Long Live The King (Velvet Shadows #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Ty

? No Sleep Till Brooklyn - Beastie Boys ?

I had been prepared for the late October temperatures. I had not been prepared for the rain that was currently falling in sheets over me. I’m soaked to the bone and my teeth are chattering so loudly in my skull that I can barely hear the bustle of the city streets around me.

I press myself tighter against the side of Madison Square Garden, trying unsuccessfully to pull as much of myself out of the deluge as I can. Tugging my phone out of the pocket of my coat, I note the time: 3:07 p.m.

Less than four hours to go.

Groaning, I put my phone back in my pocket and bring my knees to my chest. I could do this.

I’d been waiting ten years to see Velvet Shadows in concert, and not only was I finally here, due to the shitty weather, I was the only one here.

Which meant my general admission floor ticket was all but guaranteed to turn into a spot on the rail when the doors finally opened.

As long as I didn’t freeze to death out here first.

No. Stop. I say to myself. You’re here. This is happening. Do not let a little rain dampen your mood. I smile at the inadvertent rain pun before realizing that to anyone passing by, I probably look a little mental pressed up against the arena, soaking wet, shaking, and smiling to myself.

“Excuse me,” I hear someone say, and I jump at the sudden, unexpected voice so close to me.

I peek out from under my hood, but the stranger has their own hood pulled over their face, so I can’t make out who they are.

They’re not wearing any sort of uniform, so I’m confident I’m not about to be kicked out of my spot or arrested for loitering.

Although, at this point, a warm, dry jail cell and a hot meal doesn’t sound unappealing. “What are you doing out here?”

“W-waiting f-f-f-or the doors-s t-to open,” I force out between chattering teeth.

“How long have you been out here?” the stranger asks, lowering into a crouch beside me, briefly shielding me from the onslaught of rain.

“Th-thh-ree hours,” I force out.

“Why?” They ask.

“B-bucket l-l-list,” I say.

“What? Dying of hypothermia?”

The laugh that escapes me is much too loud and maniacal, but I can’t help it. I seem to have lost all physical control of my body thanks to my tense, shaking muscles.

“Come on,” the stranger says. “Let’s get you inside and out of this rain.”

I shake my head.

“I’m f-f-fine,” I say. “C-can’t l-leave.”

The stranger regards me for a long moment, and although I still can’t see his face, I can feel his eyes on me.

Studying me.

Judging me.

“Are you here for the show tonight?” he asks, and I manage a jerky nod. “You have my word that if you come inside with me, you will still get to see the show from the front, assuming that’s why you were out here seven fucking hours early in the middle of a monsoon.”

I turn my head to face him fully, and he reaches out a hand.

“You w-work f-for the arena or s-sss-omething?” I ask.

“Or something,” he repeats, wiggling his fingers. “Come on.”

I reach out a shaky hand and place it in his palm.

His hand is warm and steady as his long fingers wrap around mine and pull me to my feet.

My body aches from being curled up for so long and my muscles scream in protest as I rise onto unsteady feet.

I resist the urge to press my entire wet, freezing body against his warm, dry one.

When I’m standing, I realize the stranger is much taller than me. I look up into what I can only assume is his face, but I can’t be sure because the rain is in my eyes and his damn hood is still shrouding his face in shadow.

He turns, and I try to follow behind him to the doors, but my leg muscles lock up and I stumble.

He turns around and chuckles, and without a word, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing and carries me to the doors.

The security guards on the other side open a door to let us inside where the heat hits me like an open oven door, and I immediately release an audible sigh.

Once we’re well inside the doors, the stranger stops, sets me down, and unzips his coat before sliding it down his arms. As I lower my hood and look up at him, all the air leaves my lungs, because the stranger standing before me is Eric Ambrose.

Eric “The King” Ambrose. Eric fucking Ambrose—the drummer for Velvet Shadows.

“Here,” he says, wrapping his coat over me. “This should help until we get you out of those clothes and into something dry.” I stare, unblinking into his deep sapphire eyes. He slides his cell phone out of the back pocket of his distressed jeans and dials a number.

While it rings, his eyes roam down my body and back up before locking with mine.

“Hey, I need you to get me some dry clothes. Something that will fit a woman around five eight, one thirty-five. Athletic build.” I would scoff at his guess at my height and weight, but he’s exactly right, and I’m more impressed than angry.

“My dressing room, yeah. Thanks.” He pockets his phone and jerks his head to the side. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up.”

He turns and walks in the direction he alluded to, but I’m frozen in place because I’m staring at Eric Ambrose and wearing his jacket. Before I even know what I’m doing, I pull it up over my nose and breathe in, committing his scent of citrus and leather to memory.

I lower the jacket just as he turns around and realizes I’m still standing where he left me. He smirks, putting one of his two signature dimples on full display, and walks back to where I’m standing.

“Normally, I wouldn’t complain about a beautiful woman standing before me dripping wet,” he says, his voice low and sliding over my skin like silk. “But your lips are blue and I’m starting to get concerned.”

