by Willa Lively
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One - Melody
Chapter Two - Lucien
Chapter Three - Melody
Chapter Four - Melody
Chapter Five - Lucien
Chapter Six - Melody
Chapter Seven - Lucien
Chapter Eight - Melody
Chapter Nine - Melody
Chapter Ten - Lucien
Chapter Eleven - Lucien
Chapter Twelve - Melody
Chapter Thirteen - Lucien
Chapter Fourteen - Lucien
Chapter Fifteen - Melody
Chapter Sixteen - Lucien
Chapter Seventeen - Melody
Chapter Eighteen - Lucien
Chapter Nineteen - Lucien
Chapter Twenty - Melody
Chapter Twenty-One - Lucien
Chapter Twenty-Two - Melody
Chapter Twenty-Three - Lucien
Chapter Twenty-Four - Melody
Chapter Twenty-Five - Lucien
Chapter Twenty-Six - Melody
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Lucien
Chapter Twenty-Eight - Melody
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Lucien
Chapter Thirty - Melody
Chapter Thirty-One - Lucien
Chapter Thirty-Two - Melody
Epilogue
Thank You
A LOVE SONG FOR LUCIFER
A Romance Novel
Willa Lively
Copyright © 2021 Willa Lively
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior consent of the author.
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CHAPTER ONE
Melody
When I was 10, my fifth-grade teacher reached a conclusion that would change the course of my life. Mrs. Brown asked my dad to come to her classroom and as we sat down, she leaned across her desk and spoke to him as if I wasn’t there.
“Melody has trouble expressing her emotions,” her plum-lined lips announced every syllable with clarity. My 10-year-old stomach sank at the word ‘trouble’, the one thing I tried to avoid at all costs.
I remember little else Mrs. Brown said that day, but by the time we left, my dad got the picture that I wasn’t exactly Miss Popular. When we got into the car, he told me we needed to make a stop. I assumed this meant that I was about to be shipped off to wherever it is all the bad kids go.
Except I wasn’t.
Instead, we stopped at a music store and I learned that this “trouble” that Mrs. Brown was so worried about earned me a new guitar and lessons.
And my guitar and I have been getting in to trouble together ever since.
“You want emotion, Mrs. Brown? Fine, I’ll give you emotion,” I say into my glass of whiskey as a full-grown 26-year-old woman.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Ryan, the bartender at Bowie’s, asks. Well, it’s not fair to only call him a bartender as he’s become a close friend at this point, which has more to do with the fact that the bar is under my apartment than the other fact that I confide in glasses of whiskey… I think.
“Or was whatever you just said actually meant for the whiskey glass?” Ryan continues.
“I actually meant it for the whiskey glass,” I say, glaring up at him defensively. This glass is all I’ve got tonight. Ryan is busy working and I don’t want to bother any of my other friends. It’s a Thursday night and they’ve got actual work tomorrow because, unlike me, they were smart enough to not design their entire lives around a childhood fantasy.
I perk up and move my face from my whiskey to Ryan. “But now that you’ve joined the conversation, I’m going to play a song while the band is on break, ‘kay?”
Before he can answer, I am bee-lining to the stage. It’s not like Ryan can complain, they usually pay me to play here and now the only cost is the crowd letting me unleash my anger on them.
“Good evening, ladies and gents,” I say with a stone-cold grimace that likely gives away the fact that it is not in fact a good evening. “Just here to play one song, not here to stop the adiaphorous performance we’re being graced with tonight.”
Holy crap, I can’t believe I just used that word in a sentence. I’ve been trying to use ‘adiaphorous’ for almost a month since it came up in a crossword. And I’m fully aware that I sound like an obnoxious jerk using it, but I am an obnoxious jerk right now. I wonder if the band knows what it means? I certainly didn’t and had to solve every other damn clue around it.
I look at the band to check on their reaction, especially the lead singer who takes every opportunity to mansplain music to me when we run into each other here. But they are sipping their beers and looking neither happy nor angry. Good, I want to tell them. Showing the word’s definition rather than saying it. Mrs. Brown would be so proud.
Ah, Mrs. Brown, the reason I’m here. The anger rushes back into me and this time I know where to put it.
I strum the electric guitar left by the band on the stage and arrange myself near their base drum so I can use it when the time comes. I let the song absorb me. There is nothing adiaphorous about this version of “Seven Nation Army”, by the White Stripes. Nope, this is pure rage.
I’m raging at the moment I fell in love with music and decided it would be all I could ever pursue in this life. I’m raging at the band playing here tonight, acting like they’re above playing their music in a bar. But most of all, I’m raging at the devil himself, Mr. De la Roche. The man who signed me for a record contract and made me think my whole life was going to be okay, that I could finally breathe, only to rip it out from under me a few days later and shatter all the hope that I had so carelessly let grow.
