More Than Scars (Imminent Danger #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Bowie

“I hate you!” Though I hissed it beneath my breath, several heads turned our way, which just made me duck my head and cringe away from the prying eyes.

“Shouldn’t that be my line, since you made it through to the next round of auditions, while I’ve been dismissed with a thank you very much and a fifty-dollar gift certificate to Bryson’s, which we both know I will spend on picks and strings.”

“Stop stringing so tight, and you won’t break them so often,” I grumbled. “And I still hate you, ‘cause now I’ve got to sit here for who knows how long, and I’m fuckin’ starving.”

“Told you to grab something from the diner when we stopped.”

“I prefer my breakfast sandwiches without roach carcasses or rat droppings, thank you very much. That place had a C rating in the window.”

“It’s a bit run down, true, but the bacon, egg, and waffle sandwich I had wasn’t half bad.”

“Let’s hope you still feel that way in a few hours once it’s had the chance to fully digest,” I said.

“And don’t even think about ditching me here and coming back for me later, because we both know your definition of later directly correlates to how many rabbit holes you wander down and how many human distractions cross your path.

If I hear one more, sorry I’m late, I had this cute little twink pinned to the wall, I am going to pin you to the wall, line up all your exes, and let them use you as a pinata. ”

“That’s cold, brutha,” Tony grumbled, a little shiver going through him at the thought. “Seriously, fuckin’ cold.”

“So was dragging me down here on my one day off this week!”

Yes, I was pouting.

Yes, I was sitting there with my arms crossed, staring at the floor, wishing the shadows were thicker or darker or however the fuck you described shadows.

Wished people would stop turning to look at me too.

It was the number one reason I hated going out in public.

Okay, maybe the number two reason, the first being the trio of slashes that bisected my cheek, curved over my nose, and ended with the small scars on my chin.

Those weren’t even the worst of them, but they were the ones people could see, and once they had, the fuckers never quit staring.

Like the red-headed bastard sitting in the row of chairs in front of us.

Every now and again he’d turn around and try to make eye contact with me while I kept my head tipped so that my long hair spilled across my cheek, covering most of the destruction there.

It was a good thing I liked to wear it long, or I’d have truly been fucked after the accident happened.

“Hey guys, catering has arrived, they’ll have lunch set up in about thirty minutes,” the stage manager in charge of auditions announced. “In the meantime, we’d like to have Eric Breeze on stage and Bowie James in the wings.”

My stomach gave its loudest grumble yet when my name was called, which just added to my irritation.

Fortunately, I was no stranger to playing pissed off, though it didn’t used to be that way for me.

I’d always played for the love and absolute joy of having my fingers on a fretboard, the feel as familiar to me as my own skin.

My earliest memories were filled with music and a noisy home where there was always an instrument being played.

My old man sang in a band that had a classic rock vibe to it, though they still worked in the heavy stuff from time to time.

My mom played the piano, well, it was more than that.

She’s a professional concert pianist. And my Uncle Ray, who’d lived with us for as long as I could remember, was my old man’s twin and the bass player in his band.

They were always jamming, working on new songs and perfecting the old ones, their bandmates roaming in and out at all times of the day and night.

We never even locked our doors, there was no point.

Someone was always awake, someone was always busy doing something, especially once my older siblings were old enough to no longer have a curfew.

Drama, ballet, and K-pop bands had been their area of focus, while mine had always been my guitar. Standing in the wings, listening to Eric play his second audition song, I knew I could do better than him. That wasn’t ego speaking, that was my honest assessment of my abilities in comparison to his.

But did I want to outplay him?

That was the question I was wrestling with as I stood beside the stage manager.

It had been three years since I’d played with a band.

My first band, formed back in high school with the three men who I’d thought I was as close to as I was to my siblings.

We’d skipped out on our high school graduation in order to play a series of gigs in Portland and wound up living over the bar.

We’d come so close to breaking out, until a man suffering a heart attack behind the wheel side-swiped my Harley and sent me careening through a plate glass window.

