Chapter 1
Trace
Micah's eyes looked like gaping pits in the front of his head, nothing in them but blackness. No mercy. No fear. He held the knife so tightly against the guy's neck that I could see the skin blanching white from the pressure. And just above that blade, the kid's pulse throbbed under his skin, his heartbeat racing.
Just a moment ago I was about to make love to the most beautiful, most stunning girl I'd met in at least a year—if not my whole life. The taste of her was still on my lips. The hunger for her was still in my blood, making my heart thunder, making my dick throb with a desire that even the antidepressants couldn't quell.
Just an hour before that, we'd been on stage, playing one of the best shows we'd played in our nearly ten years together as a band. The energy in that little club—hardly more than a dive bar in San Francisco's shady Tenderloin neighborhood, with maybe a few more than 200 people packed into its dingy performance hall—had rivaled any of the massive stadium concerts we'd experienced during any of our huge, sold-out world tours.
And now my lead guitarist was about to murder someone right in front of my eyes. A guy I'd never met was about to breath his last breath as his life bled out of him and into the fancy hotel carpet. The Belletrists were about to be destroyed, right after a night that could have been seen as proof of our triumphant return.
And Anne—the girl I'd met just a few hours ago, the girl who'd brought my passions back to life—was about to be taken out of my life forever.
"What the fuck is going on?" I said.
Micah responded, his dead eyes never leaving the face of the guy he held at knifepoint.
"This guy just busted into our party," he said. "Rushed Joey, without any provocation or a single word of warning, and started beating the shit of out of him."
My eyes went to the band's drummer, Joey, laid out on the floor. He didn't have his shirt on, and his fly was unzipped, the short, dense curls of his pubic hair peeking out. His nose was red and swollen, swelling even more with every passing second, and vivid red blood ran from his nostrils into his mustache and across his cheeks. His head rocked side to side, and his eyes looked dazed.
I looked at the guy Micah held pinned to the wall. "Who the fuck are you?" I said. "And why did you attack our drummer?"
The guy's eyes met mine, his face distorted with a mixture of rage and fear. "I'm Ronnie," he said, his voice strained. "I'm a bartender at Hemlock, the club where you guys played tonight. I came in here looking for my girlfriend Becca, and I found that drunk asshole trying to rape her."
He started to move, but Micah slammed him back against the wall. His eyes went wide, fixing themselves to Micah's face. A second later, a drop of blood ran down his neck from beneath the blade. It met the fabric of his shirt collar, a red dot swelling like a blooming flower.
"You must be confused," I said. "Joey would never rape anybody."
"Bullshit!" he shouted, though he didn't dare move. "I know what I saw."
I looked at the girl on the couch, the girl Ronnie had pointed to—Becca, Anne's friend. Her face looked as white as paper, her eyes huge and terrified, both of her hands clapped over her mouth. When I'd seen her before, throughout the course of the night, she'd come across as raucous and bawdy, out for a good time. It made the shock on her face now seem even more alarming.
"Becca," I said. "Becca!"
I took a step toward her, waved a hand in front of her face.
Her eyes blinked, some of the daze clearing from them, and they moved to meet mine.
"Becca, are you alright?"
She nodded her head, a few tiny up and down movements.
"What happened?"
Her eyes went to Joey on the floor. He still looked dazed, but he propped himself up onto his elbows now, his head wobbling on his neck, blood dripping across his bare chest and disappearing into the dark ink of
Trace
Micah's eyes looked like gaping pits in the front of his head, nothing in them but blackness. No mercy. No fear. He held the knife so tightly against the guy's neck that I could see the skin blanching white from the pressure. And just above that blade, the kid's pulse throbbed under his skin, his heartbeat racing.
Just a moment ago I was about to make love to the most beautiful, most stunning girl I'd met in at least a year—if not my whole life. The taste of her was still on my lips. The hunger for her was still in my blood, making my heart thunder, making my dick throb with a desire that even the antidepressants couldn't quell.
Just an hour before that, we'd been on stage, playing one of the best shows we'd played in our nearly ten years together as a band. The energy in that little club—hardly more than a dive bar in San Francisco's shady Tenderloin neighborhood, with maybe a few more than 200 people packed into its dingy performance hall—had rivaled any of the massive stadium concerts we'd experienced during any of our huge, sold-out world tours.
And now my lead guitarist was about to murder someone right in front of my eyes. A guy I'd never met was about to breath his last breath as his life bled out of him and into the fancy hotel carpet. The Belletrists were about to be destroyed, right after a night that could have been seen as proof of our triumphant return.
And Anne—the girl I'd met just a few hours ago, the girl who'd brought my passions back to life—was about to be taken out of my life forever.
"What the fuck is going on?" I said.
Micah responded, his dead eyes never leaving the face of the guy he held at knifepoint.
"This guy just busted into our party," he said. "Rushed Joey, without any provocation or a single word of warning, and started beating the shit of out of him."
My eyes went to the band's drummer, Joey, laid out on the floor. He didn't have his shirt on, and his fly was unzipped, the short, dense curls of his pubic hair peeking out. His nose was red and swollen, swelling even more with every passing second, and vivid red blood ran from his nostrils into his mustache and across his cheeks. His head rocked side to side, and his eyes looked dazed.
I looked at the guy Micah held pinned to the wall. "Who the fuck are you?" I said. "And why did you attack our drummer?"
The guy's eyes met mine, his face distorted with a mixture of rage and fear. "I'm Ronnie," he said, his voice strained. "I'm a bartender at Hemlock, the club where you guys played tonight. I came in here looking for my girlfriend Becca, and I found that drunk asshole trying to rape her."
He started to move, but Micah slammed him back against the wall. His eyes went wide, fixing themselves to Micah's face. A second later, a drop of blood ran down his neck from beneath the blade. It met the fabric of his shirt collar, a red dot swelling like a blooming flower.
"You must be confused," I said. "Joey would never rape anybody."
"Bullshit!" he shouted, though he didn't dare move. "I know what I saw."
I looked at the girl on the couch, the girl Ronnie had pointed to—Becca, Anne's friend. Her face looked as white as paper, her eyes huge and terrified, both of her hands clapped over her mouth. When I'd seen her before, throughout the course of the night, she'd come across as raucous and bawdy, out for a good time. It made the shock on her face now seem even more alarming.
"Becca," I said. "Becca!"
I took a step toward her, waved a hand in front of her face.
Her eyes blinked, some of the daze clearing from them, and they moved to meet mine.
"Becca, are you alright?"
She nodded her head, a few tiny up and down movements.
"What happened?"
Her eyes went to Joey on the floor. He still looked dazed, but he propped himself up onto his elbows now, his head wobbling on his neck, blood dripping across his bare chest and disappearing into the dark ink of
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