Never Say Die

Chapter One

A iden Moore was absolutely certain the moon would show up for a ritual sacrifice. He searched the sky for its face and found the bright, white sphere looming behind rainclouds high above the ocean, hiding from a predetermined future.

Fucking coward.

His boot clipped a rock, then another, sending stones toppling over the edge of a mossy cliff on the outskirts of Malibu.

Rich folk didn’t waste their time on the Ocean Grove trailhead.

It was, at once, too harshly overgrown and too moderate.

People carrying purse-dogs would linger in the dirt lot, satisfied with a Facebook check-in and a portrait-mode snapshot of their running shoes.

Fitness junkies sneered their noses at the bumpy trail and complained to their friends during post-workout juice-brunches about forestry maintenance and where do my taxes even go and it’s not that good of a burn, anyway .

No one worth a damn swatted their way through Ocean Grove’s spindly branches unless they were looking for a place to get off, get well, or worse, and he certainly hadn’t lugged a backpack full of store- bought pig’s blood and freshly plucked dove feathers to the cliffs for nothing.

So, where the hell was Shay fucking Bennett?

Adrenaline sank into his marrow, quickening his thoughts. Every what if lashed at his heels. What if this is too crazy? What if it doesn’t work? What if I’m making a mistake? What if I regret it? Aiden swallowed to wet his throat.

For eight years, he’d listened to seasoned musicians backstage at shows yap about the business—what they’d gone through, what they’d do differently.

But it was always the four-person bands from truck-stop towns in middle America who nodded and gritted their teeth.

It was always the openers playing hand-me-down instruments and agreeing on exposure payment who would do whatever it took to get where they wanted to go.

Buy a van, leave your hometown behind, head west to the city of lights.

Get blinded. Hooked on something cut with bleach and gutter water.

Peek at the dirt caked under each Hollywood star.

After a while, you’re missing Mom’s Sunday dinners.

Dreaming about church cookouts with a needle stuck between your toes.

He’d known too many hopefuls like that. Seen bands come and go— guitarist last spotted on Sunset Boulevard, vocalist court-ordered to attend a twelve-month wellness program, talented drummer found dead in Venice Beach.

New players on the block rarely held their own.

They got sidetracked by lights and nightclubs.

Top-shelf this and Colombian that. Record deals on silver-plated platters shaped like dreams they’d carried from one place to the next.

Well, Aiden wasn’t from some haybale, cow-tipping turnoff, and growing up in this soulless city had taught him a few things.

First, free drugs were never actually free.

Second, don’t fuck your bandmates. Don’t fuck their boyfriends either .

Third, hormones change everything. Especially your voice.

Fourth, not one single talented, ridiculously good-looking, checks-every-stupid-fucking-box musician got where they wanted to go without doing a few things they never thought they’d do.

Despite the laughably edgy, black eyeliner wearing, satanic frat-boys who somehow became overnight millionaires—murder was most people’s bugaboo.

Footsteps thumped packed dirt near the tree-line, followed by a breathy curse.

Aiden whipped around. Backpack straps dug into his narrow shoulders, but he relaxed once Shay stepped into view.

Like always, Shay Bennett played the part of the dedicated 90s-grunge front-man, dressed in a tattered black long-sleeve and dark denim.

He swatted his palms together, gaze heavy on Aiden, and laughed in his throat.

“So, you corner me after rehearsal, ask me to meet you at some ass-backward hiking trail, and I’m supposed to believe it’s because you’ve got somethin’ new to say.

. . ? A hard-on for me, maybe?” Shay asked.

Aiden arched a brow, and Shay barked a laugh.

“ C’mon. Seriously, Aiden?” Shay shook his head, running knobby fingers through his short, bleached hair.

“I thought that was one of your rules—don’t sleep with bandmates. ”

“You’re not in the band anymore,” Aiden said, and scraped his teeth over his bottom lip.

He remembered that headline. SHAY BENNETT, UP-AND-COMING VOCALIST, LEAVES HOMEGROWN METAL BAND TO JOIN CHAIN REACTION FOR THEIR SUMMER TOUR.

Seven years, a few leads, hundreds of festivals, thousands of rejections, and all it’d taken was one juicy offer for Shay to leave Aiden and Knight’s Blood behind.

He’d been a rusty nail in their coffin twelve months ago, burying Knight’s Blood with every other almost Los Angeles had squashed under its heel.

