URGENT (Book 2 of the Soundcrush Series)

Prologue

Five Years Ago  First Full Soundcrush Rehearsal

Adam

"What are you staring at, Preacher?"

The five-foot-two spitfire in too-much eye makeup and an oversized black hoodie strikes a discord on her keys. She stops in the middle of her audition—and she's talking to me.

I ignore the obnoxious nickname, that she surely heard from Leed, who heard it from Trace, who heard it from the guy down the hall in our dorm, who went to  my dad's church in Nashville.

"I'm staring at you. I think I have a sound crush on you."

I mean it. She's fucking amazing. She's ripping those keys dirty. She's channeling the soul of jazz musician, time-warping through Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails, and making our original song something completely new.

Fuck yeah. She's the catalyst. She can shift us from a nineties alternative tribute band, into something original.

Something solid.  Something to fall in love with.

"Yeah," I repeat. "I have a huge sound crush on you, MacKenna Lawson."

She does this weird thing, in response to my words. She pales, instead of blushing. I notice because it makes the freckles stand out beneath her dusting of powder. Her skin is fine—she doesn't need make up really, but she's plastered the dark shit on her eyes, on top of her pale brows and lashes.

She looks hot, all made up. But I'd like to see her fresh-faced. With soft golden eyelashes. In the morning sunlight, while she's sleeping.

Fuck.

I riff the bass line from the song we just played, as a distraction. Get a grip, Heartley. She's a keyboardist—and Leed's sister—not a hook-up.

"Fuck yeah, we are all crushing on that sound," Trace agrees. "Mac, your skill is legit. We need you." He grins huge at her, and then unlatches his guitar as he points to me. "And you just named the goddamn band, Roomie."

"Soundcrush. Soundcrush. Soundcrush," Bodie recites as he adds a little backbeat with his snare and tom. "I like it." He splashes his cymbals.

"Hold up," Leed says. He's shirtless. Why the fuck, I don't know. It's November. I guess frontmen/singers always like to show off. "Are you for real, Trace? Obviously, I think she's the ticket—I brought her here. But you guys mean it—you want Mac on keys in the band? Cause you know, don't mess around with my sister, just cause she's hot."

Trace looks at me with from beneath his intense eyebrows, trying to communicate with those freakishly pale eyes that girls adore, but that frankly, creep me the fuck out when he's stoned. Or maybe, when I'm stoned. It's pretty much one and the same.

But right now, I know what he's trying to communicate. He's taking a vote on MacKenna. I give the nod. MacKenna and the sound she brings is essential. Bodie sounds off in agreement, too—with his kit.

"Nobody's messing around," Trace says. You're in, Mac. No...you're It, girl. You're the magic we've been waiting for." He gives her that rock star head tip he was born with. Cocky bastard.

"Cool. I'm in," she looks down at her fingers dancing over the keys in celebration.

Her face registers no emotion at Trace's praise. I have this rushing, optimistic hope that the paling thing she does, might just be for me.

Wait, that's crazy. I just met this girl.

Leed grins and slinks over to Mac, giving her a soft shove and then a one shouldered hug. "Told you. It's gonna be awesome." Then he flips his longish red hair to the side and scans the three of us with his long pointer finger, baring his teeth like a large cat. "Nobody fucks my little sister. Got it?"