Sing for Me: A Rock Star Romance Read online

  Sing for Me

  A Sinful Serenade Prequel

  Crystal Kaswell

  Sinful Serenade

  Sing Your Heart Out - Miles

  Strum Your Heart Out - Drew

  Rock Your Heart Out - Tom

  Play Your Heart Out - Pete

  Sinful Ever After

  Dangerous Noise

  (A Sinful Serenade Spin Off Series)

  Dangerous Kiss - Ethan

  Dangerous Crush - Kit

  Dangerous Rock - Joel (coming 2017)

  Dangerous Touch - Mal (coming 2017)

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  SING YOUR HEART OUT TEASER

  For the man who convinced me that someone out there understood.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Megara

  The white walls of the Emergency Room are blinding. The beige and brown tile floors, the ones with the crisscross pattern, are somehow too bright and too full at once.

  The chairs are too green.

  Too slick.

  The vinyl is too hard.

  And the beds—they're all wrong. The sheets are that same shade of soft blue, impossibly muted from a thousand and one washes in scalding hot water.

  But I can't look at them without seeing Rosie.

  Her blue lips.

  Her pale skin.

  Those track marks on her arms.

  I close my eyes, but that doesn't help. I still see her. Not the empty vessel of her no longer breathing body, but the lively high school senior modeling her fuchsia prom dress, and reminding me of her cover story in case Mom or Dad got off work early.

  The proud UCLA graduate, tossing her royal blue cap into the air.

  The knowing older sister who plopped on my bed to fill me in on her date and tease me about being all work and no play.

  She was here last week.

  Then she was in one of those beds.

  Now, she's gone.

  My stomach twists, but it doesn't hurt. My heart doesn't hurt. My muscles don't ache.

  Every part of me is numb.

  Dr. Nguyen shoots me a concerned look. "You ready to go, Meg?"

  No. And she knows it. This is too soon. Back to working as a scribe a week after my sister...

  I shouldn't be here.

  But there's nowhere else I want to be.

  There's nowhere I want to be, period.

  I nod back at her. "I'm ready."

  She doesn't believe me, but she doesn't call me on it.

  ***

  It's a twenty minute walk home. After a quick shower, I boot up my laptop to stream the Los Angeles alternative rock station KROQ, and I collapse in bed.

  There's nothing interesting on social media. Or on any of the news sites I frequent. Not that anything interests me right now.

  I boot up a match-three game and click the shiny tiles mindlessly. I don't feel any thrill when the gems match and explode. In fact, the cutesy graphics are grating my nerves.

  But I need something to occupy my hands and my mind. The game keeps my eyes busy. The radio keeps my ears busy. Between the two, my head fills with mindless chatter. Usually, that would annoy me. Not right now. Right now, mindless chatter is my saving grace. Mindless chatter is the only thing keeping me from sinking into oblivion.

  After an hour, I switch to playing FreeCell. An hour of that and my eyes and hands get tired. It's late. I'm tired. Maybe I'll be able to fall asleep.

  I push my laptop aside, brush my teeth, change into my pajamas, and get back into bed.

  It's a hot night, but I don't feel that either. I can't feel anything but the dryness in my eyes and the heaviness in my heart.

  The song switches from a Nirvana classic to an inviting guitar riff. I haven't heard it before.

  Which means it's new. I listen to this station non-stop. I know every song they play.

  The riff is moody and catchy. Then the bass and drums are kicking in, and I can feel the song everywhere.

  The singer's voice flows into my ears. He's groaning with this unspeakable pain. This song is loud and big and incredibly rock 'n' roll, but somehow he's singing to me.

  He's singing for me.

  I only catch bits and pieces of the verse. Can't sleep. No... recovery.

  I only catch hints of the chorus. A minute here and then you're gone.

  I close my eyes and focus all my attention on the song. It doesn't help me pick out the words of the second verse. I'm too caught up in the singer's pain. He knows how this feels. He knows how badly this hurts.

  This time, I catch every word of the chorus.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  "Running away again, kid?"

  A minute here

  and then you're gone.

  I catch snippets of the third verse.

  Four weeks now.

  That hole, that dread.

  I can barely breathe

  Four weeks now. That's an eternity. That hole, that dread, that inability to breathe—every inch of my being knows those awful feelings.

  Every inch of my being is sure that this song is about exactly what I'm going through.

  I listen closely in hopes of the D.J. spilling the name or the band, but he doesn't. He switches right into Everlong by the Foo Fighters. Normally, I appreciate the song, even if it's a little overplayed. Right now, it goes right through my ears.

  I need to hear that song again.

  It's doing something to me, sparking something in me.

  I tap the lyrics that come to me into the search bar of my computer. That hole, that dread, I can barely breathe.

  There. The page fills with lyrics sites. Sinful Serenade. In Pieces. I read over the lyrics again and again. Each time, my stomach twists. It hurts, and somehow that's both worse and better than feeling nothing.

