Chapter 11
11
KATRINA
T he Sin and Sand is packed.
The air crackles with energy, the crowd spilling over into every inch of space. Only standing room remains as I weave through bodies. Black and yellow leather, streaks of colorful hair, and the buzz of electricity in the air.
It’s showtime.
“Hey, Kat!”
Pam, the woman behind the bar, waves at me. She’s the owner of the Sin and Sand, and the first woman to ever book Criminal Records for a gig—a badge she wears with pride. Even though she’s pushing sixty, you’d never guess it by the way she dashes from one end of the bar to the next most nights. Gal’s still got stamina.
When I finally make it to the bar, a stool empties just in time.
I hop onto it, giving Pam a quick hug over the bar littered with old pretzel bits and peanut shells. “Hey, Pam!” I say as I settle in.
“How was the tour?” she asks, her voice rising to be heard over the noise.
“It was incredible!” I shout back, gesturing with a sweep of my hand. “Full house tonight!”
She nods. “There was a line around the building before I even got here!” she says. “People love The Electrics.”
“Looks like!”
“You nervous about the Battle?” she asks, the excitement in her smile reaching her eyes. I can only imagine the boost her business has gotten since the announcement that the two hottest bands in rock were going to battle it out right here, on her stage.
“Nervous? No,” I say.
“But you’re scoping out the competition, eh?”
“Uh... yeah.” I nod a little too eagerly. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
Pam laughs. “Don’t blame you, kiddo. You want a drink? It’s on me tonight.”
“Club soda, please,” I say as I rustle a few dollars out of my pocket and stuff it into the tip jar to pay her anyway.
She winks. “Coming right up.”
Pam grabs a glass from behind the counter, and I twist on my stool, taking in the place again. While she recognized me instantly, no one else has noticed me yet. They may not at all. I’m not exactly dressed like a rockstar. The more I blend in with the crowd here tonight, the better.
“Here you go, Kat,” Pam says, sliding the drink toward me. “Enjoy the show.”
“Thanks, Pam,” I say, turning to face the stage.
I sip slowly, feeling the unease in my chest. I can’t shake the feeling, like I’m standing in the hallway of the Botsford Plaza, a blue robe in my hands, asking myself why I’m about to knock on a door I know I shouldn’t.
Why did I come here?
Not to study the competition, as Pam thought. Not to kick back and relax with a cold drink and good music in a familiar place. I should be home, practicing my parts for the Battle of the Bands. I definitely shouldn’t be counting the moments until...
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Pam’s voice rings out, booming through speakers mounted in every corner. Cheers explode through the crowd, nearly deafening. “Put your hands together and give a warm Las Vegas welcome to The Electrics!”
The audience roars as the lights drop low. My stool shakes beneath me, the glass trembling in my hand like it’s bracing for an earthquake. The room falls into total darkness, except for the red glow of the exit signs.
A strum of an electric guitar cuts through the dark.
A spotlight flares, hitting Tesla stage right. She stands with her guitar slung over her shoulders, wearing a tight black dress torn in all the right places, revealing a yellow leotard underneath. Her blue hair falls in wild waves around her face, framing her intense focus as her fingers dance over the strings, plucking chords with effortless grace.
Then the drums. One sharp tap of the snare and another burst of light reveals Goldie behind her kit, her golden curls bouncing as she pounds out a rhythm that gets the crowd roaring. The lights flash, then flicker again, syncing with each beat, pushing the energy in the room higher.
The music swells, a perfect harmony of sound and light. Goldie wears yellow leather pants and a tight black corset—the one Tesla made me try on the other night—decorated with yellow ribbons and fringe. She strikes the drums with power and precision, her arms flexing, muscles rippling with each hit.
Their voices merge in perfect harmony, singing a song I recognize but can’t quite place. The crowd knows it, though—voices rising in unison, echoing back every word. Tesla owns the room with her voice, but Goldie holds her own, playing with the kind of strength that makes the stage feel like it belongs to both of them.
And then, the lights blaze to their brightest setting, and?—
Everything stops.
The lights snap off. The music grinds to a halt. The silence is almost unbearable. I hold my breath, perched on the edge of my seat.
