The Hard Line (Blood & Bone Legacy #3)

Chapter 1

FREEDOM TO BE ME

JESSE

Pressure by Dark Signal

Sound rises from the piano, raw, and unfiltered, like a confession blooming beneath my fingertips. The soundproofed walls drink in every note, guarding each secret I give away.

Hayley hunches over the mixing board across the room, headphones half-on as she tweaks the sound in real time.

She’s sacrificed more nights here than in her own home lately, abandoning two kids to their sitter while Finn, her husband, is on tour.

She could be with her kids, but she’s here, giving her best to a brother still trying to prove he deserves it.

“That bridge crashes too hard.” I yank at my hair until my scalp burns. “We need to…”

The studio door swings open. Dylan strides in with his leather jacket slung over one shoulder, paired with a worn t-shirt and jeans ripped at the knees, tension radiating from him.

Dark hair spills across his forehead in permanent bedhead.

He looks more like he’s headed to a basement punk show than running Stonewall Records.

Only the custom Rolex peeking from beneath his sleeve betrays his corporate status, a gift from his fathers when he took over the company.

“Hey.” I nod without lifting my hands from the keys. “Didn’t expect you here this late.”

“I need to let off steam,” Dylan replies, stepping inside. His voice carries a sharp edge. “Mind if I join?”

“Be my guest.” I gesture toward the drum kit in the corner. Heat crawls up my neck. Another witness to my creative stalemate. “Your timing works. I need a second opinion from someone without genetic obligation.” My gaze slides toward Hayley.

She spins in her chair and rolls her eyes.

Hayley’s effortlessly cool in worn jeans and a vintage concert tee despite pushing forty.

Her blonde hair falls in waves around a face that could’ve graced magazine covers like her model mother once did.

Clear blue eyes are the only feature we share besides Dad’s stubborn jaw.

She’s an amazing producer, having escaped the spotlight years ago, trading red carpets for soundboards.

My half-sister understands the weight of the O’Donnell name better than me, growing up when our dad was at the height of his career.

Which also meant she had a front-row seat to his turbulent years.

“Dylan! Thank God. Maybe you can talk sense into him. He’s recorded twelve tracks of pure genius and refuses to perform any of it live,” Hayley says.

My gut twists and my heart rate spikes as a familiar tightness wraps around my chest.

“I haven’t refused,” I protest, the half-truth tasting bitter. “I’m just… considering my options.”

“For what, the next decade?” Hayley quips.

Dylan drops into the chair by the mixing board.

I leave the piano behind and cross to my guitar, where it rests in a stand in the corner.

The muscles in my shoulders relax as soon as my hands wrap around the neck, settling the familiar weight across my lap.

Some instruments demand reverence, like the piano with its history and gravitas.

But this guitar? My dad’s old Fender is an extension of me just as much as it was for him. A weapon and a shield all at once.

My fingers find a progression without permission—the same handful of chords I’ve been circling for weeks, a melody that showed up one morning with the smell of sunscreen and salt water and hasn’t left.

I shut it down before it takes shape. Some songs aren’t ready to exist outside of my head, and this one belongs to someone who doesn’t know I’m writing it for her.

“The board’s been asking about your album for months now,” Dylan says.

My jaw tightens. I’ve been signed with Stonewall with nothing to show for it so far. The thought of releasing these songs, these pieces of my soul, makes my breath stutter. A weight settles in my chest at the idea of every note being measured against an impossible standard.

“Now play me something from this allegedly genius album,” Dylan says, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.

I hesitate, then sigh. Hayley takes my silence as permission and leans forward to hit a button on the console.

The studio fills with a haunting piano line.

The melody floats ethereally before the distorted guitars crash in like a tidal wave.

My voice, processed through layers of effects that Hayley masterfully engineered, shifts from ghostly whispers to soaring choruses.

I close my eyes, letting the music wash over me.

In these moments, everything slows to a manageable pace.

When the last note fades, there’s a beat of silence.

“That’s… incredible,” Dylan finally says.

Something loosens in my chest. Dylan doesn’t offer praise lightly, especially not when there are business implications.

“Told you,” Hayley says triumphantly. “The choir sample in the bridge and the layered voice modulation took it to another level.”

“The low-end distortion hits perfectly,” Dylan adds. “The production is half of what makes this work.”

I run a hand through my hair. The pressure builds again, crushing the momentary relief.

“It’s different in a studio. No eyes watching, no expectations.

The second I step on a stage…” Music has always quieted the noise, but I don’t know if I can handle being on that stage, losing my anonymity.

The spotlight will suffocate me. “I want to have the kind of connection you can only have with a live performance, but not as me.”

“You can’t hide in here forever,” Dylan says, leaning back in his chair. “This music deserves to be heard.”

“It’s not about hiding,” I say quietly.

Dylan nods, understanding in his eyes. “Actually, I might have a solution.”

I sit up straighter, willing to hear him out.

“You’d wear a mask. No one would know it’s you,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Are you fucking serious? A mask?”

Dylan scoffs. “Not like, a Halloween mask, but something more artistic. Leave the lower half of your face exposed so you can still sing but hide your eyes. No one will know who you are.”

“Hmm, that’s not a bad idea,” Hayley says, folding her arms over her chest.

“You can’t be serious,” I groan.

“I mean, think about it,” Dylan continues. “It would be weird, but weird can be good. Weird gets attention.”

“Weird gets mocked,” I counter.

“Or it becomes your trademark,” Dylan challenges. “A hook that lets people focus on the music instead of the name, just like you wanted.”

“So what, I show up in a mask and hope they don’t laugh me off stage?” I ask, but there’s less resistance in my voice now.

“Not just a mask. An entire persona. Something mysterious. Silent Revenant.” He motions with his hands like displaying it on a billboard.

“You’re actually serious about this.” I laugh, but not dismissively.

“Deadly,” Dylan confirms. “The mystery would be part of the appeal.”

I strum a few contemplative chords, letting the idea settle. “And what would this artistic mask look like?”

“Musical notation flowing across it,” Dylan muses, “like the notes are literally part of your face. Sound waves etched into the surface, something that feels like an extension of the music rather than just a disguise.”

“That’s… actually not terrible,” I admit, the spark in my chest growing brighter. The possibility of freedom from expectation unfurls inside me. A chance to let the music stand on its own merit. And I would remain out of any headlines.

I’m not completely sold yet.

“Well, I can’t take full credit,” he says sheepishly. “It was Morgan’s idea.”

“Morgan? How am I gonna be anonymous if everyone knows?” I throw my hands up.

“Relax, she doesn’t know it was you. But that brings up a good point. We’d have to keep this close, only those that need to know, keeps it from getting out,” he says.

I look to Hayley for confirmation because I trust her judgment. “Could work.” She shrugs.

I consider the possibilities as the weight in my chest lifts slightly. “Stella and the guys might actually go for this. We’ve only been playing together officially for what, six months? And only in the studio. It’s not like we have some established image to protect.”

“The board would eat it up too,” Dylan adds. “Mystery sells, and it solves our problem. You get to play without the pressure, and Stonewall gets a potentially viral new act.”

For the next twenty minutes, we bounce around ideas. The aesthetic, backstory, potential venues. My leg bounces beneath the console, adrenaline pumping through me. For the first time in months, the prospect of playing live doesn’t turn my stomach inside out.

The mask wouldn’t be a gimmick; it would be freedom. Freedom to be me.