Page 51 of Dark

“Hayden—” Shondra hissed. “What’s the deal?”

I gripped the mic. “Hey, y’all. We’re Daisy Addiction. Thanks for coming out tonight. This is Don’t Call Me Pretty.”

I counted off and we dove into the intro. Pretty was a fast number I wrote last summer. Old-school bass. Killer guitar part, where Shondra sang back-up for me on vocals. In soundchecks we’d debated moving it later in the set, but with music order, you either went all in or went home.

My eyes swam from the lights, the stage so loud that even with earplugs in, my teeth were vibrating. I closed my eyes, everything fading away but touch and feel. Memory and heartbeat. Vibration beneath my fingertips and scales and chords I’d practiced and slaved over a thousand times. A simple progression of notes that could make your soul take flight.

Michelangelo saw angels trapped in blocks of marble. His calling was to carve until he set them free. Everywhere I went, lyrics clawed at the inside of my skull like bits of cut glass. Echoes of melodies. Jagged broken riffs. Fragments begging to be formed into a whole.

Gripping the mic, I closed my eyes and began to sing.

Pink prom dress,

White sneakers,

You know I’m not that girl.

I paint my nails black,

Rock like Joan Jett,

You think I want your world?

I kill all my own dragons,

So put away that sword,

And…

I held out the mic. The audience shouted in time with the lead-in to the chorus:

“Don’t… Call… Me…Pretty.”

The lights stuttered as I stepped back from the mic, launching into my guitar solo. My ears rang, the buzz from the crowd lighting me up. Standing up onstage performing music you wrote was pretty much like posting a naked selfie on social media and asking for feedback.

But in those moments your lyrics connected, watching a crowd gyrate in the background while you freed your notes to the world?

Like. Freaking. Sex.

I tore through the end of my guitar solo and stepped back up to the mic. The crowd went insane. Raw, wild energy roared through me like wildfire. I chanced a look down. Cal wore a shit-eating grin. Beside him, Ethan had his fists clenched at his sides, practically hyperventilating, like it was all he could do not to come up onstage and eat me alive.

The rest of the set passed in a blur. Backstage, Ethan and Cal helped pack up my gear.

“Could be your garden-variety creeper.” Cal rubbed his faux hawk. “But if one of your regular fans is a fang-head—”

“We need to know.” I ran a hand over my ponytail.

“I’ll check it out.” Cal pocketed his phone. “You two going out there?”

“Yeah.” Ethan laced his fingers through mine. “If this guy is gonna make a move, it’ll be now.”

Strobe lights illuminated a crush of dancers as I followed Ethan out onto the club floor. Bodies closed in around us as his thumbs circled my hips, pulling me into him so my back was flush with his front. Pressing a kiss to the nape of my neck, he slid a hand up, fingers splaying out across my stomach.

The electric pump of the music pulsed in my blood. His lips traced my throat, breath feathering across my skin at the edge of the leather choker. His hips began to roll in time with the beat, mine chasing his rhythm as I felt him thicken behind me.

“That set was wild.” Ethan bit my ear. “You completely killed it onstage.”

I tipped my head back, pressing a hot kiss to the column of his throat. “Yeah?”