Chapter 1

Backstage at Catch-22’s third annual Battle of the Bands, members of the local rock group Tainted Black waited for their turn on stage. Lead singer Benjamin Cooper leaned back against the stage door, arms crossed and head down so the curtain of brown curls that hung to his chin hid his face. His drummer, Scott McKree, stood nearby, beating his drumsticks in a rapid rattat rhythm on Benjamin’s left arm. The sticks made a light popping sound on Benjamin’s leather jacket and struck so fast that he didn’t feel them. Their bassist, Mark Johnson, had wandered off in search of a joint or a soda machine, whichever he could find first.

Under the cover of his hair, Benjamin watched someone in the shadowed wings of the stage. He knew the guy, knew him well—Ty Haiden fronted a rival band called Hazard. He wasn’t hard to miss, with long black hair that fell straight down past his shoulders and dark eyes that seemed in this dim light to be all iris, wide and dilated. He had a bit of a goatee, dark hair kept short on his chin that rimmed his mouth and edged his cheeks. It gave him a devilish appearance.

As if he felt the steady weight of Benjamin’s gaze burning into him, Ty glanced over his shoulder. When their eyes locked, an arc of energy shot between them, closing the distance and canceling out everyone else, a shock that jolted Benjamin’s already racing heart and sent it plummeting to throb somewhere below his belt. Ty gave him a slight nod, just a tilt of the chin really, very professional. Nothing overt, nothing personal. Benjamin’s return smirk was hidden by his hair.

Suddenly Mark stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “So how about it?” he asked.

Benjamin forced his thoughts away from Ty Haiden. “How about what?” he wanted to know. When had he returned? “Are you talking to me?”

Mark sighed dramatically and turned to Scott instead. “What do you think about a different cover? Maybe a little Free Bird, eh Skree? We can do that, right? The change ups are wicked—”

“We ain’t changing the song now,” Benjamin muttered. According to the competition schedule, Tainted Black played next, followed by Hazard. There was no time to practice a different song…was he serious?

Mark didn’t let it drop. “But we always do the Stones, man. I’m just saying Skynard would be something new…”

Skree’s face darkened and he let up with the drumsticks long enough to give Mark a hard shove. “We’re doing the same one we always do.”

Somewhere behind him came a raucous laugh. “Too bad it sucks.”

Benjamin looked up at the voice of Nick Staver, Hazard’s drummer. The animosity between him and Skree was legendary in Richmond’s local rock scene—both bands had been disqualified from numerous competitions before due to the drummers’ fights. As he closed the distance between them, Nick jeered, “When are you losers gonna learn the words to that fucking song? You always sing it wrong. It’s paintedblack, you idiots.”

Skree whirled around, a drumstick held tight in either fist like a kitana sword, ready to fight. He glared down Nick and the two guitarists behind him, guys whose names Benjamin never bothered to remember. From where he stood by the stage curtain, Ty glanced their way. Stay there, Benjamin prayed. As long as Ty kept out of it, he wouldn’t have to get involved. Skree stepped up to Nick and challenged, “What are you guys doing here? This ain’t karaoke night.”

“We’re gonna wipe the stage with you, dickwad,” Nick countered. He leaned forward and his band mates made a show of keeping him back. “No wayyou can hold your own against me and you know it.”

“A three year old banging on pots and pans sounds better than you,” Skree insulted. It always started this way, name-calling and insults, until someone threw a punch. “Call your daughter’s daycare—maybe they’ll give you lessons.”

Nick lunged and, this time, the guitarists didn’t have to fake holding him—the muscles in their thin arms stood out like cords as they struggled to keep him from pouncing on Skree. “Don’t you daretalk about my daughter!” the drummer warned. “Where the hell do you get off—”

Suddenly Ty was there between them. “Nick,” he cautioned. His gaze flicked past Skree to Benjamin like a challenge. Over his shoulder, he told his band, “Cut it out.”

So much for staying out of the fight, Benjamin thought with a weary sighHe unfolded himself and stepped in front of Skree. “Can’t you keep that drummer of yours under control?” Hazard’s singer asked him.

For a moment their eyes met. Benjamin felt that same energy spin out between them, a pulsing fire that burned from his throat to his groin, twisting everything inside him on the way down. Flicking his hair out of his face, he replied, “The way you do with yours.” He started to move away, thought better of it, and leaned closer to Ty. The familiar whiff of clean, sharp soap and spicy deodorant made his balls clench. To Nick, just behind the lead singer, Benjamin said softly, “It’s paint itblack.” One corner of Ty’s mouth pulled up in a half smile, which encouraged Benjamin. “Next time you’re going to insult us, get it right.”

Before he could lose himself in the scent of soap and Old Spice, Benjamin turned on his heel and walked off, heading for the stage. Skree and Mark followed after him, probably casting suspicious glances back at Hazard, but Benjamin didn’t turn around to check. He didn’t want them to see the grin that threatened to split his face.