Betraying the band hadn’t been the worst part, but Aiden actively avoided the rest. The I’ve known you since we were twelve part .

The you took care of me after top surgery part.

The we were friends—best friends part. The I might’ve loved you part.

The we could’ve been something part. But rage had swallowed whatever future they’d had anyway.

Shay gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “True.”

“Why’d your opener back out?”

“I got you a gig. That’s all you need to worry about.” He flicked his eyes from Aiden’s boots to his weathered leather jacket. “Don’t embarrass us tomorrow.”

Anger needled his throat. No one could embarrass Chain Reaction, especially not a trashy dive-bar band accepting free handouts from their ex-front-man.

“I brought you a thank you baggie. Not that you need it, but. . .” Aiden shrugged.

Panic jabbed between his shoulder blades.

Do it. Don’t do it. Do it. Don’t do it. His breath quivered.

“Figured you could lower your standards and do a few lines with an old friend.”

“We’re not friends,” Shay said. He rolled his pretty eyes. Big, blue, Bambi eyes. Stage eyes. “That’s what you said a while back, right?”

Yeah, at Mayhem in Glendale, the morning the news broke.

Aiden had stormed into the adjoining motel room, fully expecting to split his knuckles on Shay’s teeth.

Shay’d been too cowardly for that, though.

He’d left in the middle of the night. Stranded them without a singer at one of the biggest festivals in Southern California six hours before they were supposed to perform.

Aiden had broken two lamps, kicked over a mattress, and thrown himself to the ground like a toddler.

He’d cried, but who wouldn’t? Dreams, shattered.

Best friend, gone. Band, destroyed. Life, over.

Aiden took a step. Another. The sheathed hunting knife clipped to the back of his pants shifted. A leather handle pinched his skin. “You reached out to Thomas about opening for you guys, now I’m reaching out to you. Yes or no?”

Shay’s mouth turned at the corners. “Fine. I’ll bite.”

You always do. The backpack slipped off his shoulders.

He swallowed hard, forcing bile to stay in his stomach, and pawed through his bag.

His thumb met the round lid on the plastic tub of defrosted blood.

Loose pages slid across his palm. Feathers brushed his wrist. The tiny, cellophane baggie was wrapped safely in his extra shirt, hidden beneath everything else.

He dangled the neatly packaged white powder.

“Speaking of Thomas, when’re you trading him in for an actual vocalist?” Shay teased. He snatched the baggie and punctured it with his teeth. “That’s why you guys are lagging, you know. Shitty vocals won’t book you any gigs.”

“That’s why,” Aiden said under his breath. He turned his gaze toward the waves, rolling, crashing, climbing. “Definitely has nothing to do with our lead singer selling out.”

“Here we go. . .” He sprinkled a bump onto the curve of his thumb and snorted.

There . Aiden’s pulse doubled. His lungs squeezed, cautioning against the next two choices.

They were still just that—decisions he hadn’t made yet.

He could change his mind. Tell Shay to go fuck himself.

Again . Get gross-drunk at the bar across the street from his apartment.

Forget about rituals, and sacrifices, and everything he’d ever wanted.

Everything he’d almost had. Everything Shay had taken from him.

“You sure this is coke?” Shay asked.

Aiden shook his head. “Ketamine.”

Shay furrowed his brow, shrugged, and inhaled another mound from the hollow of his thumb.

That should’ve been enough to get him woozy, numb the pain, make what was about to happen a little less awful.

Aiden had always assumed shit like this would be easy.

Shit like soul-selling and sacrificing. Find a person, make them disappear, follow the instructions, find out how much life was really worth.

But he’d done the research, read the books, scoured the internet, and Aiden knew, as well as anyone who’d ever wanted something bad enough, that a sacrifice only worked with love as an ingredient.

Aiden thought he’d probably loved Shay Bennett. At one point, a long time ago, back when things were good and hard and wild. But now, he hated Shay more.

“We could’ve been something,” Aiden said. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken until Shay laughed, shooting him a curious glance. “We were right there. Right there , Shay.”

“No, we weren’t. You thought we were. Just you. Everyone else knew we were destined to be a six o’clock opener, Aiden. You’re the only one who thought we’d be anything else.”

“We had seven years under our belt. Packed signing lines, hungry fans, sold-out venues?—”