Sheet Music (Razor's Edge Book 1)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Sheet Music
K.L. Myers
Contents
Untitled
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Actual Breast Cancer Survivor Quote
Sheet Music (c) 2017
All rights are reserved
Cover Design (c) 2017 Designs by Dana
Photography (c) 2017 Eric Battershell
Model (c) 2017 Chase Bergner
Formatting by HJ Bellus
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means such as electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, brands, media, and incidents are used solely in a fictitious nature based on the author's imagination. Any resemblance to or mention of persons, places, organizations or other incidents is coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dedication
When I started the Razor’s Edge Series, I was so excited to venture down the road of writing about the five members of a rock band and the women who make them whole.
Five storylines were penned to paper, and Rocking Between The Sheets was written and in the bag, scheduled to be released in the Lucky In Love Anthology. To say I was excited would be an understatement. Rocking Between The Sheets was just a little taste for the readers to familiarize them with the new series.
As I started writing Sheet Music, the unthinkable happened, and the music world was front and center on every social media outlet and news station due to the loss of one of their own.
This shit happens all the time, right? But this time it was different. This one hit very close to home for me, as a very dear friend and coworker was devastated by the loss of her nephew. My heart shattered into a million pieces with grief as I watched her struggle to understand why or even how this could happen to her family. Soon, I started believing that finishing this series would be in poor taste. How could my group of friends and I celebrate while I watched my dear Lynetta suffer?
Day after day, week after week, her healing process progressed, and dear Lynetta became stronger and stronger. The pain of her loss lessened (though it will never go away completely,) and I watched as she marched forward, demonstrating her strength to be a survivor. Without knowing it, Lynetta became my inspiration.
So, it is with gratitude and humility that I dedicate this book and the entire Razor’s Edge Series to Lynetta Keough. I love you, my dear friend, you are so inspirational and have such a beautiful, loving soul.
Chester… Your memory lives on every day through Lynetta. RIP. Your aunt loves you, and I love her. Gone but not forgotten.
Prologue
Thirty days ago, I was a different man than I am today. Thirty days ago, I was Cayson James Razor, the frontman for Razor’s Edge. My life was about the music and my band. Now, it’s about getting back the one thing I can’t live without: Kayla Marshall.
When my manager asked me to let a romance writer shadow my band for thirty days, I was dead set against it, but it didn’t matter what I wanted; what mattered was keeping my manager happy, and so, under duress, I agreed.
Kayla Marshall wasn’t what I expected. She was an angel sent from heaven to be there for me when I needed a shining light most. When the worst happened and our drummer fell off the wagon and headed for rehab, she gave me the strength I didn’t know I was missing.
In thirty days, Kayla went from being a thorn in my side to being the hole in my heart. At least that’s what it felt like when she left. I never got the chance to tell her how I felt about her. One minute she was in my arms feeling like heaven on earth, and the next she was missing in action.
She ran away before I could tell her that I needed her like I needed air to breathe. The only thing she left behind was her notepad and the beginning of a story that mirrored us. As fast as it started, it ended. Blank pages are all that is left to the end of the story. It’s unfinished just like us. It needs a happy ending to be written, right? It can’t end in despair and heartbreak, can it? Romance novels always have a happy ending; that’s what makes them romance novels. Now, I’m not so sure there is a happy ending.
Chapter 1
Kayla
After the best day of my life, I walked off his bus with my heart shattered into a million pieces. Cayson James Razor broke me, and I don’t think I will ever be the same.
Thirty days ago, I had it all planned out. My next big novel was going to be a bad boy rocker who falls for the one girl he never thought he would like: the girl next door. I had it all laid out in my head how the story would go; I just needed to build the character, and like any good author, I was going to do my homework and base my characters on realistic traits, not just ones made up in my head. That’s where my mom and her two besties from college came in. Patricia Woodland and Brenda Razor. Patricia is my publicist, and her husband, Sean, manages Razor’s Edge. Brenda’s son is the frontman behind one of the biggest bands currently on the billboards, Razor’s Edge. How lucky was I? Between Patrica, Brenda, and my mom, the best-laid plans were placed in motion for me to spend thirty days with the band.
The band didn’t know that my mom is friends with Cayson’s mom, and I preferred to keep it that way. I didn’t want everyone to be on their best behavior. I wanted to experience the true, raw grit of what a rock band was like, and boy, did I get it. What I hadn’t expected was to fall for the bad boy rocker. But falling hard is what happened.