And then?—
Logan.
His voice echoes through the stillness.
“Hello,” he sings, the sound slicing through the darkness, haunting and raw. “Have you lost your way?”
I inhale sharply, and a burst of light blinds me as the stage comes alive again.
There he is. Logan stands stage left, a keyboard in front of him, a guitar slung over his back. His fingers move across the keys, playing a synth line beneath Tesla’s guitar and Goldie’s drums. Supporting, never overshadowing. Tesla’s voice carries the song, but Logan knows his place, backing her without ever trying to take center stage. This is her song, her moment, and even Logan Shock knows better than to steal it.
I smile, watching him. Watching them. I’ve never seen The Electrics live before. Only the occasional clip on my feed or a peek at a VRL episode.
They’re incredible.
I sit spellbound, the condensation on my club soda slowly dripping down the glass, wetting my fingers, barely cooling me as my heart pounds in my chest.
When the song ends, the lights come up, spilling light over the packed room. The world shakes with applause. My stool vibrates against the floor, leaving me tingling expectantly.
Logan steps away from the keyboard, shifting his guitar to his front as he adjusts his microphone stand. “Hello, Las Vegas,” he purrs into it, the sound sending a shiver down my spine that nearly knocks me to the floor.
His adoring fans roar, their hands shooting into the air as if they’d drop to their knees at his command.
Logan grins, eyes scanning the sea of faces, his gaze sharp and hypnotic, framed by a thick line of midnight eyeliner that only intensifies his already fierce stare.
And then his eyes find me.
I freeze.
For a moment, it’s just me and him—his gaze holding mine, burning through the distance. Our connection is only broken when the house lights flicker and dim, plunging me back into the shadows.
But he knows I’m here.
A wave of unease curls deep in my stomach. It’s like I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not doing supposed to be doing what I’m doing.
BAD KITTY
I should slip out before anyone else notices I’m here.
Goldie taps her sticks together, the beat echoing through the walls, vibrating the air. Or maybe that’s just my skin trembling under the weight of the tension. I lift my glass to my lips, but the cool club soda does nothing to soothe the fire spreading under my skin. Every thought in my head screams at me to leave, to slip away unnoticed, but my body refuses to obey. It’s like that invisible tether keeps me locked in place, my feet stuck to the floor, my body held fast, drawn in by Logan’s voice, by the music, by his… everything.
I don’t want to leave.
I want to be here.
But I should slip out, just… after this song.
* * *
A few songs later, I’m still here, my pulse racing with every beat of the drum.
“Are you having a good time so far?” Logan asks the crowd, his voice smooth as silk, sending waves of excitement through the packed room.
The response is deafening: claps, whoops, screams of pleasure. He smiles, and I feel my own lips twitch upward in response.
“Good,” he says, setting his guitar in its stand behind his keyboard. Then he moves to the keys, his fingers teasing them, sending a playful melody into the air. It’s the thing we do, too—stretching the moment, giving Goldie and Tesla a chance to catch their breath, to drink some water, to regroup. We do it all the time when Knox and Jonah bicker on stage, pulling the crowd’s attention with playful jabs over which one is prettier.
“Now,” Logan says, drawing out the word, his eyes darting over to Tesla, who gives him a nearly imperceptible nod. “I don’t mean to excite you…” The crowd chuckles. Too late. “But it appears… that we have a celebrity in the house tonight.”
My smile drops.
No.
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
“And if you’re all really nice to her…” Logan’s eyes flick in my direction again, locking onto mine with such intensity that my heart skips a beat. “I think we might get her up on this stage.”
Oh no.
I guess he would.
I shake my head, hoping he’s joking, but he just grins, that mischievous smirk spreading across his face.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Las Vegas,” he announces, his voice dripping with devious intent, “please welcome to the stage your very own… Katrina Benton.”
A shocked silence ripples through the crowd, followed by an atomic wave of gasps. Heads whip around in my direction, and before I can even process what’s happening, a very helpful spotlight bursts to life directly over my head.
Uh-oh.
So much for slipping out unnoticed.