Free Lyon's Legacy: Catalyst Chronicles, Book One by Sandra Ulbrich Almazan Page A

“Besides, when I’m famous, I’ll get all the girls I want.”
    I said nothing. I knew he’d hold this attitude for about another ten years; he wouldn’t marry the mother of his first son, Charlie, no matter how much she pleaded or raged, despite the large settlement he had to give her privately to avoid scandal. But once he toured the Philippines and met Baby, he’d mature into the activist and family man most people remembered him as. Pluckenreck would be furious if I told Sean his future, but I didn’t think he’d believe me anyway.
    We walked a couple more blocks, passing more storefronts. Soon, they gave way to restaurants and bars. I smelled meatloaf and pie in front of a diner and vomit next to a bar. The next bar seemed classier, with piano music and dressed-up customers. Sean led me two more doors down, to a metal door. The words “White Knight” were scrawled on it. Sean didn’t play here very often; I was expecting either the Casablanca or the Jupiter Juniper. Jackass and other fans back home would be elated to hear Sean’s performance tonight. As he preceded me down the poorly lit stairwell, I fumbled inside my purse and double-checked my recorder.
    A middle-aged man guarded the door at the bottom. “She’s with me,” Sean said to him.
    The guard stared at Sean’s guitar case before nodding and letting us pass.
    There was nothing noble about the White Knight. Numerous candles cast shadows on the walls. The air was so pungent it should’ve been classified as a chemical weapon. Despite the po or atmosphere, the tables were already about half full. Most of them were occupied by couples, but some of the ones closest to the stage were home to groups of girls who shrieked and waved at Sean. Maybe he played here more often than I knew.
    “Make yoursel f at home,” Sean said. He bounded onto the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.
    I managed to find an unoccupied table close enough to the stage for me to make my secret recording. The cramped place filled quickly, with dressed-up girls chattering over the background music—recorded, not live--about their favorite musicians. I didn’t recognize most of the names they mentioned, but Sean’s came up several times. Young men lined the walls, many of them in leather jackets like the musicians, but younger and with softer faces.
    At some signal I didn’t notice, all the girls around me whipped hairspray, makeup, and combs out of their purses and preened furiously. Never mind the ozone layer; the hairspray was thick enough to create holes in my lungs. I coughed and fanned myself. As I was wondering if I should pretend to primp too, the girls put their stuff away. The record playing in the background ended, and an older guy all in black with thinning hair stepped onto the stage. “Hi everyone, thanks for coming,” he said. “We hope you’re enjoying the drinks as much as you’ll enjoy tonight’s act. Ladies and Gentlemen, Sean Lyon and the Pride!”
    Furious applause erupted as the curtain opened. Sean stood off to the side as if he didn’t notice the audience. Since he didn’t have his glasses on, they were probably all a blur to him, but with the way he tilted his chin and thrust himself forward, he looked too cool to touch. Behind him were another guitarist, a bassist, and a drummer, all in enough black leather to make bovines afraid. I leaned forward, trying to identify them. “Cole Breadmann, Willie Hi-Hat, and Paul Grove,” I whispered into the recorder. They’d all played with Sean before, though not always in this configuration. Sean tended to switch his backing musicians around so none of them could challenge him.
    A dark-haired girl up front passed glass soda bottles onto the stage. “Thanks, Deborah,” Paul, the bassist, said as he set his down. Cole brought one back to Willie, the drummer. Sean raised his guitar to his chest . As one, the four of them broke into “Be-Bop-A-Lula.”
    I’d heard this song before, of course, on