on mine, and I know deep in my bones: that kiss is only the beginning.
3.
DEX
My whole life, if you asked me where my favorite place in the world was -- the place I felt whole, my truest self, alive -- I would have told you: right here.
Center stage. A spotlight. My guitar in my hands, a crowd screaming my name.
Right here is where I own you. Right here, I can break your heart or send you soaring; make you weep, or laugh with joy. I can make your whole f**king world melt away, until there’s nothing but the music, and my lyrics, and the audience around you, begging for more.
It’s a rush like no other, that power. Some people love the fame -- the bright flash of cameras, and their faces on the cover of a magazine. VIP passes and bottle service; girls stripping naked on their knees in the bathrooms before you even know their names. But me, I never cared about that shit; it was all just the cherry on top of this.
Performing.
To hold your dreams in the palm of my hand, to sing you the words you’re already chanting back, because you know them by heart, because they speak to you, somewhere deep in your soul.
I lived a hundred nights up here on stage, and each one was sweeter than the last. I would have sold my f**king soul for another moment in the spotlight and never thought twice. But that’s what it does to you. Turns you inside out, burns so fierce in your veins, you’re just another junkie, hungry for a fix. Yeah, I thought this was everything that mattered in the world.
Until that world came crashing down around me, and I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried.
I shake off the dark memories and sweep my fingers over the guitar strings, feeling them shiver in a familiar hum. It’s been almost a year now since I stood up and gazed out over a screaming crowd. I swore I wouldn’t come back again, but damn, if it hasn’t been calling to me, a little louder every day. That itch, burning hotter. That voice, whispering in my ear.
Just one show. One song. One night.
What’s the harm, anyway?
My old instincts kick in, and I start to sing, one of the old hits, a classic. I know it by heart, I could play it in my sleep, and I’m basically sleep-walking right now: looking out at the delirious crowd, but only thinking about one thing.
Her.
The girl in the alley. The mysterious red-head who bewitched me with her innocence and tempted me beyond redemption. Who gave me a taste of her sweetness, and then fled, without even telling me her name.
I can’t get her out of my mind. I try to snap back to the show -- the music, and the lyrics, the surge of energy pouring right to my feet -- but instead of thrilling me, it feels all wrong. Like an old shoe that doesn’t fit anymore; a faded Xerox of the rush I used to know.
I should be relieved. That was what I’ve been afraid of, right? That I’d step back in the spotlight, and find myself right back where I started. Loving it too much. Needing the thrill more than anything. It’s why I’ve stayed away so long, turning down every request to get the band back together, or even do a solo record. My manager’s been tearing what’s left of his hair out, begging and pleading with me to get back in the studio; cut an EP, do an intimate showcase. Anything I want.
Anything to keep the money coming. The show rolling on.
And all the while, the itch burned hotter. The whispers in my head grew louder. Until finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I figured this would be a safe way to test the waters. An unofficial gig, a favor to a friend. But I still wound up in the alley out back before the show, nervous as hell, desperate for a sign I should be anywhere but here.
That’s when she stumbled out the back door, and suddenly, music was the last thing on my mind.
She looked like an angel.
She tasted like pure heaven.
And damn, I wanted more.
Now, it’s the sharp pull of lust I feel in my bloodstream, blocking out the show. I can still see the look on her face when I came up for air; her hazel eyes dilated, woozy, her perfect lips swollen and pink. She was gasping, breathless, clinging to me with her lush curves molded tight against my body.
Hell, I would have taken her right there if I had the chance. Just hiked up that sinful black silk and buried myself deep inside of her. Shown her what a moan of pleasure could feel like falling from her lips; how her body could have taken flight under my hands; my hungry touch.
But then she walked away.
Not walked, run, for dear life, like she hadn’t just been trembling in my arms. I can’t remember the last time a woman turned me down. Not since our debut album went platinum, hell, not for a long while before then either.
She wanted me, I could tell, but still, she ran.
I had my set-list all planned out, but frustration courses through me now, and I discard the next couple of numbers off the top of my head. I’d planned to ease into it slowly, give them some classics, let me get warmed up. But I’m all wound up from the memory of her silken skin and f**k, that little gasping noise she made when I shoved her back against the wall, so I pick a fast number, something staccato and driving, to get the crowd moving. Usually I’d have the guys backing me up, bass and drums and lead guitar, but I’m all alone up here so I just tear into the melody on my own, pouring myself into the rhythm and the wild beat, needing to drive that girl from my mind before she screws me off my game for good.
The lights go up on stage, and the crowd starts cheering in wild applause. My path outside is well and truly blocked. I stifle a noise of frustration, finally turning around to see what all the fuss is about.
It doesn’t look like much to me. A man is sitting on a stool with a guitar in his hands. With no introduction, he begins to play -- effortless, throaty, melancholy and sweet.