It all started with a small spark that eventually led to an inferno, and in the last twelve hours of my time with Razor’s Edge, it became a smoldering flame. After three hours of the best sex of my life, Cayson and I were pulled back to reality by the sounds of his bandmates entering the bus. I was embarrassed by the fact that I had given in to m
y urges and gave myself to the one man who didn’t believe in happily ever after.
Cayson Razor doesn’t believe in love and marriage, let alone that two people could find happiness in each other for more than a day. Unlike me who comes from a family whose parents have been married for over thirty years and are still in love, he comes from a broken home. His parents divorced when he was a teen, and he blames it all on the fact that his mother was so wrapped up in her romance novels that she created an unachievable expectation for her husband. What Cayson doesn’t know was that his father was a cheater, which is why his mother found solace in her books. When Brenda finally got up the nerve to confront her husband, they decided that they were better off apart than together, and so Cayson’s dad moved out and moved on. Why Brenda never shared this with her son, I don’t know, but it isn’t my place to tell him. I only know because Brenda shared her story with me in hopes I would understand that her son was a good man and that everything the tabloids write about him is a farce. Cayson doesn’t do drugs, and he isn’t a womanizer. A little promiscuous maybe, but not a womanizer.
So, like I said, after three hours of the best sex ever, we were interrupted by the sounds of his bandmates entering the bus, and I, being the coward that I am, chose to hide in my room once Cayson joined them in the living area. I mentally berated myself for hours behind those doors for letting it happen. It was amazing and emotional, and I let myself believe, for even just a moment, that there was a deeper connection. That all evaporated when Cayson climbed out of bed, got dressed in a matter of seconds, and left the room. Who was I kidding? It was sex and only sex; it meant nothing more to him than it would have if I had been a groupie he picked up after a show.
I waited until everyone was gone before I packed all my stuff in my suitcase and left. The original plan was for Jenna and me to watch the show from behind the stage before I would head out to the airport. Jenna is Fallon Moody’s wife. He’s the temporary drummer who stepped in a couple of weeks ago when the band's current drummer entered rehab. Jenna and I became friends rather quickly. She and Fallon are inseparable, and they’re expecting their first child. I was surprised to see how normal their relationship is, considering her husband has been known to travel for months on end with his prior band, which is on hiatus for the time being.
With my suitcase in tow, I walked through the parking lot behind the arena and waited on the corner for the Uber that I’d ordered to arrive. I didn’t have to wait long before my driver “Raul in the silver Prius” arrived. Raul loaded my suitcase into the back, and off to the airport we headed. I shot off one text after boarding the plane back to Arizona.
ME: Sorry, Jenna, not going to make it. I’ll talk to you soon.
Powering my phone down, I close my eyes and wait for the plane to take off. A thousand thoughts run through my head, all random in nature. Everything from what I need to buy at the grocery store to how Cayson will react to finding out I’m gone. Of course, in my mind, he will be devastated and heartbroken, just as I am.
“Excuse me, ma'am, can I get you anything to drink?” I was so lost in my own head I didn’t see the flight attendant standing at the end of my aisle, waiting for my response.
“Vodka and orange juice, please.” I watch as she writes it down on her pad of paper and moves to the row behind me. There are only a few other passengers in first class, which I’m thankful for. It means I’m going to get as much special attention as I want, and right now, I want a lot of it. In fact, I figure I will need at least three or four bottles of it. I dig through my backpack for my notepad, so I can put this time to good use and work on my story. But I can’t find my notepad. I’m not quite sure where I last placed it. I assume it must be in my suitcase instead. My mental rundown of where it could be is interrupted.
“Here you go, miss.” The flight attendant’s arm is stretched out in front of me, offering me my bottle of vodka and a glass of orange juice.
“Thank you” I politely reply as I reach to take the cup and bottle from her. I twist the lid off the little bottle and pour it into the cup in front of me, swirling the liquid around with my finger. When it’s mixed to my liking, I suck the liquid off my finger before downing the glass in three large gulps. “Excuse me, can I please have another?” I ask as the flight attendant walks past my aisle again. By my third request, I can tell that Betty, the ever so loving attendant, isn’t quite so loving after all. In fact, she looks as if she wants to tell me to slow down, but I have no interest in doing anything of the sort, and give her my evil death glare that says ‘Don’t even think about telling me to slow down.’ Betty arrives moments later with my third cup and quietly hands it to me.
I take my time with this last drink. Betty is probably right, and I need to slow down just a tad, or they’ll be calling for a wheelchair to exit me off the plane. When I finally finish this last drink and raise my glass to catch Betty’s attention, she approaches me with hesitation, but before I can ask for another, she asks, “Would you like a cup of coffee, miss?”
