Prologue

Five Years Ago  First Full Soundcrush Rehearsal

Adam

"What are you staring at, Preacher?"

The five-foot-two spitfire in too-much eye makeup and an oversized black hoodie strikes a discord on her keys. She stops in the middle of her audition—and she's talking to me.

I ignore the obnoxious nickname, that she surely heard from Leed, who heard it from Trace, who heard it from the guy down the hall in our dorm, who went to  my dad's church in Nashville.

"I'm staring at you. I think I have a sound crush on you."

I mean it. She's fucking amazing. She's ripping those keys dirty. She's channeling the soul of jazz musician, time-warping through Depeche Mode and Nine Inch Nails, and making our original song something completely new.

Fuck yeah. She's the catalyst. She can shift us from a nineties alternative tribute band, into something original.

Something solid.  Something to fall in love with.

"Yeah," I repeat. "I have a huge sound crush on you, MacKenna Lawson."

She does this weird thing, in response to my words. She pales, instead of blushing. I notice because it makes the freckles stand out beneath her dusting of powder. Her skin is fine—she doesn't need make up really, but she's plastered the dark shit on her eyes, on top of her pale brows and lashes.

She looks hot, all made up. But I'd like to see her fresh-faced. With soft golden eyelashes. In the morning sunlight, while she's sleeping.

Fuck.

I riff the bass line from the song we just played, as a distraction. Get a grip, Heartley. She's a keyboardist—and Leed's sister—not a hook-up.

"Fuck yeah, we are all crushing on that sound," Trace agrees. "Mac, your skill is legit. We need you." He grins huge at her, and then unlatches his guitar as he points to me. "And you just named the goddamn band, Roomie."

"Soundcrush. Soundcrush. Soundcrush," Bodie recites as he adds a little backbeat with his snare and tom. "I like it." He splashes his cymbals.

"Hold up," Leed says. He's shirtless. Why the fuck, I don't know. It's November. I guess frontmen/singers always like to show off. "Are you for real, Trace? Obviously, I think she's the ticket—I brought her here. But you guys mean it—you want Mac on keys in the band? Cause you know, don't mess around with my sister, just cause she's hot."

Trace looks at me with from beneath his intense eyebrows, trying to communicate with those freakishly pale eyes that girls adore, but that frankly, creep me the fuck out when he's stoned. Or maybe, when I'm stoned. It's pretty much one and the same.

But right now, I know what he's trying to communicate. He's taking a vote on MacKenna. I give the nod. MacKenna and the sound she brings is essential. Bodie sounds off in agreement, too—with his kit.

"Nobody's messing around," Trace says. You're in, Mac. No...you're It, girl. You're the magic we've been waiting for." He gives her that rock star head tip he was born with. Cocky bastard.

"Cool. I'm in," she looks down at her fingers dancing over the keys in celebration.

Her face registers no emotion at Trace's praise. I have this rushing, optimistic hope that the paling thing she does, might just be for me.

Wait, that's crazy. I just met this girl.

Leed grins and slinks over to Mac, giving her a soft shove and then a one shouldered hug. "Told you. It's gonna be awesome." Then he flips his longish red hair to the side and scans the three of us with his long pointer finger, baring his teeth like a large cat. "Nobody fucks my little sister. Got it?"

"Dude," Trace says, irritation evident. "Don't be an asshole, cause none of us are."

"What he said," Bodie drawls, but he has this heavy-lidded leer that he gives MacKenna. I want to punch him. I never felt that way about Bodie before in the three months I've known him. Weird.

"I mean it," Leed says, but he's lost his intensity. He's texting on his phone. "Damn. I gotta jet." He looks at Mac, and sighs. "Shit." She came with him, but he's not wanting to take her with. He casts around, trying to figure which one of us he should ask to give Mac a ride.

Trace picks up what Leed is laying down right away. "I can give you a ride," he says, coiling his cords already, the look of indifference on his face. It's not really fake. He's got some jailbait back home he's always texting. He rarely chases tail; it chases him. Girls eat that indifferent shit up. Trace gets more play than any guy I know.

MacKenna doesn't bite, though. She looks me up and down. "What about you, Preacher? You got a car?"

"Yeah, I do." In fact, Trace rode with me. The ride he was offering, was mine anyway. I give him the glare. He looks between me and MacKenna. "I'll catch a ride with Bodie," he mumbles with the smallest grin, that doesn't impact his cool expression.