  My heart is heavier and lighter at the same time.

  My body is aching and empty at the same time.

  I boot up Spotify and I listen to the song again.

  Again.

  Again.

  Each time, I catch more of the lyrics.

  I feel better.

  And worse.

  Empty.

  And full.

  I don't know what the hell I'm doing right now. I don't know what I should be doing. The only thing I want is for school to start. Then, I'll have something meaningful to occupy my mind. I'll have some way to block out all these thoughts.

  This guy, this singer, he knows exactly how this feels.

  He understands me.

  And I understand him.

  And that's terrifying and comforting at the same time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For weeks, In Pieces is everywhere. It's on every Los Angeles station. It's all over Spotify and Pandora. It's playing in coffee shops and boutiques.

  And it's there, on my computer, on repeat.

  It's a powerful drug. I try to resist the hit. I let the ache in my heart build. I let that feeling that no one understands how much this hurts—that no one will ever understand how much this hurts—build and build until I can't take it anymore.

  Then I listen.

  And I fall apart.

  I make a playlist. I add other songs that tug at my heartstrings. Other songs that brush up against that overwhelming ache.

  But none of them hit me as deeply as In Pieces.

  None of the vocalists are singing for me.

  It's only this guy who is singing in my ear.

  It's only him who understands me.

  I don't know his name.

 
; I don't have a clue what he looks like.

  But, somehow, he's the only person who can comfort me.

  I know that other people deal with loss. I know my parents are hurting, Rosie's friends are hurting, a million other people are hurting right now.

  But he's the only person hurting the way I'm hurting.

  He's the only person who understands this exact mix of loss and longing.

  Three weeks now.

  Can't sleep.

  Gaping hole in my chest

  shows no signs of recovery.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  "Running away again, kid?"

  A minute here

  and then you're gone.

  Lights out.

  Can't sleep.

  Heavy head,

  but no one else can see.

  (No one ever did).

  A lost cause still,

  worse than before.

  No signs of recovery.

  That word, a joke, you laugh.

  "Running away again kid?"

  A minute here

  And then you're gone.

  Four weeks now.

  That hole, that dread.

  I can barely breathe

  Anywhere but here.

  Anything but this.

  I want to take your lead.

  Every day, I understand him a little more. And he understands me a little more. My sister OD'd. On heroin. I had no idea she was using. I ignored every sign. Then bam, she was gone. A fire extinguished. And now the wisps of smoke are blowing away in the breeze.

  When I close my eyes, she's there.

  Then she's not.

  The only time I let the grief seep in is during In Pieces. It's the only time I'm safe enough to let down the dam holding back every ounce of agony.

  I catch his name in the credits of one of those lyrics sites. Miles Webb.

  It's like he's holding me, this Miles guy.

  But that's ridiculous.

  How can a man I've never met, who I will never meet, give me this kind of comfort?

  I want more of him.

  All of him.

  He's a Google search away. I'm tempted to look into his life, to see how he interviews, to see what he looks like. But every time I get the urge to pore into his online presence, something stops me.

  The relationship we have right now—him singing for me, me letting his words pour into my soul—is perfect. More information could only ruin it. What if he's a cocky jerk? What if he's a manwhore? What if he has more ego than Kanye? What if he bashes his exes with more vitriol than every Taylor Swift album combined?

  This is what I want.

  He gets me.

  I get him.

  I don't ask him for anything but his voice in my ears, his words in my soul.

  He doesn't ask anything of me but my appreciation, my need, my consideration.

  I resist for a long, long time.

  Then the band drops a music video. Spotify reminds me everyday. Pandora too. I resist for days. Weeks.

  I go to work. I see Kara on Sundays. I fill the rest of my time with anything I can find.

  One night I get home late, tired and in desperate need of comfort. And there's Spotify again, reminding me about the new Sinful Serenade music video. There's a shot of a man in a lonely room, his face obscured by a broken door frame, his naked torso exposed.

  Dammit. I'm only human.

  I play the video.

  It's in black and white. A sparse bedroom, the window open, the sheer curtains blowing. And there's his back. Miles. He's pressing his palms into the window frame, his muscles taut, his strong shoulders tense with months of sleepless nights.

  He turns. The camera catches the side of his face. His shoulder. The tattoo snaking down his chest and over his obliques. He's just wearing jeans. They're slung low around his narrow hips.

  Even in the soft lighting, the lines of his torso are clear.

  He's incredibly defined.

  And those tattoos covering his chest and arms...

  The hot rock star in only jeans is a cheap attempt at getting attention.

  But there's also something intimate about it.

  I'm watching him trapped in this room, restless and empty and out of his head. He's trapped in that lonely room. But, really, it doesn't matter where he is or who's around.

  He's trapped in his lonely head.

  He's trapped in these ugly thoughts.

  No one else gets how much it hurts.

  No one else understands him.

  He's handsome. Incredibly handsome. But it's not his brilliant eyes that grab my attention.

