Viper (NSB Book 3)

by Alyson Santos

  “Wes, good of you to come. Have a seat.”

  “No thanks. This won’t take long.”

  The room shivers in an almost audible gasp. Lawyer, lawyer, lawyer, label exec, lawyer, label exec, and Holland. Jacob whispers something to her, but her eyes don’t leave my face. An apology for the pain in her gaze claws at my tongue. I manage to shove the lump back to an ache in my chest.

  “You haven’t brought representation?” one of the suits asks.

  “I don’t need it.” I zero in on Holland. “I’m not going to fight you on anything, Hol. It’s yours: the band, our songs, everything. Take what you want; give me what you think is fair. I trust you.” I swallow as the ache starts to swell into my vocal chords. “Send me whatever I need to sign to make it official.”

  And then I’m gone. Life exploded, field of nothing surrounding me. I feel free and completely broken. Beginnings, ends. There’s poetry in there somewhere, but right now I’m a mess of fragments.

  Once outside, I pull out my phone and dial the only person left that matters.

  “Wes? It’s over already?”

  “Yep.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “How do you feel about grabbing lunch with an unemployed musician?”

  ∞∞∞

  It’s a strange feeling being nothing. No expectations, no plans, no identity other than who I used to be. I thought it would be terrifying. God knows, coming to this decision took an extraordinary amount of angst, especially for someone who relies on instinct for most of my functioning. But now that it’s done?

  “What’s the smile for?” Hannah asks through the crunch of her salad.

  “I’m a blank slate.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for years.”

  “Hilarious. You know what I mean.”

  Her smile fades as her eyes rest on mine. “Yeah, I do. I’m a blank slate too. Together we’re practically a sidewalk.”

  I laugh and dig into my sandwich. “How about a blank canvas then? That’s less—literal.”

  “Artistic too. I accept your metaphor, Wesley Alton.” She reaches across and grabs a chip off my plate. “You know they won an award for these?”

  “A potato chip award?”

  She nods and steals another. “Best house-made snack chip, Province of Ontario.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  She shrugs into a devilish smile. “Now you’re gonna look it up.”

  “At least I’ll have plenty of time.”

  She brushes her fingers on a napkin. “Seriously, though. What’s next for you?”

  It’s a great question. I just turned the page an hour ago and have no idea how to answer it. There’s only one thing I know with certainty.

  “For now, I write.”

  Her features relax. “Good.”

  I stare through the window at a bird exploring something on the bench. “I have to find my voice without Holland.”

  My gaze ventures back to Hannah and meets empathy.

  “You need to find your voice, period,” she says.

  She’s not wrong, and I search for the bird again. “I was always defined relative to someone else. The son of Frederick Alton. The backup to Holland Drake. Now what?”

  “Try being the little sister of Holland Drake,” she snorts, and I shoot a grin.

  “No thanks.”

  Her forehead creases, head tilting in concentration. “So this is it for both of us, right? The start of chapter two?”

  “Time to figure out our own spotlights.” I reach across the table and grab her hand. She squeezes back.

  ∞∞∞

  My first day of nothing doesn’t go well. Unfortunately, you can’t broadcast the beginning of new chapters, and my phone explodes with reminders of the last one. I check a few of the messages, but only the last catches my interest. I hear the ache in Holland’s voice as she pleads for a one-on-one to talk this out. My chest tightens in response, and my finger finds its way to the call back button, but I manage to crush the rebellion. If I call her, I meet her. If I meet her, I cave and we’re right back where we started—where neither of us belongs anymore.

  I have faith in Holland. She will rebuild her life the way it should be. With Luke. With her bright star shining into the lives of everyone around her, making them better. Now I have to figure out how to function without being the shadow to her light.

  It’s a monumental task, but I’m going to try because there’s a girl with long brown hair and a wicked sense of humor. A fucking brave girl who challenges me, excites me, and right now, needs a traveling companion on her own journey. You know what? Fuck it.

  I pick up my phone, and she answers on the first ring. “Hey. What are you doing right now?”

  “Not much. Just trying to avoid my mom’s desperation sandwiches.”

  I snicker. “The basement free?”

  “I think so?”

  “Good, I’m coming over.”

  “Um, okay…”

  “With my guitar.”

  A smile colors her voice when she says, “I’ll have the beer waiting.”

  ∞∞∞

  “What do you think about changing the third chord in the progression to a seventh instead of the minor?”

  I run the idea through my head. “Hmm. I’m game. Let’s try it.” I strum through the chorus again with the new chord, and we both cringe in unison.

  “Okay, no.” She laughs. “Keep the B minor.”

  “Yeah. But I like where your brain is going, Drake. Wait, I know.” I launch into the bridge and throw the seventh in there instead.

  “Yes! Love that,” she says. “Can we run it again?”

  “From the top?”

  “I want to hear it all together now.”

  “You got it, babe.”

  Her grin lasts through the entire intro. And yeah, so does mine.

  As the song wraps up and I play through the outro, I can tell by her expression that something’s up. She’s quiet as the last chord fades out.