He turns again, and this time I manage to follow.

We wind our way through the arena, down several flights of stairs, and to a long hallway where we pass a ping-pong table, the home and visiting locker rooms, and several smaller rooms before turning into a room with his name on the wall beside the door.

He enters first but stops just inside the door to motion me inside.

The room is small, but welcoming, with white walls and a gray laminate floor.

A wooden table sits against the wall immediately to the left, a black leather couch and a mini fridge are against the wall directly in front of me, and a vanity with a mirror is against the far wall next to a clothing rack with a few shirts and pants hanging in wait.

“Can I get you anything while we wait for the clothes? Do you need a blanket?” he asks, stepping inside the room but leaving the door open to the hallway beyond.

I still seem unable to form words, so I shake my head.

He steps closer and takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my head up slightly.

“Your color is coming back,” he says, studying my face, his gaze pausing on my mouth for a moment before returning to my eyes.

He drops his hand and steps around me as a woman enters the room carrying an armful of clothes.

“This is everything I could find,” she says, laying a stack of clothes over the arm of the couch. “Do you need anything—” her eyes meet mine and she stands up straight and extends a hand. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Dani, Eric’s assistant.”

Dani is stunningly beautiful. She’s a few inches taller than I am, with bright green eyes, natural blonde hair that falls to the middle of her back in loose waves, and curves I would kill for.

“Ty,” I say, as I take her steady hand in my shaking one.

“Nice to meet you, Ty,” she says, offering a warm smile. “Do you need anything else? Can I get you a coffee or something else warm to drink?”

“No,” I say. “But thank you, that’s very kind.”

“Sure,” Eric says from behind me. “I offer help, and she won’t speak to me. You offer help, and you’re ‘very kind’.”

I can tell he’s joking, but I still cringe when I realize he’s right. Since he brought me in out of the rain, I haven’t managed to say a single word to him. But to be fair, he’s a rock god and I’m…well…

Looking down at my shaking, soaking body is enough to finish that thought.

Dani excuses herself and I remain where I stand as Eric steps in front of me again.

He reaches up and slides his coat from my body and tosses it onto the other side of the couch before unzipping mine and peeling it down my arms, the soaked fabric sticking to the equally soaked long sleeve shirt underneath and not making it an easy task.

“I’m going to step out for a bit. There are towels in the bathroom back there,” he says, nodding behind me.

“I can take what you’re wearing now and have it dried for you.

That way you can still wear it tonight, if you want.

” I look up into his eyes and manage a small nod.

A smile grows across his beautiful mouth, and I fight the urge to claim that mouth with mine.

Down, girl, I tell myself. You don’t even know him.

“What’s it going to take to get you to talk to me again?

” he asks, playfully cocking his head to the side.

My brain manages to send the right signals for a smile, but still can’t figure out how to form words.

His eyes scan my face before his smile widens and his dimples reappear.

He says something that sounds an awful lot like the word “beautiful.” At least, I think he does.

His voice was so quiet, I almost think I imagined it, but then he shakes his head as if coming out of a trance, and my cheeks heat.

“Change,” he says. “Please. I’ll be back in a few minutes. ”

With that, he turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

I don’t hesitate in rushing to the bathroom to peel my sopping clothes from my body and pat my damp hair down with a towel.

As soon as I wrap one of the oversized, fluffy white towels around me, I instantly feel better.

I reach for my clothes and wring them out in the sink before folding them neatly and stacking them on the counter.

I walk back out into the main room and pull a sweatshirt and sweats from the stack that Dani left and slide them on.

They’re a little big, but I’m too warm and comfortable to care.

I open the door and peek into the hallway, but it’s empty. I can hear voices down the hall to my left, and even though I want to follow them, I don’t. I step back into the room and finally allow myself to look around.

Save for what I assume are the provided furnishings, the room is plain.

There are no photos on the walls or on the vanity, but there is a small bottle of Arquiste Misfit cologne and a toolbox on the top of the vanity.

I click it open and smile when I see it’s full of jewelry: silver rings and necklaces that I know are Eric’s, because I’ve seen photos of him wearing some of them.

I run my fingers over the clothes hanging on the rack as I pass by—three different pairs of black jeans and five t-shirts that are either black or dark gray—watching them sway from the motion and noting the different options Eric has hanging, wondering what he’ll choose.

And then, I sink into the couch as the situation I’ve somehow found myself in finally hits me—I am backstage at Madison Square Garden, in the dressing room of the drummer of my favorite band.

These guys are the reason I even listen to hard rock.

Posters of Eric, Josh, Max, and Kevin covered the walls of my bedroom and my locker when I was in high school.

I’ve pictured Eric’s body above mine more times than I can count when I’m alone at night and I—

Nope. No. No way, no how. Not going there right now, and this night will not end with me sleeping with the best drummer on the planet.

Mark my words.