Page 26 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

Finally she lets out a long breath, then reaches over and hands me the bottle. “Fine. Take it,” she says simply.

“It’s not good for you, Em,” I say, placing my hand on her knee and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I wish you wouldn’t drink this shit.”

She scoffs. “Like you’re in any position to make demands.Who are you anyway?” she mutters, her eyes blurry and fixed on something in the distance. “You and your pathetic dream. Just some high school dropout, wannabe-rockstar going nowhere.”

CHAPTER 9

Rock You Like a Hurricane

ISABELLA

The bus jostles me back and forth as it trundles its way down the street, heading for downtown. After the success of the article about the band and more pressure from Randall, I immediately set out to find Becks to see if she could get me any information about checking out the band at their recording studio. I’ve since wrestled for three days whether Dave just invited me because . . . well, because it was just the polite thing to do. But, also, why invite me if he didn’t actually want me to come? Then there’s the whole crushing realization that he probably only wants me to come to write another article and, lucky for him, that’s exactly why I’m going.

I’m overthinking everything again. I should remember that I’m going forme. Because this is good. I’m finally being taken seriously, and I need to cling to that for as long as I can. If I “fuck this up” like Randall warned me not to, I’ll be back to writing about the newest nail polish trends, and even if I happen to love the idea of two-toned nails and may have done my own last night in green and pink, it doesn’t mean that’s the extent of what I can write. I need people to pay attention to my internship applications, and nail polish won’t cut it.

I check the slip of paper that Becks gave me. She wasn’t able to make it to the recording studio this week because of classes and her job at the boutique, but she guaranteed me the guys would be there all day. So here I am, with my camera and notebook, a few pens, and a buzzing, nervous energy under my skin. I didn’t have the courage to call and let them know I was going to show up. What if Dave answered the phone? No, I’m just going to show up and pray that, just like at the show, they recognize me enough to let me in.

“Next stop is Gordon Avenue,” the driver calls out.

I reach above me and pull the bell. The bus slows and I step out onto the street, looking up at the numbers as I figure out which way I need to go. After about three wrong turns and some help from a homeless man who I gave the last of my spare change to, I find myself outside of a dark-brick building with the words “Lancaster Recording Arts” above the door.

I shake out my limbs, my bangle bracelets clinking rhythmically from the action. Taking one last look at myself in the reflection on the glass door, I turn the knob and head inside. The moment the door opens, the sound of metal music greets me. It’s not like anything I’ve heard before and doesn’t sound like anything I remember them playing at the show last week. For a moment, I wonder if maybe I have the wrong place and the wrong band, but I force myself forward anyway. The long narrow hallway is deserted, but there are pictures in black frames lining every square inch of the walls.

As someone without a huge knowledge of metal music, I don’t recognize most of the faces, but there are a few who seem familiar. Like I might have seen them on TV or a poster somewhere.

“Can I help you?”

Startled, I spin at the sound of a gruff voice and find myself face-to-face with an attractive young man. One that I recognizefrom the other night—one of the band members. What’s his name again? Key, I think.

“Hi . . . Key?”

He crosses his arms, looks me up and down, then his eyes brighten. “Oh, hey! The girl with the notebook. Isabella, right?”

I dig into my purse and pull out the very same notebook. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Finally he smiles, and the crushing weight in my chest eases. “What are you doing here?”

“The article I wrote about you guys did well. Like, really well. My editor wants me to write another. And Becks told me you were all going to be in the recording studio . . . she gave me the address and—”

“You’re here to write another article?” he asks, surprised.

I nod. “I mean, if that’s okay with you guys. There’s a huge demand on campus for more information about Carnal Sins.”

He grins wide. “Hell yeah.” At my tentative smile he claps his hands then rushes up to usher me onward. “Come on, Dave’s recording a track right now. You can watch.”

My stomach flips. Oh god. Dave’s on the drums right now? I look up at the speakers still broadcasting the music and realize that’s him playing. Live. Heat rushes up the back of my neck but thankfully the lighting in this place is dim, and if Key notices, he doesn’t say.

“You’ll have to be quiet, but when he’s done with this take, I’ll tell everyone you’re here.”

“Okay.”

There’s a red light above a door ahead of us, and he opens it. The music gets a bit louder as we sneak inside. The low light continues in here and there’s a huge control board with dials and knobs and sliders. Immediately I spot James, and next to him is the third member of Carnal Sins, Joel. Which means . . .

I turn and see two men, one with a low ponytail and one witha tight afro. They’re sitting at the control panel and looking through a pane of dark glass. My eyes follow theirs and my breath catches in my throat. Dave sits at a massive drum arrangement. His arms are slick with sweat and his long dirty blond hair is damp and clinging to the straining muscles in his neck and traps. His scrap of a shirt sticks to his chest and abdomen.

This man . . .This manis quite possibly the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. I swallow hard against the lump that forms in my throat.Cool it. I’m a professional. No one here needs to know that it’s a water park in my panties right now. The track comes to a final, crashing stop and my chest heaves almost as much as Dave’s does through the glass.

“That’s great, Noblar,” the guy with the ponytail says through a microphone. “Why don’t you take five?”

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