And the song feels good for a little while. The emotion comes out in my breath, in my stomping, in the bite of the metal strings on my fingers. But when I sing the second to last verse, I know this temporary release is ending and I’ll still be holding onto nothing but anger and hopelessness when it’s all done.
I gaze into the crowd, desperate for someone to demand I keep going so I don’t have to face myself. And while many are dancing and clapping along, none of them are looking at me like they understand I need this.
That’s when I spot two eyes on me. It’s the eyes I notice first, even before his decadent good looks. I notice those eyes because I see something familiar in them. Something that tells me we’re running on the same fuel in this moment. This emotion I’m putting out matches his and I feel that he needs this too. So I look down at the guitar and I give it my all for the close of the song, for him and for me and for anyone else who has ever been made to feel like nothing.
CHAPTER TWO
Lucien
“Really, Cole? Live music?” I glare at my friend Cole, who has dragged me to no-man’s-land Brooklyn. Why couldn’t we get a scotch in the West Village instead? Unknown live music is the worst type of activity for a night out. Best-case scenario, we spend our valuable free time wasting energy pretending to like it. Worst-case scenario, I get recognized and young hopefuls mob me with links to their social media.
And after the day I’ve had, I’m not up for terrible music nor being mobbed.
“Relax, man. This place always books great talent. We’ll leave if your delicate ears can’t handle it.”
I grit my teeth and follow him into the grungy bar. Cole i
s a talent booker, so I get why he wants to come here. But he doesn’t come with me to my work, so why should I join him for his?
I’m taken by surprise though when, as soon as we step inside, the energy radiating through the place is palpable. I try to get my bearings to understand what’s happening and quickly realize the excitement is being directed in one direction, toward the stage. This isn’t the usual vibe of a subpar hipster band forcing the bar to listen to them.
And when I get a full view of the stage, I immediately understand why.
Under the spotlight is a lone performer. She is stomping on a bass drum and singing “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes.
Except, she’s not only singing it, she’s preaching it with anger and fury. It’s a song I’ve heard a million times, yet the words sound visceral and new from her lungs.
She stops stomping on the drum and glares into the crowd, readying for the next line. She’s striking, with her sharp and determined gaze peering out from under long pink waves of hair. My spine stiffens when her eyes meet mine for just for a second.
She’s reaching the end of the song and practically howls the lyrics at the crowd then goes back to maniacally stomping. Her light pink hair is flying everywhere and the muscles in her long legs tighten with every movement.
Now the entire bar is clapping along with her. Yet she seems lost in her own world.
Cole looks back at me with a self-satisfied expression. “See, man. Quality. I’ll get a table and you grab the drinks.”
I nod but turn my head back to the stage as I head to the bar, not wanting to miss another second of the song. It’s hard to tear my eyes away from something so wild.
She finishes the song and the bar uproars in applause. Yet, this musical maniac barely seems to notice. She throws a hand up and whispers a “thank you” into the microphone, bows her head down and heads off the stage. My eyes stay on her as she glides right to the stretch of bar open next to me, where a lone whiskey glass is waiting for her.
I hate that I’m still looking at her. I’m the one who usually has to dodge eye contact from people staring at me, and this role reversal makes me feel foolish. Yet, I can’t look away. A muscle on her jaw is flexed from gritted teeth and I trace it up to her high cheekbones. My gaze keeps going, to her eyes, which are staring into her amber glass. She looks completely unfazed that everyone in the bar is still watching her, including me.
“Bad day?” I say before I can stop myself. Now I’m not only gawking at her, but I’m the guy who talks to girls they don’t know, like I think I deserve a perfect stranger’s attention. I cringe at myself.
But I have had a shit day, and I saw myself in her when she was up there. The raw fury and the passion was like she was speaking a language that I didn’t realize people other than me knew.
She looks up, seemingly surprised that there is anyone else in the room. She has bright blue eyes that are jarring up close. Her flushed cheeks and pink hair make them appear other-worldly.
“That obvious?” She says with a wince.
I nod solemnly.
She’s the one taking me in now, her eyes tracing my face. “You don’t look too thrilled about life either, ya know.”
I don’t want to be the one to break it to her that I am never thrilled about life, but she’s right that I especially am not today.
The bartender, a young thin man with black hair, skips me and goes straight to the singer, who is already bringing her body up and over the bar to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks,” little Miss Angry Pink Hair says before she settles her feet back firmly on the ground. Why would she be thanking him? I think the whole bar needs to be thanking her. “Now can I get three picklebacks, pleeeeassee? One for you, one for me, and one for this grumpy man to my right.”
The bartender looks at me as if noticing me for the first time. “Oh, okay,” he says, seemingly displeased by my inclusion, which I can’t argue with him about because what the hell is a pickleback?
Well, it turns out picklebacks are absolutely disgusting and absolutely delicious. They’re a shot of whiskey followed by a shot of pickle juice. A perfectly hideous and beautiful creation that at least distracts me from the day I’ve had.
