Page 1 of Heartbeat Highway

PROLOGUE

Bo—two years ago

Where the hellis our new lead singer?

I’m sitting at a table in a dive bar in North Hollywood, sheets of music spread on the table between me and Maxim, my friend and brand new bandmate. Maxim points at one of the song sheets, somehow maneuvering the chocolate chip cookie he’s holding so it doesn’t dust crumbs all over his work.

“These songs are going to slay,” Maxim says. He inhales the cookie and leans forward on the table, resting his tattooed forearms against the surface. “We don’t want Howl to be like every other band, right? This is going to be different.”

“Our new lead singer might have things to say about that,” I reply. In the background, two college-aged kids get on stage and twang their way through a country version of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” No, it does not work for them.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but every time I’ve looked at it lately, it’s been my dad, and there’s fuck all chance I’m going to talk to him. Instead, I take out my drumsticks and rap them thoughtfully on the table, against the songs Maxim’s written. I’veknown him since college, when we met at an audition for a Rick Astley cover band.

Don’t judge. I was desperate.

Not for money. I didn’t need the money for that and I don’t need the money from playing in Howl now, scant as it is. That’s one thing dear old dad is good for. He set up my trust fund and doesn’t mess with how I choose to spend it.

One thing he isn’t good for is his notoriety. Every audition I’ve ever shown up for, they wanted Bo Harley, son of the great Runner Harley, former lead singer of the 80s hair metal sensation, Crooked.

Let’s just say meeting me has been a disappointment. I’m not flashy or bombastic. I stick to what I’m good at, what I love. I’m not here to be the front man.

It’s meant drumming and music has taken backstage.

Until Howl. Playing with Dan, who put the band together, and Maxim has been amazing. We just didn’t have a lead singer and guitarist until a couple weeks ago. He’s a bit of a douche, but he’s got a husky voice and a vibe audiences are going to go wild for. He’s “the missing link,” according to Dan.

He’s definitely a missing link, just not in the way business-school-educated Dan means.

“Bo.” Maxim covers my drumsticks, stopping their momentum. “Focus.”

“On what?” I gesture around the bar. The “Bohemian Rhapsody” murder is over, and now a gorgeous, curvy blond woman with cream-colored skin and a new-in-the-city aesthetic climbs the stairs, hands in the pockets of dark wash jeans that cup her full ass. My gaze lingers on her for a moment before snapping back to Maxim. I don’t need distractions. “K isn’t here yet.”

Maxim snorts and stabs a French fry into a pile of Maxim sauce. It’s ketchup mixed with mustard, but woe to anyone whoasks for his special recipe. “I don’t know about K, man. He’s into the covers. He said something about reworking some of Crooked’s songs.”

“There’s zero chance I’ll let that happen.” My blood turns to ice, even as the unmistakable opening cue for “True Colors” plays in the background. Poor woman. This crowd is not going to be into classic pop anthems. Besides us, the bar is full of Hollywood music hopefuls, guitars in hand. The woman can’t be good enough to hold their attention.

“Bo—”

Maxim’s protests fade into background music. The entire bar fades, and it feels like it’s just me and this blond woman on stage, lit by a single spotlight.

She has a killer voice. It’s not that she hits all the notes just right—and trust me, that’s a rarity on an open mic night—but it’s all the feeling she puts behind it. She can’t be much older than the college students, yet there’s an endearing sincerity in her smoky, lilting soprano.

She’s captivating.

I let my gaze travel down from her face as she sings, letting her voice work itself through me. She has the body of a Raphaelite goddess, full and sensuous. She wears a loose white shirt but I can still see the outlines of her shape. Her cheeks are flushed with the song, her eyes bright and her mouth…

Even I could write ballads about those perfect, red lips. Especially the way she’s cradling the microphone.

My cock stirs and I shift in my seat.

The song ends, and Maxim snorts beside me, which snaps me back into reality.

“Thank you, everyone!” The woman waves gaily—so fucking cute—and practically runs off stage.

“Need something, Bo?” Maxim pokes me with a French fry.

I swipe him away, my gaze still locked on the woman. Now that she’s offstage, some of her confidence has faded. She’s looking around like she doesn’t have a seat, doesn’t have people.

“Hey!” I call her and raise a hand. She looks over at me, a tentative smile on those kissable lips. I can almost hear Maxim’s eye roll. “You can sit with us if you want.”

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