  “What’s going on?” I ask while her fingers tap a rhythm on her knee.

  She peeks over at me and resumes tapping.

  “What is it?”

  An inhale freezes her for a moment before she pulls out her laptop. “I’ve been working on something too.”

  I can’t read her expression when she diverts to the computer. “You’ve been writing on your own?”

  “I know! I’m sorry, it’s just—”

  “Sorry? Why the hell would you be sorry? Let’s hear it.”

  She scans the screen, fingers still drumming. “Well, I don’t have music yet, just lyrics.” She turns the display toward me. “I was hoping you’d be willing to help me.”

  “Willing? Are you kidding? Let me see that.”

  “Argh, I’m going upstairs,” she groans, and I drag her hands from her face.

  “Not a chance. Sit.”

  “Wait. Maybe this is a bad—”

  “Quiet.” I press my fingers against her mouth and tuck her to my side. She resigns into a stiff monument while I read.

  Coil of strength wound tight

  to hide

  to lie

  to wither and writhe

  In its prison it cries, ‘Coil of rage!’

  Dirty secrets revealed

  The bed

  I made

  Was never the place

  To trap this broken soul, It’s over!

  Stand back, you’re gonna want to stand back

  I’m breaking free to strike

  Fangs bared, spring out, out

  Of hell, don’t tell

  Me what I am

  I’m not, not your pet

  I’m your hidden regret

  So hear me, you should fucking fear me!

  As I rise

  It’s a lot. Too much maybe as I read through her words, once, twice, and a third time to make sure I’m completely immersed in the story of this incredible woman beside me.

  “Hannah…”
is all that comes out.

  “Is it bad?”

  “No! It’s…” It’s daaamn. “What’s it called?”

  “‘Viper Rising.’”

  18: HADES

  My flimsy condo walls don’t protect me from the blast of headlines over the next couple of weeks. I’m accustomed to the villain role but not on a such a public scale. It’s a relentless wave of hostility that I can’t erase with a swift blow to the jaw. The speculation about our band breakup ranges from a royalty dispute to a surprise pregnancy. That one makes me laugh. I can only imagine how Luke feels about his girlfriend’s phantom bundle of joy. Theories vary on the father.

  For the most part, Holland is supposedly the victim of this mess. The unfortunate angel whose only crime was partnering with a plague like me in the first place. There’s even a classic Frederick Alton I told you so in the form of an Alton Media campaign to distance them from me. I guess I should be honored that my father finally used his vast PR resources to impact my career.

  Everyone has different opinions, but they all agree that Wes Alton is done. No band in its right mind will ever touch him after this.

  I shove my phone away and opt for a drink instead. Whisky, my faithful ally. Never judges, never uses lame-ass words like “reportedly.”

  Reportedly, I can spout whatever bullshit I want because I used the word reportedly. You can’t give “reportedly” a bloody nose either, which frustrates the hell out of me.

  I’ve just filled my glass when the damn phone erupts again. For once I don’t hate the thing.

  “Hey, Sophia.”

  “You answered!”

  “I’m surprised you’re still talking to me. Dad let you call?”

  “I’m twenty-four,” she huffs out like she’s so not. “He doesn’t get to boss me around anymore.”

  “…once he’s paid for your wedding.”

  “Shut up. Actually, that’s why I’m calling.”

  I swallow the unexpected knot in my throat. “Okay?”

  “Dad doesn’t want you there. He told us we should all distance ourselves from you as much as possible.”

  The pressure sinks to my chest. “I’m not surprised.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I get it. You can’t have me there.”

  “Huh?” I picture the pink splotches spreading over her cheeks. “No, that’s bullshit. I’m calling to see if you’ll perform at the ceremony.”

  My grip tightens on the phone.

  “Wes? What do you think?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “You’re my brother and the most talented musician I know. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

  “Your wedding is in a few months.”

  “Exactly. Plenty of time. I’m thinking a couple songs during the ceremony and a longer set at the reception.”

  “Um...”

  “You can pick the songs, but I want an original for the processional.”

  I laugh. “Oh really?”

  “Yep.”

  “What kind of song?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “You know I don’t do fluffy love songs.”

  “Duh. That’s why I’m asking you. I want something kickass that’ll make Mom crap her pants.”

  “Ha! Okay, I’ll just whip that right up.”

  “Good. Hey—”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you, big bro. You’re going to survive this. You always do.”

  ∞∞∞

  My next call is to an ex-lawyer on the outskirts of town. Her voice is thick with the nap I just interrupted.

  “Ugh. What do you want?” Hannah groans.

  “Hey, sunshine. I need the lyrics to that song.”

  “‘Viper Rising?’”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to work on it?”

  “Better. We have a gig.”

  “What?”

  “We’re going to finish that song and perform it.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. We.”

  “But—”

  “Not interested, Han.”

  “In?”

  “Excuses.”

  “Okay, but—”

  “It’s for Sophia’s wedding.”

  “She wants me to sing at her wedding?”

