Static

Praise for Static

"You're going to love Static—a deep, dark and
sexy ride. This is a creepy and unique addition to the YA
paranormal genre that goes a little bit further and gives a little
bit more."

—Janet Gurtler, author of I'm Not
Her and If I Tell, Sourcebooks Fire.

"STATIC is an edgy, dark, and delicious read!
Tawny Stokes is a tasty new voice in YA fiction."

—Michelle Rowen, national
bestselling author of Demon Princess series

"Static is an edgy, unique, whirlwind paranormal
story with great action and amazing storytelling. This one leads
you down a path you won't forget. Don't miss it!"

—Denise A. Agnew, award-winning
author

For Shayla.
Who continually ROCKS my world!

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my agent Laura Bradford who helped
me make this book rock out loud. Also thanks to my friends and
family for supporting me in my decision to put this book out on my
own.

STATIC

By
Tawny Stokes

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Tawny Stokes This ebook is
licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved,
including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, is
any form. This ebook may not be resold or uploaded for distribution
to others.

Chapter 1

You belong to me...

I own you...

The hypnotic timbre of Thane's voice surged through
my body making me tingle all over. Like a rush of heroin injected
into my vein, soothing me, exciting me, I was completely and
utterly hooked.

The bustling crowd in front of the stage swayed back
and forth and I swayed with them. I was caught in the movement—the
flow of people stirred like a whirlpool to the intoxicating rhythm
and razor sharp lyrics of
Malice
.

Your life's in my hands...

I'm sucking your soul...

My favorite band for the past year, I'd traveled,
with my best friend Chloe, across Idaho and Washington in the past
two months to see them play. My mom had been really cool about it,
even lending me her car—an old POS, but a vehicle nonetheless—to
drive to the shows just as long as I didn't drive home trashed. I'd
attempted it one night, but got scared when I couldn't keep it on
the road, and pulled over at a rest stop. Chloe and I slept in the
car.

Thankfully no crazed psycho killer raped and
mutilated us. The worst that came at us was a stray dog looking for
some scraps. Chloe gave it the rest of her cheeseburger that we'd
picked up a MacDonald's drive thru after the show.

For eight gigs, I'd been entranced by the four
member—three guys and one girl—band. My body responded to every
aspect of their music. My head pounded to the constant heady thump
of the drums, my heart thrashed to every guitar riff, and my thighs
clenched with every word lead singer Thane uttered into the
microphone.

Some songs he looked like he was making love to the
equipment, running his fingers up and down the silver pole,
uttering a lover's words in its ear. I ached and throbbed wishing I
could be that thin pole of shiny metal. If only he'd hold me like
that, gripping me tightly, running his sweet lips over my face and
neck. My eyes nearly rolled back in my head in ecstasy imagining
what that would feel like.

That was when Chloe punched me in the arm starling me
from my fantasy. "Salem?"

"What?" I grunted, peering at her between strands of
black and blond hair hanging in my eyes.

"Do you want some of this?"

I glanced down to see her passing me some vodka. I
took the offered bottle and tipped it to my lips swallowing down a
good portion. It burned going down, but it was a good burn, telling
me I was still sober. Which I needed to be if I was going to
complete my mission of getting a back stage pass to meet the band.
This was their final gig for the summer in my home city—Boise,
Idaho—and I wouldn't get another chance to offer up my virginity to
Thane. I'd been holding onto it just for him.

My mom had always told me that virginity was a gift
and the guy better be someone special enough to give it to. I
figured Thane was extremely special. I mean, my mom had given hers
up to some Rock God in the 80's, I suspected it was either Keith
Richards or Iggy Pop because she had signed pictures of them both
thanking her for a stellar night and when she mentioned either one
of them she got this little smile on her lips and a devilish
sparkle in her eye.

Before I could hand the bottle back to Chloe, the
couple next to us bumped into my arm and I nearly dropped it. I
turned around to glare at them, but they were so busy making out
that they didn't notice. That was one thing I did notice about
Malice gigs, there always seemed to be a lot of couples kissing and
groping each other either on the stage floor or in darkened corners
peppered around the venue.

In Spokane, when I went to the bathroom at the club
the band was playing in, I happened upon two girls making out in
one of the stalls. Although I was an equal opportunity snogger,
that had thrown me for a loop. I certainly knew some people were
gay, I didn't have an issue with that—I had an uncle who was gay
and a friend at school—it was just I'd never seen it so graphically
displayed before.

Once I'd finally given the bottle back to Chloe, she
wiped the top with the hem of her t-shirt—I guess she didn't
appreciate my spit—and took a pull, then tucked it back into the
pocket of her army green jacket that swam on her lanky but scrawny
frame.

"Did you figure out how we're going to score
backstage passes yet?"

Shaking my head, I set my attention on the security
guards off to one side of the stage, handing passes on strings to a
few big-breasted Goth wannabes. At every show I watched similar
guards giving passes to similar types of girls. The two times I'd
asked for one, they'd looked me up and down, likely taking in my
black 10 holed Doc Martens, jeans-a few worn spots at the knees and
on the ass—shaggy mop of black and white hair, and Betty Boop
t-shirt that didn't stretch out to a DD cup, or to a C for that
matter then disregarded me in the time it took to do the bra
calculations.

This time I came armed. I'd shoved my mom's silicone
gel boobs into my bra under my vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt. That
made me go from an A cup to a perky B. I was also wearing my extra
special pair of worn jeans that made my ass look good. I'd
considered also wearing my mom's butt enhancer panties—she had real
body image issues—but decided against it. I didn't want to look
like a complete whore.

