Rock Me Three Times (Coyote Glen #3)

Prologue

SLOANE

“So, the name Black Honey?” I ask with a playful smirk. “Where did that come from?”

Craig Fear snorts something off his hand. I don’t even want to know what. EchoFest is always wild, but this year it seems crazier than ever.

The place is buzzing with energy… too much of it, honestly. Bands playing on multiple stages, lights flashing, the incessant hum of people shouting, laughing, trying to be heard above the havoc.

I don’t know how I’m going to be able to cobble together a story out of this insanity.

“It’s the kind of name that sticks. Sweet, but with a sting, you know?”

I nod, as if that wasn’t just a whole lot of nothing, and note this down, before chewing back on the edge of my pen once more.

“So, does that mean you guys are sweet and sour? Or just pure chaos with no real sense of direction?”

Craig huffs with something that is supposed to be laughter. “You know what the real honey is? It’s the fans, babe. They’re the sweet part. They’re the ones that get us, and they keep us going even when we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”

Okay, now he’s distracted.

I don’t know who he’s waving at behind me, but I can already sense I’m not going to get much more out of him.

I let out a frustrated sigh as he brushes past me, tossing a half-hearted “be right back”. He won’t. And the rest of Black Honey are still in sight, but they’re too out of it.

I haven’t been working at Veracity magazine long enough to fail.

“Hey, you okay?” I turn to see a friendly smile looking my way. The first genuine one I’ve seen all day. “Delaney Rivers. I work for one of the bands here. Do you want to get away from these assholes? Black Honey isn’t exactly…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but the face she pulls tells me all I need to know.

I gasp out a relieved laugh. “Yeah, they aren’t giving me anything.”

“Come and talk to my band. They’re much more sociable.”

I hurry to keep up with her. “You’re a musician?”

She shakes her head. “Nah, I just cook for a band, but they’re good guys. I think you’ll like them. Wild Reverie.”

I stop dead in my tracks.

Did she say…?

I love Wild Reverie. The set they performed today was something else. I didn’t think they were the sort of guys I’d be able to get anywhere nearby. But Delaney Rivers might have just given me the lifeline I so desperately need.

My pulse pounds so vigorously against my chest that I can hardly contain myself.

It takes everything I have not to gasp out desperate breaths. My boss will be so pleased if I can get a decent interview with Wild Reverie.

We weave through the bustling backstage area, a vibe only a festival like EchoFest could create.

People are everywhere. Roadies lugging equipment, techs adjusting soundboards, fans trying to sneak a peek at their favorite band members.

My heart is still racing from the mention of Wild Reverie, but I keep my composure, refusing to let my excitement show too much. I’ve been burned too many times before by getting caught up in things that aren’t real.

Focus, Sloane. Focus.

Delaney leads me into a quieter corner of the backstage area, where the noise of the festival doesn’t seem so deafening. She knocks twice on a door, and I hear muffled voices from the other side before it swings open.

“Well, if it isn’t the kitchen queen,” a deep, gravelly voice greets us.

I glance up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark brown hair and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to look right through me. My breath catches for a moment before I force myself to breathe.

Delaney rolls her eyes, unfazed by his presence.

“Oh, please. I’m not that much of a diva, Creed,” she teases. “Kitchen queen is just fine.”

Creed Hunter. The drummer. He’s always had this larger-than-life reputation, but in person, it’s even more overwhelming. There’s a quiet intensity to him that makes it impossible to ignore.

“Who’s this?” he asks, his gaze narrowing slightly, sizing me up.

I hold out my hand, forcing a smile despite the nerves bubbling inside me. “Sloane Katz. I’m with Veracity magazine. I was hoping to get a few words with the band.”

He doesn’t shake my hand immediately, his eyes flickering to Delaney before returning to me. “You know, I don’t think we’ve got much time for interviews today.”

I don’t miss the hint of defensiveness in his tone, though I’m not sure why he’s so cautious. I’m just a journalist, not some paparazzo.

Delaney, sensing the tension, steps in quickly. “Creed, don’t be a jerk. She’s not here to start trouble. Just… relax.” She turns to me. “Go ahead, ask your questions. He’s all yours.”

I hesitate for a second, then nod. “Okay, well, what’s been the biggest challenge you guys have faced lately? I know you’ve been touring a lot and dealing with some… well, less than ideal headlines.”

Creed gives a slight grunt and leans back against the door, crossing his arms. “Where do you want me to start?”