  “She wants me to sing and I’m not doing it without you.”

  “But—”

  “I’m hanging up now. Send me that song, then get over here so we can work on it.”

  ∞∞∞

  Hannah waves her hand halfway through the bridge. “Do you think we can take the song up a step? It would have a lot more power in E.”

  I glance at her in surprise. “You think you can sing it in E?”

  She shrugs. “Won’t know until we try.”

  “Damn, if you can hit the end of that bridge in E, do it.”

  “You’re going to harmonize lower, right?”

  “The last time through, yeah.”

  “Let’s take a break first, then run it again.” Damn, she’s bossy. I smile to myself as I rest my guitar against the coffee table.

  Two hours into rehearsal and I realize how much I miss having Hannah Drake in my guest room. I’ve always preferred being alone, so this revelation doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t like that I have to find excuses for her to stay after we wrap. Her gaze doesn’t help when it keeps wandering over my body, triggering hot memories.

  Her perfect curves have been taunting me all afternoon. Hidden in a retro band tee that’s cropped just enough to make me think I’m supposed to look. And hell if I don’t. Look. Over and over, my optic nerve singes with her.

  “Want to watch a movie or something?” I ask.

  “Not really…” Her gaze locks on mine, then travels to my lips before resting on the open v-neck of my shirt. Her touch sends spikes of electricity through me as she traces my ink. She’s waiting for a reaction, inching closer the longer I go without rejecting her. I should push her away.

  Her hand spreads farther now, contracting beyond our line of sight. I hiss in a breath at the pressure of her body as she removes the space between us. Aligning in all the right places, securing her grip around my neck so I have no choice but to…

  I groan at the movement of her hips. It’s not even me, just my fire that consumes her mouth. It rips that fading band image right over her head. She’s ready, so ready. Arching from the aggression of my mouth that travels over her body, her hands threaded in my hair to lock me where she wants me.

  “Is this what you want, babe?” I flip her on her back.

  She gasps at my desire digging into her hips and tears open the zipper of my jeans. “You’ve been my wet dream since I was fourteen.”

  “Ha. I knew it.”

  “Shut up, you—”

  I cut her off with my lips. My tongue. She moans, and…

  We’re screwed.

  ∞∞∞

  “Have I ever told you how much I love Hades?” Hannah says, grin as mischievous as her hands exploring my chest.

  “You may have mentioned it.”

  “He tastes good too.” She proves it with a trick that already has me hard again.

  “Dammit, you’re impossible,” I gasp, eyes clenching as she works her way down once more.

  “You don’t want another round?”

  “Never.”

  “Liar.”

  She has me paralyzed. Fuck, I’m obsessed. She’s ruined any chance I have with finding satisfaction in other women. Are my groupie-days over? I have no idea what to do with that.

  As always, my phone takes a perfect moment and makes it crack.

  “Holland,” Hannah says.

  “Really? That can’t be good.”

  Hannah hands me the phone and slides off so I can adjust.

  “Do you mind?” I ask.

  “I need a drink anyway. You want something?”

  “Sure.”

  She clears the couch while I accept the call.


  “Holland, hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “With me? Not really, but I’m getting there. Thanks for what you did at the contract negotiation. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yeah I did. I want you to be happy, Hol. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  She quiets. “I know. Anyway, that’s kind of why I’m calling. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry about the Mila Taylor thing. I don’t know where she got that information, but my people are working on fixing it.”

  My heart stops. “Mila Taylor?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Um…”

  “Crap. Wes, I’m sorry. I thought… I mean, everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly why I’ve been trying to avoid it.”

  “I figured at least Jacob would have called you.”

  “Well, he hates me more than anyone right now.”

  I can almost hear her bite her lip through the phone.

  “What’s going on?”

  She sighs. “I’ll send you the link. Mila Taylor got involved and posted about you yesterday.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t good, Wes.”

  “Does that bitch ever have good things to say about an artist?”

  “She liked our last album. Remember? We went platinum after her stamp of approval.”

  “I’ll never understand her power in this industry. She’s not even a good writer.”

  “I know, but she’s popular and makes and breaks people.”

  “I’m guessing I’ve been broken?”

  “I told you: it’s not true, and I’m going to figure out where she got the info.”

  “What’s not true?”

  “She… just read it? I’m sending you the link now.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Wes?” She stops.

  I wait.

  “I wish…” It’s all I get, but right now, it’s everything.

  I barely hear Hannah return as I open the link and read.

  Alright people! Everyone’s talking about the breakup of Tracing Holland, aren’t they?! Turns out, it’s looking more like a massive cock-up if you ask me. I’ve heard that lovers-gone-sour Holland Drake and Wes Alton haven’t only had enough as a band, but will be scrapping it out in criminal court. Apparently, Canada’s rocker bad boy has also buggered it up to the point of felony charges. OOPS. He might have to live off royalties from the film version of his life after he gets out of nick! Ta-ra, Wes. Your pretty mug is going to be a hit in the slammer!