Free Smoke and Mirrors - Hollywood Knights One by L.B. Clark Page B

in me, I gave him my best
withering look. “Seriously? Are you going to double-dog dare
me?”
    “I might,” he teased.
    Seth scowled and said, “Just take the damn
microphone, Jenny.”
    I kicked his foot and said, “Well, since you asked
so nicely, how could I refuse?”
    He at least had the decency to look a little ashamed
of himself.
    A couple of song suggestions were thrown out, and
then Seth ignored them all and started playing one of the most
recognizable guitar riffs in all of rock music. I kicked his foot
again.
    “You want me to sing Guns N’ Roses without warming
up? Really?” When he just kept playing, I shrugged and called him
an asshole. And then I sang.
    Music had always been a big thing in my family. Mom
loved to sing, and Dad loved to listen. Mom had made sure that all
three of her kids had piano lessons, something none of us had
appreciated at the time. We’d all grown up with a deep appreciation
for music, but none of us had any musical aspirations.
    That had eventually changed for Chris, when he’d met
Seth. Seth had taught him to play a little guitar and they’d spent
a lot of nights writing songs together over the years. My brother
had a gift for lyrics, along with an amazing voice that Seth had
just had to have on backing vocals for some of his songs.
    As for me, I’d been in choir in junior high and high
school. I’d liked it well enough, but I didn’t have any desire to
take it to the next level. I chose to stick with singing in the car
and occasionally making a fool of myself at karaoke.
    I didn’t have the artistic gift that my brother or
any of the guys in Seth’s studio had. I couldn’t create something
out of nothing. But I could sing, so sing I did. And even though I
didn’t really have anyone I could brag to about it, there was a
certain thrill in jamming with the likes of Seth Webber, JT Boyd,
Brian Kelly, and London Dahlbeck—guys who had played sold-out shows
around the world, inspired people with their music, won awards, and
earned the loyalty of fans from all walks of life—and I felt a
helluva lot of pride that I could hold my own while doing it.
    After a while, the guys took a break and switched
things around, and somehow I ended up with my butt parked on the
drum stool with sticks in my hands. Brian gave me some basic
instruction, and I bashed out a rhythm on the snare and ride.
London grinned and shook his head.
    “Let me see that,” he said, holding out his
hand.
    I handed him the stick, and he showed me how I
should be holding it, as opposed to how I was holding it. I tried
again, but again he shook his head.
    “Wait a second,” he said, hopping up to come stand
behind me.
    He reached around to adjust my grip and my
positioning, and for a minute, I think I forgot to breathe. I gave
myself a hard mental kick for it, but the damage was done. I needed
to get away from him, even though I didn’t want to.
    “I’m hopeless,” I told him. “Maybe some time when
I’m not lit.” I handed him the drumsticks, maybe a little more
forcefully than was really necessary, and made a beeline for the
door.

Chapter Eighteen
     
    The early October night had gotten downright cold,
and I stood outside shivering, letting the chill seep in to replace
the rush of heat from both London’s touch and the shame I felt for
being so strongly attracted to someone who was dating one of my
closest friends.
    I’m not sure how long I stood out there, partly to
calm down and partly to punish myself, before Elizabeth appeared
beside me, asking if I was okay. I couldn’t tell her what was
wrong, so I just shrugged.
    “I thought you were napping,” I said.
    “Dylan’s really not feeling too great. She asked me
to ask Brian if he was ready to go. I thought I’d see if I could
drag London away, too. I’d really rather be in my own bed.”
    I laughed. “Up until a month ago, your bed was
here.”
    She laughed, too. “Maybe it’s just that I want
London cuddled up with me, then. Either