I order another round immediately.
“Lucien,” I say as a extend my hand toward her. “But with your American tongue, Luc is okay, too.”
She grimaces at me but extends her hand. “Mel to my friends, but with your stuck-up attitude you can address me by my full name, Melody.”
Fair enough.
“What’s got you so mad then, Mel?” I say, smirking at her. Why do I want to make this already angry little person even angrier?
She throws down the shot, not bothering to wait for me.
“Well, Lucifer. Oh, I’m sorry, Lucien,” she says in a pretty okay French accent while glaring at me for extra effect. “Like my name, I reserve that kind of intimacy for my friends. And you certainly are not my friend.”
“Well, Mel, if you’re willing to let me buy you a few more of these disgustingly delicious shots then maybe you’ll make an exception.”
“I’ll buy my own shots, Lucifer.” Melody looks at her phone, before looking back up at me. “But if you want to drown your sorrows next to me, I’ll put up with it until you become more of an asshole than you already are. Only because that sexy French thing you have going is doing good things for my serotonin levels.”
I grin. Nobody dares speak to me like this. I wonder if she would treat me any differently if she knew who I am. Who am I kidding? She’s a musician. Of course she would treat me differently. I’m like a walking, talking, golden ticket.
Since I’m in a sadistic mood, I’ll do whatever it takes for her to not find out, just so she will insult me with that tongue of hers some more.
“You taking any requests?” I ask her as the bartender pours us another round.
“One… I’m not a monkey and two, I’m done for the night. Actually, I wasn’t even supposed to play tonight, but the band was gracious enough to let me have a cameo,” she says avoiding my eyes.
I can tell by her tone that I’m getting close to a sore spot, possibly the reason for her bad mood. She seems to have shutdown from my question. We sit in silence for a little while and I ignore the fact that Cole is probably wondering where the hell I am. For some reason, I’m not quite ready to leave this strange, angry little person. So, to prevent her from avoiding me all together, I open my big mouth.
“My girlfriend of two years dumped me today, an hour before announcing her engagement to an 87-year-old man,” I announce a bit too loudly. Even the bartender looks at me with something other than disdain at this announcement. Not the result I intended, but at least Melody has her full attention back on me.
“Dude,” the bartender says sympathetically. Rather than completing that sentence, he pours me another round of shots wordlessly.
I glance back at Melody who is not only staring at me, but also has a distorted look on her face…
“Are you holding back a laugh?” I accuse her once I register what is actually happening.
She realizes she’s caught and spits out laughter. Literally, the mist from her outburst makes it to my face. She’s covering her mouth and I can tell she is trying to stop herself, but she is now practically doubled over in hysterics.
“I’m so glad my misery can provide you so much joy,” I say, stifling a smile. To be honest, it’s not the biggest reason I’m miserable, but it’s the only one I can actually talk about. It’s also a perfect example of why I’m fed up with this stupid world that I’m a part of. A world where a 30-year-old billionaire isn’t enough, because a girl can have an elderly billionaire who can die quicker.
I was never actually in love with Steph, my now ex-girlfriend. It was convenient, and she was willing to play all the parts I needed her to in my demanding life. Yet, that doesn’t mean that it’s not going to be hell tomorrow when it’s plastered all over every gossip website.
&n
bsp; I take the shot without Melody and turn back to her with a cocked eyebrow as she tries to collect herself.
“I am,” her face scrunches up as she tries to compose herself. “Oh crap, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been in such a miserable mood all day and then you come out with something like…that.” She takes a deep breath.
“It’s just,” she continues with the slightest bit more composure. “It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. I didn’t think that happens in real life.”
I sigh. I can’t believe I even told her. I was so eager to change the subject I ended up revealing the most embarrassing thing about me. I kind of emasculated myself on my very first night of being single with the hottest girl I’ve let myself flirt with in a long time.
Actually, fuck that. It’s literally impossible to emasculate me.
“The relationship was a sham, so I don’t blame her,” I say, playing this move to protect my ego like it’s the king on the chessboard.
“Oh yeah, and I’m sure her new relationship is true love,” Melody answers with a smile.
“She gambled for the certainty that she’ll have her own money, rather than risk it all in the hope of possibly finding love one day. Then, even if she were to find this mythical love that people write and sing about, who’s to say that it will be better than being a widowed billionaire? Some might say she made the practical choice,” I offer.
I expect Melody to roll her eyes at my cynicism, but she doesn’t. Instead, she is looking at me with studious eyes. Some of the melancholy that I saw in her before comes back.
“What do you say?” she finally asks.
“I say that I’m happy for her,” I bring my next shot to cheers with Melody, “she certainly wasn’t getting either my love or my money, so good riddance.”
“You’re kind of soulless,” Melody says with an expression of both repulsion and attraction. There we go. That’s the kind of reaction that is in my comfort zone.