We’d both lived, for which I was grateful, most days, but those band brothers of mine hadn’t been willing to wait for me to recover enough through physical therapy before they replaced me.

Could I really go through that again?

Mayyyyyybe.

My gut clenched as I stepped out onto the stage, though whether it was from hunger, fuckin’ Tony and his goddamn shithole of a diner, or nerves, I couldn’t say.

“You’re up,” the stage manager said, waving me out there as Eric headed to the back.

I knew it would be a ballsy move to play something I’d written, but I hated playing other people’s songs and was proud of the music I’d created.

If I was going to go down in flames, then I was going to do it being true to myself.

Launching into Corrosion of Sanity, one of the first songs I’d written once I’d rehabbed enough that I could make my fingers move along the frets sufficiently enough that music, instead of screeching, came out of the amp.

Closing my eyes, I poured all the sorrow, all the pain, and all the frustration I’d felt during that time period into the song as I was playing it and let it completely carry me away.

I never looked at them and was too scared to try to read their expressions, especially if the lights revealed my scars.

If I’d actually planned to do this instead of being dragged out of my bed, fuckin’ Tony, I would have taken the time to use stage makeup the way I typically did when I performed.

Yeah, the whole gothed-out look didn’t exactly fit me, but it sure as hell kept people from whispering about me.

Hated when they did that shit.

Bastards.

Rage. That’s what fueled me by the time I hit the chorus.

All the pissed-offness I held inside came pouring out in a tidal wave that I’d have loved to use to smash my former bandmates to bits.

The only solace I’d received from the whole ordeal was in seeing them implode and completely fall apart.

That whole plan of theirs to replace me so they could push forward had blown up in their fucking faces, and it couldn’t have happened to a worthier bunch of assholes.

I hit the bridge like a beast, just tearing into it and shredding away, leaving everything I had on that stage before I drifted into the final, echoing chords, drawing out each one, then finally letting the last one fade away.

The echo of it hung in the air around me as I opened my eyes, nodded to them, and turned, striding off the stage past the next guitarist on deck and the stage manager, whose expression looked almost stunned.

Well, at the very least it seemed like I’d blown someone away. Now to wait for the results and food, because damn it all, I was fuckin’ hungry, though not hungry enough to regret passing on breakfast sandwiches potentially ridden with rodent fecal matter. That was way too disgusting a thought.

“Dude,” Tony said when I slunk past the others waiting to audition to take the seat I’d abandoned in the shadows, grateful that he hadn’t given up the spot. “That was fucking sick!”

“You’ve heard it before.”

“Never like that.”

“Meh,” I muttered as my stomach growled again. “Guess I just play a little more aggressively when I’m fuckin’ hangry.”

“I should starve you before you play more often then.”

“Have I mentioned that I hate you right now?”

“Several times.”

“Gonna hate you harder if they don’t break out the food soon.”

“Amen to that,” the redhead in front of us said, turning around once more and casting another glance back at me.

“Is there a reason you keep staring back here?” I snapped.

“Just tryin’ to join the conversation to keep the nerves at bay,” he admitted.

“Well, don’t,” I replied, glaring until he turned back around.

He had pretty sea-green eyes that reminded me of one of my former band brothers, our rhythm guitarist, Axis, who’d kept me at arm’s length after I’d beaten him out for lead guitarist in the band.

To me, it hadn’t really mattered which of us played which role, we could have rotated for fuck’s sake, depending on the song, but our drummer and singer had really pushed for it, and it had really crushed something in Axis.

The relationship between us was never the same after that.

It had always left me wondering if he’d been the one to spearhead the push to replace me, maybe in the hopes that he’d land the lead spot.

Unlike me, he didn’t have support from his family, not a single one of them ever showed up to hear him play, just his two best friends, who he also happened to be dating.

I’d envied him that. It was clear, even back in high school, that they truly loved him.

