Black Lilith: Book One (Black Lilith #1) (6 page)

Dash wakes up halfway to LA to throw up. Slate sneaks away with the flight attendant and returns to his seat looking smug. Tommy fills an entire notebook with scribbles, and Logan and Mikayla sit in near-comfortable silence until the plane descends through the clouds and lands in LAX.

“I’ve arranged for a ride to the Getty,” Mikayla explains as the aircraft taxis into the terminal. She slides her laptop into her purse and stretches her shoulders. “Unless there’s anything you guys want to do before we go to the venue?”

“We usually stop for ice-cream on the way,” Logan replies. His eyes linger on her as she stretches, and she pretends that she doesn’t notice.

“You’re kidding?” she replies.

He shrugs. “It’s tradition. Remember… we started this band in high school.”

Mikayla shakes her head. “I don’t think Dash will want ice-cream.”

“Ice-cream?” Dash states next to her, his blurry eyes perking up. There’s an unused sick bag resting in his lap and a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

She reaches over and brushes the back of her hand against his forehead, feeling the slightly feverish heat and frowning. “Aren’t you a little sick for ice-cream?”

Both Logan and Dash answer at the same time, “You’re never too sick for ice-cream.”

“He’ll be fine once we’re on the ground,” Logan says, leaning over to whisper into Mikayla’s ear. She has to suppress the shiver that runs through her when his breath brushes against the sensitive skin on her neck. “He bounces back quickly. It’s just because we had to fly this morning.”

“Right,” she says.

She tries to move away without looking as though she’s moving away, and then she realizes how ridiculous she’s being. If Logan has apologized for hitting on her, then didn’t that mean he wants their relationship to be professional? Maybe even friendly, like her relationship with the other band members? So she stays put, patting Dash on the cheek and saying, “If he throws up in the car you’re cleaning it up.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Logan replies, sitting back in his chair and throwing a smug look at his brother, who sticks his tongue out in retaliation.

It amazes her how these men could be talking about drugs and groupies one moment, and sticking their tongues out at each other the next. Each one of the band members was a curious mix of wayward child and rebellious teenager. She wonders where they all live, who pays their bills, and who shops for groceries. Her instincts tell her that it must be Logan—the older brother and leader of the band—but she has seen him tackle his brother to keep the younger man from embarrassing him. Maybe they live in a permanent state of adolescence, and their parents are the ones who pay their bills. But neither of the Todd boys had mentioned a mother or father.

She realizes that she doesn’t know anything about these men, beyond what they’ve told her in passing. She’s going to be working closely with them for months, but she doesn’t even know if ‘Slate’ is the drummer’s real name. She decides that she’ll need to ask those fundamental questions soon, or risk leaving it too long and making things awkward when she finally needs the information.

The plane eventually comes into the terminal, and they’re let out. Tommy is smiling pleasantly, clutching his notebook to his chest, and Slate winks at the flight attendant as they disembark.

“Mile High Club’s technically illegal,” Dash mutters to Slate as he wobbles out of the plane and down to the tarmac.

“That’s how you know it’s worth it,” Slate replies with a shrug. “Would’ve gotten you a friend if I thought you’d keep your barf down long enough to show her a good time. Third time’s the charm!”

Dash punches him in the arm, and Mikayla raises her eyebrows at Logan.

“Do I want to know?” she asks.

“Probably not,” Logan answers with a grin. “It’s a good story, but it’s also kind of gross.”

“I’ll pass,” she says. Then she raises her voice so that the rest of the band can hear her. “Who wants ice-cream?”

They all cheer. She feels kind of like Miss Clavel with her orphans as she shepherds the band into the waiting car and through the LA streets to the nearest ice-cream parlor. Once they’re all happily eating their cones—Mikayla doesn’t get one—they’re back on the road and heading to The Getty.

She has never been to LA. She’s always wanted to. For event management majors, LA is ground zero, but she could never afford to visit. For the first few years of college, she had sent every spare coin to her father in Wyoming, and then later she’d poured all of her extra money into her student loans and her unpaid internship. She still had a crippling debt, but with this new job she hoped to put a dent in it.

As they drove along the freeway, pausing every few minutes to wait for the traffic ahead of them to ease through, Mikayla stared around at the palm trees and sunlit paths and wondered what it would be like to live here. Probably noisy as hell, she thinks as a massive semi-trailer screams past them, honking its horn.

“Looking for the Hollywood sign?” Logan asks, leaning into her.

They’re squashed together in the back seat, and she can feel every inch of his side pressed against hers. She can feel lean muscle, and her forearm is brushing against his tattoos. His chocolate ice-cream is half-finished and starting to melt in its cone. Dash is on Logan’s other side, while Tommy and Slate are sharing the bench which leans up against the driver’s seat.

“Do you think we’ll see it?” she asks.

“Maybe from a distance,” Logan replies. He licks around the ice-cream cone, and she can’t help but watch the pink tongue’s progress. “It’s a shame we won’t have time for sightseeing.”

“We’re not on vacation,” Mikayla reminds him.

Slate snorts from the seat in front of them. She hadn’t realized that they were speaking loud enough for the rest of the band to hear them.

“You’re going to be one of those strict, time-keepy PAs, aren’t you?” he asks. He’s got a smudge of boysenberry on his chin. Tommy rolls his eyes and offers Slate his napkin.

“Time-keepy?” Mikayla questions.

