Walk the Line (Blood & Bone Legacy #1)

1. Son of a Rockstar

1

SON OF A ROCKSTAR

MAGGIE

The Middle By Jimmy Eat World

T he lobby buzzes with activity as I wait for the elevator, eyes fixed on my phone, scanning for emails. I’m desperately hoping to hear back from the creative director at the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame about my documentary. Mogo—my dad’s old band—is being inducted this year, and while I typically avoid leveraging my family’s reputation, sometimes necessity demands a strategic nudge.

I was cautiously hopeful the few short clips I submitted would be enough to convince the board. Still, a quiet realism was settling in, and a growing awareness that my documentary might not make the cut.

The email I’ve been waiting for materializes in my inbox, the subject line a sharp knife slicing through my anticipation. “Thank you for your submission, but we’re not…” The words blur—it’s a meticulously polite dismissal that translates simply to “thanks, but no thanks.”

I hear the ding of the elevator as the doors open, and by the time I move against the current of exiting people, the doors start closing.

“Hold the door!” I yell as I play chicken with an older woman. Inside the car stands a guy with his arms crossed over a black Henley, his dark blue eyes locked on me, and a smirk playing on his lips as he lets the doors slide shut in my face.

What an asshole . I jab the button a few times for good measure and will myself not to cry right here in this lobby. Isn’t it bad enough that my dreams have just been crushed?

I grab the next elevator, slumping against the railing as I cradle my phone against my chest.

Was my father right about film school? Is it just a pipe dream? And how do you get experience if no one will even give you a chance? The induction ceremony was such a long shot as it is, but the rejection still stings, telling me I’m not good enough.

The elevator opens directly into the lobby of Stonewall Records. A massive sign dominates the wall behind the reception desk, where Janice sits—a fixture so permanent she seems carved into the building’s landscape. She’s been here since I was a little kid when my dad’s oldest friends, Wade and Adam, ran the company, and if I thought she was old then, she’s ancient now, and easy to run past. I lift my brow, eyes tracing the outline of the guy talking with Janice, his back a canvas of casual confidence. Broken-in Converse scuffed at the edges, dark stonewashed jeans draped just so—molding to lean hips.

He turns, a sudden blur of movement, and collides with me. The impact jolts through my body, nearly sending me sprawling. His grip—firm and warm—catches my arm, anchoring me in place while his other hand darts out, snatching my camera before it can crash to the hard lobby floor.

“Son of a rockstar!” I swear, grabbing my camera out of his hand and managing to step out of his hold, recognition clicking into place. I thought he looked familiar as the elevator doors closed in my face but now that I see him up close, I recognize him from music magazine covers, often alongside his legendary father from the band Turn it Up.

Felix Krasinski.

Is he following in his famous father’s footsteps?

What’s worse is that he’s looking at me with those dark blue eyes—the same eyes that had watched me moments earlier as the elevator doors slid shut in my face.

It’s not uncommon to run into musicians, especially famous ones, being that this is the lobby of a record company, but I never expected to run into Felix. I figured if he was going to sign with anyone, it would be his father’s label.

I make a mental note to coerce Dylan into spilling the beans later.

Felix lifts an eyebrow, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest as he sweeps a few dark strands from his face—equal parts amused and sardonic at my choice of words.

“Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?” I huff.

“You think I don’t have manners?” he asks. “My mother would be disappointed,” he tsks .

I place a hand on my hip. “Clearly not, since you couldn’t even be bothered to hold the elevator door for me.”

His lips slowly curl into a cocky smile. “Maybe I was too busy staring at you to notice the doors were closing.”

I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or not. “You’re not the first musician with an ego to hit on me,” I snipe back.

He clears his throat, a flush of discomfort coloring his cheeks, yet he stays silent—those piercing blue eyes never leaving me. The glossy magazine spreads are mere shadows compared to the living, breathing reality before me.

I’ve been around musicians all my life, and I know better than to get sucked into their orbit because the only thing they love more than music is themselves.

“Cat got your tongue?” I lift my eyebrows, waiting for an apology, but I don’t get one.

“No,” he says, an eyebrow arching with a deliberate slowness as his fingers trace the line of his jaw. “I’m just trying to figure out why that bothers me so much.”

His words knock the breath from my lungs, leaving me momentarily speechless—my usual quick wit scattered like ash in the wind.

“I’m Felix,” he breaks the silence, holding his hand out for me to take. I stare at it, noticing the calluses on his fingers, prominent veins protruding on his forearms—the telltale signs of a guitar player. Emphasis on the ‘player’.

“I know who you are,” I say, moving around him as I make my way through the lobby.

“What’s your name?” he calls out as I walk away, and I glance over my shoulder with a teasing smile.

Like I’m gonna tell him.

“My mother warned me about guys like you,” I say. “Musicians are nothing but trouble.” I shake my head. She said that about my dad too—but they’ve been married for over twenty years.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, his voice low and laced with challenge as a smirk curves his lips. “My father warned me about girls like you.”

“How’s that?” I dare to ask, lifting a defiant chin.

“I’ll tell you if you have coffee with me,” he says in a teasing tone.

I shake my head. “I’m not that curious,” I reply as I walk backwards past the reception desk hoping Janice doesn’t notice me.

“Maggie, you need an appointment to go back there,” Janice warns in an annoyed tone. She plays by the rules—and I don’t.

I slide my eyes to her while continuing on my way.

“Ah, Maggie,” Felix nods, pleased with himself, “but I think you are curious.”

Fucking Janice.