“Dude, relax,” Tony hissed, keeping his voice low as he chastised me. “You can’t go around biting everyone’s heads off just for looking at you. You’re calling attention to yourself when you do that, which I know is the last thing you want.”

“If a certain asshole had warned me about what he had in store for me when he told me to hurry up and shower, get dressed, and grab my axe, I’d have taken the time to put stage makeup on.”

“Which is exactly why I didn’t warn you,” he said smugly. “That shit’s not you, and it’s probably why you have a hard time getting gigs at certain places.”

“Too bad for them if they don’t want a bit of darkness around since drowning the crowd in fog is generally frowned upon.”

“You don’t need makeup or a fog machine,” Tony grumbled. “You’ve more than proved that time and time again. When are you going to let the music speak for you and stop looking for reasons why you shouldn’t achieve your dreams?”

“When chasing it doesn’t get me kicked in the teeth time and time again.”

“Have you ever wondered if expecting to get kicked in the teeth is why it happens?” he asked. “There’s something to be said for self-fulfilling prophecies, you know.”

I was saved from having to answer when the door to the catering room opened and an apron-wearing man stepped out with a smile and an invitation to come grab food and beverages if we were hungry.

I’d passed hungry about an hour ago, so no further invitation was needed, and honestly, I needed a break from my friend so I could sort myself out, especially after hearing the latest second-round guitarist play.

I didn’t know if there would be a third round, but if there was, I knew I’d make it there over him.

Holy shit, was I actually letting my competitive streak override reason and common sense? Was I really trying to win the guitarist slot in a band that didn’t even exist yet?

I think I was.

I pondered that while I selected a turkey club sandwich, slathered on some mayo, snagged a Dr. Pepper, two chocolate chunk cookies, and a bag of chips, then looked around for a place to sit.

Fortunately, the only ones who followed me into the room were Tony and Eric, meaning there were plenty of empty chairs to choose from, not that they stayed empty long.

I’d known Tony would join me. I didn’t expect Eric to.

Great. Now I was presented with the wonderful challenge of eating while keeping my hair out of my food, instead of tying it back the way I’d intended to when I’d deliberately sat with my back to the rest of the room.

Fortunately for me, he was as interested in what was on his plate as I was, as was Tony, which made for a blissfully silent meal as guys trickled in one by one, a few joining us at our table, but none very talkative, which suited me just fine.

Let’s just say that I was not the outgoing motormouth that I’d been back in high school.

These days the bulk of the talking I did was to the cactus on my kitchen windowsill, which happened to be thriving for all the attention I gave it.

And if we happened to share a personality, at least according to Tony, then I’d happily proclaim myself to be in good company and go on about my fuckin’ day.

As soon as I finished, I tossed my bottle in the recycle bin and placed my plate on the tray beside the trash, deposited my napkin in it, and got the fuck out of the room, despite the questioning look Tony shot me.

I needed to hit my vape and settle my nerves because I was starting to get a stress headache in the back of my neck and radiating through my shoulders.

Each time someone else had sat down at our table, the feeling had only grown, while the voice in my head had screamed don’t look at me, don’t you dare fuckin’ look at me, so loud and so long that it had begun to sound like lyrics.

Maybe they would be, one day, if I could still my pounding heartbeat down enough to figure out the proper rhythm for it.

Fuckin’ Tony!

He should have known I would not be okay with this.

The thudding in my ears grew louder as I glanced around, searching for the exit that led out into the alley.

I made a beeline for it the moment I spotted it, nearly plowing over one of the guys coming down off the stage.

Our shoulders collided, and there was that red hair again.

Couldn’t that fucker stay the hell away from me?

I didn’t even bother muttering an apology, since I knew damn well I wouldn’t mean it, I just plunged through the door and out into cool, crisp air, fingers automatically scrabbling past the lip of my pocket until I felt plastic and yanked it out.

A part of me wanted to be pushed through to the third round, another part wanted to go home. As I desperately sucked in nicotine, though the only thought on my mind was if both sides would ever be on the same page again.