“Time-keepy,” Slate agrees, nodding sagely.

“You’re the one who hired me,” she tells him. “And what, exactly, is a PA supposed to do if not keep time and make sure you’re all where you need to be?”

All four of the band members shrug in near-unison.

“Get us ice-cream?” Dash offers.

Then they all nod as though the guitarist has said something incredibly profound and she can’t help but laugh. That prompts Tommy to start giggling, which makes Slate and Dash join in, and finally, Logan is laughing beside her, his lean body shifting and pressing against her side as he gives in to his mirth.

They’re still laughing when they reach The Getty.

Mikayla had always thought that The Getty was just a museum. It wasn’t until she began researching the venues that the band would be playing in that she realized there was live music there on Saturday nights. The stage is set up outside in the open air, on a raised platform overlooking the garden, which was strung up with unlit fairy lights that she knows will look magical when the sun sets. The band gazes eagerly out the windows as they approach and turn into the carpark behind the venue. As they drive in, she notices a line of people at the door—men and women who point excitedly when they see the band’s car. Slade and Dash wave out of the window as they pass.

The next few hours are lost in preparation.

They arrived in the early afternoon, and by the early evening the band had completed their sound check, set up the stage to their liking, and charmed Harry Shultz, the manager of The Getty, into letting some of the women who’d been lingering at the back door to join them in the green room. Mikayla found herself standing in the corner of the green room, going over her notes while the band entertains the women. As far as she can tell, they’re not groupies. At least not yet. They seem flustered and pleased to have been singled out, but the questions they ask—particularly the ones who have gravitated toward Tommy—make her think that they are genuine fans of the band.

“So what’s your inspiration?” one woman, a tall brunette with thick eyebrows and a Billy Piper smile, asks Tommy as he strums idly on his bass.

He shrugs but seems to give the question real thought. “I like to write for the people I meet, and the places I see. I guess it depends on the mood I’m in.”

The green room isn’t green, just like the last time. It’s set up in a similar way—lumpy couches and a stained coffee table in the center of the room, with suspicious stains on the walls and floor.

Slate leans over Tommy and pats a gentle rhythm on the other man’s bass, providing a beat for the bassist to play. “Tommy’s the most talented of all of us. Him and Logan over there…” he helpfully points out the older Todd brother, who’s going over set lists at the tiny table in the corner, “…Dash and I are pretty pointless.”

The women all protest, which was clearly his intention, and Tommy throws him an exasperated look.

Dash has recovered, and there’s a slight flush of excitement in his cheeks as he paces the room, not trying to talk to the women. Instead, he seems to be muttering to himself, running his fingers through his hair and psyching himself up for the show. He’d seemed so laid back the last time that Mikayla had seen him perform. But then, she remembers, she hadn’t seen him before the show. Only halfway through, when the nerves would have worn off.

“Okay,” Logan calls, breaking through the conversations and Dash’s pacing. “Everyone huddle up.”

“Sorry,” Tommy says to the woman he’d been talking to. “We’ve got to get ready. But if you want to come by after the show, I’d love to see you again.”

He gives her an awkward, sincere smile and she leaves with stars in her eyes. Mikayla finds herself wondering who the real lady-killer in the band is—the drummer or the bassist. Or maybe the singer, she thinks as she watches a couple of the women send Logan hopeful looks as they leave. She tells herself that she’s not jealous.

Logan hands around the hand-written playlists that he and Dash were supposed to be working on together. She recognizes some of the songs from the files Dash sent her. Logan has divided them up into moods—Get Hyped, Slow Down, and Dance, plus the opening set. A couple are highlighted, and he quickly explains that those are the ones they can change out for other songs if they think that the audience is getting bored with the mood. The other band members nod over the playlists.

“We should move
Tell Me Something Miserable
up to the start of the Get Hyped mix,” Dash says, pointing at one of the songs. “Maybe even put it in the opening set?”

Logan glances at the other two members and, when they nod their approval, looks at Mikayla. It takes her a moment to realize that he’s looking for her opinion as well.

“I don’t… I’ve never done this before,” she says.

“But if you were in the audience, what would you want to hear?” he asks.

She thinks about it, aware that all eyes are on her. Then she speaks hesitantly, “I think you should save it for the end of the opening set. End on a high note, you know?”

Dash nods along with her. “Leave ‘em wanting more!”

“That’s my motto,” Slate says. He tosses his hair and throws Mikayla a cheeky wink which, after a moment of reflection, she returns. “Mik’s right… add it to the bottom of the opening set.”

Logan makes the change and she breathes a sigh of relief that she seems to have passed the test.

“What about the lead?” he asks the band. “I’m not sure about
Stray Ink
. It works for the small crowds, but this is The Getty.”

“What about
Yellow Brick Highway
?” Tommy says. “That usually gets people on their feet.”

Logan nods slowly. He hums to himself for a moment, then he begins to sing softly, “
Take a trip through the poppy fields. Carry me along with courage in the glove box. Drive slow with wheels made of rubies. Carry me along…
Yeah, that’ll be a good opener.”

Mikayla has to smother a smile. She loves that song.

They debate like this for a little while longer and she has to marvel at their dynamic. That they can be at once critical and supportive, bringing in new ideas without making anyone feel as though they’re lacking. She remembers all of her group projects at college because she always left the room either feeling like an asshole or feeling like she was an inch tall. These boys worked together like a well-oiled machine.