He lifts his head. I freeze, staring at him in disbelief.
It’s him. The man from the alley. The dark-eyed stranger who kissed me like it was the end of the world, and we were the only two people left on earth.
Dex Callahan. Tabloid idol. Rock God. Sexiest man alive.
And then his eyes lock on mine, and I know deep in my bones: that kiss is only the beginning.
3.
DEX
My whole life, if you asked me where my favorite place in the world was -- the place I felt whole, my truest self, alive -- I would have told you: right here.
Center stage. A spotlight. My guitar in my hands, a crowd screaming my name.
Right here is where I own you. Right here, I can break your heart or send you soaring; make you weep, or laugh with joy. I can make your whole f**king world melt away, until there’s nothing but the music, and my lyrics, and the audience around you, begging for more.
It’s a rush like no other, that power. Some people love the fame -- the bright flash of cameras, and their faces on the cover of a magazine. VIP passes and bottle service; girls stripping naked on their knees in the bathrooms before you even know their names. But me, I never cared about that shit; it was all just the cherry on top of this.
Performing.
To hold your dreams in the palm of my hand, to sing you the words you’re already chanting back, because you know them by heart, because they speak to you, somewhere deep in your soul.
I lived a hundred nights up here on stage, and each one was sweeter than the last. I would have sold my f**king soul for another moment in the spotlight and never thought twice. But that’s what it does to you. Turns you inside out, burns so fierce in your veins, you’re just another junkie, hungry for a fix. Yeah, I thought this was everything that mattered in the world.
Until that world came crashing down around me, and I realized I couldn’t have been more wrong if I tried.
I shake off the dark memories and sweep my fingers over the guitar strings, feeling them shiver in a familiar hum. It’s been almost a year now since I stood up and gazed out over a screaming crowd. I swore I wouldn’t come back again, but damn, if it hasn’t been calling to me, a little louder every day. That itch, burning hotter. That voice, whispering in my ear.
Just one show. One song. One night.
What’s the harm, anyway?
My old instincts kick in, and I start to sing, one of the old hits, a classic. I know it by heart, I could play it in my sleep, and I’m basically sleep-walking right now: looking out at the delirious crowd, but only thinking about one thing.
Her.
The girl in the alley. The mysterious red-head who bewitched me with her innocence and tempted me beyond redemption. Who gave me a taste of her sweetness, and then fled, without even telling me her name.
I can’t get her out of my mind. I try to snap back to the show -- the music, and the lyrics, the surge of energy pouring right to my feet -- but instead of thrilling me, it feels all wrong. Like an old shoe that doesn’t fit anymore; a faded Xerox of the rush I used to know.
I should be relieved. That was what I’ve been afraid of, right? That I’d step back in the spotlight, and find myself right back where I started. Loving it too much. Needing the thrill more than anything. It’s why I’ve stayed away so long, turning down every request to get the band back together, or even do a solo record. My manager’s been tearing what’s left of his hair out, begging and pleading with me to get back in the studio; cut an EP, do an intimate showcase. Anything I want.
Anything to keep the money coming. The show rolling on.
And all the while, the itch burned hotter. The whispers in my head grew louder. Until finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I figured this would be a safe way to test the waters. An unofficial gig, a favor to a friend. But I still wound up in the alley out back before the show, nervous as hell, desperate for a sign I should be anywhere but here.
That’s when she stumbled out the back door, and suddenly, music was the last thing on my mind.
She looked like an angel.
She tasted like pure heaven.
And damn, I wanted more.
Now, it’s the sharp pull of lust I feel in my bloodstream, blocking out the show. I can still see the look on her face when I came up for air; her hazel eyes dilated, woozy, her perfect lips swollen and pink. She was gasping, breathless, clinging to me with her lush curves molded tight against my body.
Hell, I would have taken her right there if I had the chance. Just hiked up that sinful black silk and buried myself deep inside of her. Shown her what a moan of pleasure could feel like falling from her lips; how her body could have taken flight under my hands; my hungry touch.
But then she walked away.
Not walked, run, for dear life, like she hadn’t just been trembling in my arms. I can’t remember the last time a woman turned me down. Not since our debut album went platinum, hell, not for a long while before then either.
She wanted me, I could tell, but still, she ran.
I had my set-list all planned out, but frustration courses through me now, and I discard the next couple of numbers off the top of my head. I’d planned to ease into it slowly, give them some classics, let me get warmed up. But I’m all wound up from the memory of her silken skin and f**k, that little gasping noise she made when I shoved her back against the wall, so I pick a fast number, something staccato and driving, to get the crowd moving. Usually I’d have the guys backing me up, bass and drums and lead guitar, but I’m all alone up here so I just tear into the melody on my own, pouring myself into the rhythm and the wild beat, needing to drive that girl from my mind before she screws me off my game for good.