I think this is Betty’s way of telling me she isn’t going to serve me another. “Just water, please,” I respond, and Betty smiles back at me with approval in her eyes.
The pilot’s voice comes over the speaker. “Good evening, passengers, we are making our descent into Phoenix Sky Harbor, and we should be on the ground and at the gate in twenty minutes. We expect some turbulence ahead, so please stay seated with your seatbelts buckled.”
This is the one thing I hate about flying into Phoenix. It’s like the heat creates this bubble over the city and builds a thermal column from the rising heat, so landing is always bumpy. Today, however, the turbulence is worse than normal, and with all the alcohol I’ve consumed, my stomach is starting to churn. The plane drops about four feet, causing my stomach to feel like it is being bounced around inside me, and before I lose what little there is in my stomach, I unbuckle my seatbelt and dash for the restroom before the flight attendant can stop me.
I barely get the lid up on the toilet before I’m emptying the contents of the last three drinks I’ve had into it. Leaning over, I wait just a few moments longer to make sure there are no remaining remnants still left within me, and when nothing further comes up, I flush the toilet and look at myself in the mirror. Ugh, I look like death warmed over.
Betty, the ever so helpful attendant, is back to her scowling self when I open the door and see her standing there. “Miss, I need you to take your seat. The fasten seatbelt sign is lit, and you shouldn’t be up here.” Her face looks like she’s sucked on lemons for the last few minutes that I’ve spent in the restroom.
“I’m sorry.” My reply consists of two words when really I want to tell her how lucky she is that I didn’t just spew the contents of my stomach all over the cabin floor for her to clean up.
Once I’m back in my seat with my seatbelt tightly fastened—God forbid I leave even an inch between my stomach and the belt—Betty’s sweet, smiling face returns, and she is once again pleasant for the remainder of the flight. When we are safely on the ground and taxiing toward the terminal, I bring my phone to life. There are four texts and two voicemails.
JENNA: What do you mean you’ll talk to me?
JENNA: Where are you?
SEAN: What the hell, Kayla, Where are you?
SEAN: Call me, Please.
Choosing not to respond to any of the texts, I click on the voicemail link and listen to the message from Sean. “Kayla, what happened? Cayson said you packed up and left without saying good-bye to anyone. Call me, please.”
Ignoring the message, I listen to the next one from my mom. “Kayla, honey, I just got a call from Patricia. She said Sean called her and told her you left without telling anyone you were leaving. Call me, sweetheart, I know that’s not like you, so something must be up. I’m trying not to panic here, but if I don’t hear from you soon, I’m going to go into full mother meltdown mode.”
The last thing I want is my mom to worry any more than she already does.
So I quickly dial her number. I can hear the worry in her voice when she speaks.
“Kayla, thank God you’re okay. Where are you?”
“Hi, Mom, yes, I’m okay. I just landed in Phoenix. No need to worry. I’m sorry I didn’t call to let you know I was headed home. I caught an earlier fight and really hadn’t thought about letting you know.”
“Kayla, dear, what’s wrong? Patricia said Sean told her you left without telling anyone. What happened?”
“Nothing, Mom, I’m sorry I worried everyone. I just thought it best that I didn’t bother anyone while the band was on stage. I was going to text Sean and let him know I left for the airport, but I forgot. Mom, we’re deboarding the plane now, so I have to go. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Okay, love you, too, honey. Talk to you tomorrow.”
The minute I step off the plane and onto the walkway that leads to the terminal, I feel the Arizona heat consume me. The walkway is stuffy and suffocating but comforting all at the same time. Most people can’t stand the Arizona summers. It's too hot, so hot it feels like your skin is burning off if you stand in the sun too long. Not me. I love Arizona. Summer or winter, it’s all the same to me. I love it when folks say it’s a dry heat, but the best way I can describe it would be to tell you to turn your oven to 120 degrees, open the door, and stick your face in it. That’s what Arizona feels like in the summer at 115 degrees. It’s not for everyone, but it beats the hell out of blizzards, tornados, hurricanes, and earthquakes. I don’t ever worry about being frostbitten and snowed in for weeks, or that I’ll have to take cover and worry about my home being ripped off its foundation by a tornado. There will never be a day when I’ll have to worry about 120 MPH winds and floods from rains, or that my home will crumble or be sucked into the ground below me. Nope, all I have to worry about is how cold I want the AC to blow in my home and in my car.