Just as I’m about to ask another question, a voice calls from across the room.

“Hey, you’re not interviewing just him, are you?”

Creed steps aside to let us in, revealing a man with platinum blonde hair, a half-grin already tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Roman West. The lead vocalist. Of course he’d be the one to make an entrance like that.

Delaney shoots him a playful glare. “Don’t scare her off, Roman. Sloane’s just here for the story, not for whatever kind of stunt you think you’re about to pull.”

Roman chuckles, shrugging it off with that charming grin of his. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says with a wink. “Just thought you might want to talk to me as well.”

I’m suddenly hit with the full weight of being this close to Wild Reverie. These are the guys who can make or break a magazine issue, the ones who can take me from a nobody in the industry to someone worth paying attention to.

“Alright,” I say, trying to ground myself. “So, if you had to pick one word to describe Wild Reverie’s music right now, what would it be?”

Roman tilts his head, seemingly considering it. His grin softens, a little more serious than before, and he shifts his weight on his feet.

“Authentic,” he says with a slight shrug. “Everything we do comes from a place of realness, whether people want to hear it or not.”

I jot that down, but before I can ask anything more, I hear another voice, this time from behind me.

“I’d say ‘raw,’” Ezra Vaughn cuts through the conversation, and I turn to see him leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely.

He’s got a quiet intensity about him, almost studying the situation from a distance, observing everything without fully engaging. His gray eyes lock on mine for a moment, and I can’t help but feel he’s sizing me up in an unsettling way.

Ezra pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, the quiet hum of his presence different from the energy Roman and Creed bring.

He’s wearing a faded band tee and jeans, but it’s the subtle, introspective vibe that surrounds him that sets him apart. Unlike the others, he doesn’t seem to have any urgent need to fill the space with noise. He just is.

“Raw,” I repeat, glancing at him. “Why raw?”

Ezra’s lips quirk into a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Because we’re not afraid to bare the parts of ourselves that remain unpolished.

The fragments that frighten us, the raw, unrefined edges we hide away.

The ugly bits, the ones we’d rather keep buried.

” He lets that hang in the air for a moment, his eyes shifting toward the floor as if the words took more from him than he meant to give. “It’s what makes the music real.”

There’s a long pause. I feel his words sink in. Raw. Real.

I glance at Roman, who’s looking at Ezra with a faint smile of his own, one that almost feels approving. I wonder if it’s rare for Ezra to open up like that. Then again, maybe I’m reading too much into it.

Before I can ask anything further, Creed, who’s been quiet while Roman and Ezra spoke, shifts his stance, arms still crossed.

“Music’s about finding the truth,” Creed adds. “It doesn’t matter if it’s raw or pretty or whatever. It’s about what’s real.”

“It’s not just about what you put out there. It’s about what you’re not showing.”

Roman raises an eyebrow at my comment. “You could say that.”

Just as I’m about to follow up with another question, maybe ask them if they ever feel trapped by their own authenticity, a sharp voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

“Alright, that’s enough, everyone.”

A tall man in his mid-forties, with slicked back dark hair and a tailored suit that screams I am important, joins us. His eyes scan the room, landing first on Creed, then Roman, then Ezra, before his gaze finally snaps to me.

Elliot Simmons. The band’s manager. The one person I’ve heard all the horror stories about.

I can feel his eyes linger on me for a beat longer than necessary. His expression hardens into something borderline condescending. “I didn’t authorize any interviews for today. You know the drill. We don’t do unscheduled press.”

Delaney lets out an exaggerated sigh, clearly not happy with the interruption. “Elliot, relax. Sloane’s not some tabloid writer—she’s just trying to get a story. You can’t control everything.”

Elliot’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment, I feel the walls closing in. “I’m not here to argue, Delaney. This isn’t something you should have any involvement in.”

Roman’s eyes narrow, the playful grin from earlier gone, replaced with a quiet annoyance. “We were just getting to the good stuff, Elliot. What’s the harm in letting her stick around a little longer?”

“I said no,” Elliot snaps, his jaw clenched.

There’s an awkward silence, the band members exchanging glances. I feel like I’m stuck between two opposing forces. One pulling me forward, the other pushing me back.

Delaney shoots him a look. “Why don’t you lighten up for once?”

Elliot’s gaze darts to Delaney, clearly weighing his options, before he throws up his hands in defeat. “I don’t care what you do, but no interviews.”