  It's all that pain in his expression.

  The way he hurts like I hurt.

  The way he understands how this feels.

  I watch the video twice.

  Three times.

  Until I fall asleep.

  ***

  The weight shifts in my bed.

  There's a breeze ruffling my sheets.

  It's sending my hair in every direction.

  It's soft on my eyelashes.

  There's another pressure on my skin. It's nearly as soft as the breeze. Nearly as delicate.

  Fingertips.

  Fingertips on my forearm.

  On my shoulder.

  My collarbone.

  It's been a long time since anyone has touched me like this. Since anyone has touched me at all. There was my high school boyfriend, then a few almost-hookups.

  School takes all my time.

  No guys.

  No...

  Fuck, those fingertips feel good. My eyelids are still pressed together. I can't see him. Somehow, I can tell I'm safe. That he won't hurt me.

  That he only wants to bring me comfort.

  Pleasure.

  He drags his fingertips down my chest. Over the neckline of my tank top. The weight of his body sinks into mine. He's heavy and hard and warm.

  My skin is burning from his touch.

  I'm hot everywhere. I can hear his breath. Feel his heartbeat. He's alive. And he's making me acutely aware of how alive I am.

  That matters, that I'm alive.

  That we're alive.

  He lets out a low groan.

  The same low groan he lets out on...

  Oh God.

  My eyes blink open.

  That's him.

  Miles.

  His eyes are blue. And they're filled with unspeakable need.

  Then his eyelids are pressing together and his lips are crashing into mine.

  His fingers find the waistband of my pajama bottoms.

  Then slide beneath it.

  Fuck.

  My mind goes blank.

  I don't feel any hurt or anguish or emptiness.

  I only feel desire.

  Pure, raw desire.

  CHAPTER THREE

  My skin is slick with sweat.

  This is a thin sheet, but right now it feels heavy.

  It's too hot.

  Even with the window open.

  Even with the breeze blowing morning air over my bed.

  The sky is that soft blue color. The color of dawn. And of the hospital beds in the ER.

  I can't be having sex dreams about rock stars.

  I'm not about to fall in love with some guy I'll never meet because his song speaks to me.

  This is it. No more listening to In Pieces on repeat. No more watching that video. No more thinking about him. Period.

  ***

  Damn successful rock stars. In Pieces continues to dominate my radio. Then the band releases a new song. It's not as big of a hit, but it's there, haunting me every time I change the station, popping up on Pandora.

  I try to ignore his sexy voice. When that doesn't work, I give in, and I listen to my fall apart playlist on repeat.

  The Saturday before school starts, I'm fixing coffee, ready to find something to fill the day, something besides thinking about how much I miss Rosie.

  TV isn't doing it anymore.
Movies either. I feel worse with Star Wars on-screen, its supposedly comforting familiarity mocking me.

  There's a knock on my door.

  Shit.

  That must be Kara. I've been dodging her calls and canceling stuff last minute.

  I smooth my tank top and I answer the door.

  Sure enough, she's standing there in a fit and flare dress. The snug fit accentuates her curvy frame. Even though she's a head shorter than I am, Kara has a presence. She always projects poise and confidence. Her makeup always extenuates her brown eyes. Her long dark hair is always perfectly straight.

  If she wasn't my best friend, I'd hate her for having all her shit together.

  She offers me a sincere smile. "Hey."

  I fold my arms over my chest reflexively. I shouldn't be this defensive with my best friend, but I can't face anyone right now. "Hey."

  She holds up a plastic bag. "Tea?"

  "Okay." I motion for her to come in.

  She does. We divide the cans of iced tea. Sencha for me. Black tea for her.

  I pop open my can of green tea and take a long sip. It's cool and crisp and a little bit nutty. Lately, I can barely taste anything. But this tea is packed with flavor.

  "You stopped trying with your excuses." She takes a long sip of her black tea and slides into the seat at the counter.

  "I'm still trying."

  She shakes her head, pulls out her phone, and reads aloud from it. "I can't make it to brunch today. I have to catch this Futurama marathon."

  "That is what I did all day."

  "It's on Netflix."

  "Even so..."

  She points to the DVDs stacked on my desk. Sure enough, the entire set of Futurama is right there.

  "Okay, that one was weak."

  "That one?" Her dark eyes light up as she laughs. "You should admit it so I can stop torturing you."

  "All of my reasons are legitimate."

  "Uh-uh." She looks to her phone and reads off my next excuse. "Sorry. I lost track of time on the treadmil."

  "I went to the gym."

  "No offense, sweetie, but we both know you don't work out. You're very-"

  "Flat?"

  "Svelte." She gives me a quick once-over. "I don't want to comment on your body. I love you, but not that way." Her voice gets soft. "Have you been eating?"

  "No." I've always been on the slim side, but since Rosie died, I'm all skin and bones. I feel awkward and gangly this far below my fighting weight.