"I'm going to ask real nice." A trickle of sweat ran
down the back of my neck. I wiped at it. I really didn't want to
have sweat stains on the back of my t-shirt. The heat in the club
was nearly oppressive. Too many bodies packed into too small a
room.

Chloe eyed me dubiously, black eyeliner starting to
run down her gaunt cheeks. "You did that the last time. And the
security dude was a real dickhead about it."

"That was before I had these." I stuck out my chest
and cupped my boobs.

Chloe shook her head, her short cap of fire-engine
red hair swinging. "Do you really think that's going to work?"

"Duh? That's all guys understand. Boobs. It's as if
they are actually communicating with them, the way they stare."

"Well, then, good luck with hypnotizing these
security assholes with your perfect B boobs." Chloe laughed. "You
should go soon cuz it sounds like they're getting ready to wrap up
the set."

She was right. Devon, the girl band member, stepped
forward to roll into her bass solo, her pink Tokyopop pigtails
bouncing to the rhythm. It was the beginning of their song,
Sin
City,
which they always played second to last. Straightening my
shoulders, I made my way, by pushing and shoving, through the
pulsating crowd toward the right side of the stage.

When I reached my destination, there were three
bimbos standing in front of me giggling and jiggling at the two
beefy security guys. It just about made me want to barf. I actually
had to put my hand to my mouth just in case I did.

"Excuse me," I yelled over top one of the girl's
bleached blond head. "Can I get a couple of passes?"

The blond whipped around to glare at me. She had one
of those hoops in her nose that made her look like a bull. I
wondered if I waved a red flap if she'd charge at me. She looked
scary enough to do just that.

One of the security guys looked me up and down.
"Sorry. I just ran out."

I noticed the passes dangling from all three of the
girls' hands. "They got some."

"Those were my last three." He shrugged and went back
to ogling one of the three girls who was wearing a black fishnet
top and nothing underneath. I think her nipples were even pierced.
I managed to spy a glint of sliver when she turned to glare at me
too.

Blondie continued to glare at me. "Why don't you run
along little girl? Go play with your Goth Barbie."

I hated when people assumed I was so young. I was
seventeen but short—five feet one—and I got mistaken for fourteen
all. The. Time. It didn't help that I was small too—a whopping size
one—with petite delicate features courtesy of my mom who looked
like a punk pixie most days with her short spiky black hair and
colorful tattoos covering a lot of her tight compact body.

So it didn't surprise me when my hands began to shake
from the anger welling up. I despised confrontation but right now I
hated not having a back stage pass even more. I glanced up at the
stage and watched as Thane moved around with his long sinuous limbs
and silky black hair falling in his perfect pale face making my
stomach clench. I had to get backstage no matter what.

"I wasn't talking to you." I finally said.

She arched her pierced eyebrow and set one hand on
her ample hip. "Excuse me? Who do you think you're talking to?"

I took in her appearance, noticing she wore cheap
purple hair extensions, I could plainly see one of the clips in her
hairline at her temple, and her face was adorned with several
piercings. She looked like she'd been put together with pins.

I smirked. "Skankenstein?"

The two security guys laughed at that, as did one of
her friends but not the one with her nipples poking out.

"You bitch!" she shrieked.

I didn't expect her to hit me. But she did. Hard. An
open hand slap right across my left cheek. It stung like hell. I'd
never been slapped before and didn't realize how badly it could
hurt. I think my lip was cut as well because I could taste blood in
my mouth. I glanced down at her hand and noticed the solid silver
rings on her hand. The bitch had turned them in.

"Hey," one of the security guards shouted, "If you're
going to fight take it outside."

A little crowd started to form around us. The scent
of blood always got teenagers' attentions. We were like animals in
that regard. I don't know how many times I'd been in one of those
crowds watching as two or three or more people beat the crap out of
each other for pathetic and irrelevant reasons.

I could read the lips of the guys standing closest to
us as they passed the word on about the bitch fight about to
happen. What was it with guys wanting to watch two girls fight? I
really hated to be in the middle of one, all eyes watching, ready
for the scratching and hair pulling that usually entailed in a girl
fight and hoping for blood.

Usually a loner, I didn't like a lot of attention.
Preferring to stick to my three or four good friends, I didn't much
like being in a crowd, except at a gig. But then when I came to a
Malice concert, it was always just between me and the band. The
crowds never bothered me. I just came to hear the music and watch
the sexy guys on the stage—I came for the rock fantasy.

So standing in front of a fuming blond bimbo out for
blood in a fighting circle surrounded by twenty or thirty people
wasn't making me feel all that good. Again, I felt like I was going
to barf. I didn't want to fight. I wasn't big on violence; I didn't
even play fighting games on my DS. But I was not the type of person
to back down either. My mom had always taught me to stick up for
myself. Although I'm sure she didn't mean that I should punch the
shit out of this girl. Even if I wanted to.

Rubbing my cheek, I tried to appeal to the girl's
reasonable side, assuming she possessed one. "I think for that you
should give me your backstage pass. We'll call it even."

She laughed. "Not likely." Then she shoved me hard. I
stumbled backwards into the murmuring crowd. Two sets of hands
pushed me back into the circle.
Hey, thanks guys!

It was obvious I wasn't going to walk away from this
easily. Or at all by the murdering look in the blond's eyes. But no
one ever said being a groupie was easy.