Lyric: You should know that I’m kidding. I like my jokes, but I’m not a liar. And FYI, my dad wasn’t upset because he thought I was sleeping with you. He was upset about the concept of his daughter having sex. They both seemed super relieved that it was you I was caught with and put a lot of the blame on me. I think they think I’m a bad influence on you, which might be kind of true. They like you, dude, even if you did get caught feeling their daughter up.

Me: Still, we should probably be a little bit more careful from now on.

Lyric: I’m good with being careful, just as long as there’s going to be a from now on. You seemed freaked out, shy boy, and that stuff you said about my parents being disappointed that I was with you . . . It makes me sad that you see yourself like that, that you can’t see how good you are.

Me: I’m sorry I freaked out. What can I do to make it up to you?

Lyric: Hmm . . . Let me think. How about admitting that you’re good enough for me?

Me: I’m being serious. I want to make it up to you.

Lyric: And I’m being serious. I want you to say it.

When I don’t respond right away, another text buzzes through.

Lyric: I’m being serious. Say it or else.

I can’t help myself.

Me: Or else what?

Lyric: Ah, I think I’m being challenged.

A pause then another message comes through.

Lyric: If you don’t tell me that you’re good enough for me, I won’t kiss you for a week.

I chuckle.

Me: Fine. I’m good enough for you. There, are you happy?

Lyric: I’m really happy, actually. Not only did I get you to say it, but now I know how much you love my kisses.

Me: You should have known that already.

Lyric: Maybe I did, but it’s nice to know for sure. I have to go. My mom is making me watch a show with them. God knows what it’s about. Probably a tutorial on how to accurately put a condom on or something.

I shake my head, grinning. Leave it to Lyric to get me to smile even when I’ve had the most depressing night.

When we say goodbye, I put my phone away and spend the next hour working on my homework. By the time I fall asleep, I think I’m feeling better until I sink into a nightmare of the woman with hair that matches her blood red fingernails.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“Close your eyes and prepare yourself, Ayden.” Fingernails slide across my hands, up my arms, and down my chest, making my gut twist with disgust. “I’m going to break you apart and make you bleed.”

Chapter 10

Lyric

It’s Friday night, which means concert time for my band, Alyric Bliss. Well, concert might be a stretch. Basically, we have a gig at Infinite Bliss, my father’s club, opening for another band. We play five songs total, and my dad is making us sing our own stuff in order to prep us for when we record.

“You look nervous.” Sage, the drummer of our band, remarks. With his blue hair, multiple piercings and tattoos, and edgy clothing, Sage looks the part. “I thought you’d be over your stage fright by now.”

“I am over it.” When I peer out at the packed room, my body contradicts my words as a thousand butterflies on crack start to flutter inside my stomach.

“You pointing it out isn’t helping, so stop being a dick,” Nolan, our bassist, tells Sage while twisting the knobs of the bass he’s holding. Nolan is a little less grunge and more boy band-ish: spikey blond hair and blue eyes with these crazy full lips that don’t seem like they should belong to a guy. But he plays a sick guitar solo, so he’s cool in my book.

Sage tosses a drumstick in the air then catches it like a baseball. “I’m not being a dick. I’m just stating the obvious—that she looks nervous for it being our seventh performance.” I scowl at Sage, and he raises his inked hands in front of him. “Sorry, I’ll stop saying it.”

“Thank you.” I peer back at the floor, and my stomach drops again.

Even though I won’t admit it aloud, Sage is right. It seems like I should be over my stage fright by now, yet before every performance, I feel as jittery as I do when I drink too much coffee.

“And where the hell is Ayden?” Sage says from behind me. “He should have been here by now.”

“He’ll be here,” I assure him. Still feeling a little concerned myself, I decide to text him.

Me: We’re on in like 40. You’re on your way, right?

When he doesn’t reply right away, I start to get all twitchy. With the Soulless Mileas out there constantly tormenting him, it’s hard to remain calm whenever he goes MIA.

After five minutes drag by, I squeeze through the mob of intoxicated people to get to the bathroom and check my appearance. I’m not really a makeup girl, but I reapply the kohl liner around my bright green eyes and dab on some lip gloss. Then I comb my fingers through my long, blonde hair, smooth my hands over my black shirt and plaid skirt, and tighten the laces on my red boots. The last thing I ever want to happen is tripping over my shoelaces.

After I’m done, I push out the door and head back to the stage. As I’m passing the bar, I notice a woman staring at me. She’s very model-esque: long legs, flowing blonde hair, and bright blue eyes.

“Hey,” she says, giving me a tentative wave.

“Um . . . hey.” I have no clue who she is, but she acts like she knows me.

“You don’t know who am I, do you?” she asks with a mixture of amusement and nervousness.