That's right, Roomie. Not every girl in the world trips over themselves to fall at the feet of your bad-assery. I think this chic's been around your block and past it.

Leed shrugs, figuring I'm the safest bet anyway.

Half an hour later, I'm shouldering Mac's amp and carrying her keyboard into her dorm lobby.

"I can carry them," she protests.

"Both?" I ask with a grin. She huffs like the answer is obvious.

I sit them on the floor, in front of the elevator. She wraps the keyboard bag across her shoulder, and raises the amp in her arms with a small oof. That sound of determination she makes...I like it. So much that I don't even offer to take them back, until about halfway down her long hall, when she loses her grip on the amp for the third time and makes that sound again as she hoists it higher.

"Give me that," I say amiably and swipe it from her.

"Thanks." Her smile is sweet, glossy, closed-mouth. It makes her look...nice. Much nicer than the tough girl vibe she gave off at band practice. "You want to come in and play a little more music? Fucking Leed...I was ready to play a set, not three songs."

"Uhhhm, yeah, I guess," I say, but my feet are slowing as I look down at the top of the black hoodie covering her strawberry blonde hair. Maybe it's not such a good idea to go all the way.

To MacKenna's room, I mean.

Wait, is that what I mean?

In my confusion, I drop her amp.

"Fuck, Adam!" she says sharply, as she hears it thud and tumble. "Amps don't grow on goddamn trees!" She whirls around, walking backward down the hall, as I scoop it back up with one arm.

"Sorry," I say, straightening back to my full height. Her darkly powdered lids flash as she looks down me, then back up.

I've been checked out—many times. I'm a decent looking guy and I'm built like girls like—tall, broad, sort of...naturally muscular, without having to work too hard at it.

But no girl's glance has ever set me on fire like MacKenna's gaze. Not because she wants me, but because she doesn't want to like me. She huffs again, but she can't seem to straighten out that sweet smile, even though she barked at me for dropping her amp. "Is it hot in here?" she murmurs. Then she unzips her hoodie, and pulls it from her body.

Jesus Christ. Her hoodie was five sizes too big, but her t-shirt is two sizes too small. It's a tiny yellow retro crop top with the phrase "You came just at the right time," scrawled in pink bubble letters.

"God, I hope so," I say.

"What?"

Aww shit, did I say that outloud? "Nothing."

She scrunches her eyebrows at me and shakes her head. "You're weird."

"I get that a lot."

MacKenna trudges on to her room. She lives in a single. Dammit. Can I not catch a break here? Leed is going to kill me.

Fortunately, it seems she was serious about playing more music, because she ignores me and immediately starts to unpack her keyboard. I grab the stand and help set it up. While I'm in front of the keyboard, I take the opportunity to power it up and play the first easy song that comes to mind.

She sits down on her bed and crosses her skinny-jeaned legs as I play. "Aren't you full of surprises?"

I shrug. "Is it really so surprising that a preacher's kid can play a little piano? My mom is the church pianist. She made me practice for hours." I switch to a hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let Me Go."

She laughs. "If you want me to sing, you better switch back to Skinny Love. I don't know any church music. Never been inside a church."

"That's no surprise at all." I grin at her.

Her pretty curls bounce as she laughs. "Fuck you, Preacher."

I transition back to Skinny Love and she sings it purely, with less affectation and more feeling than I have ever heard it sung by anyone. Did I say sound crush?

More like mad love.

When she finishes, I ease out the last few notes as I keep my eyes on her. "Beautiful," I assure her.

She looks away, and smiles that child-like smile again. Then she remembers herself. She pushes her lips out into a pout. "So are we doing this?" she asks mildly.

"Doing...what?" I ask, returning her easy tone.

"You know what." Her voice turns low, sexy. But she's not quite as bold as she pretends. I see her fingers twisting nervously, scrabbling against the comforter. I watch them—her turquoise painted nails appearing and disappearing as she clutches and releases the cloth. I want to watch those fingers play for hours.

Goddamn. Why do I have to be a nice guy?

"Mmmmm...better not," I say, hoping she can hear the regret in my voice. "The band...Leed...it could get complicated."

"Or we could keep it casual," she says evenly.

"I'm not sure I would be good at that." Not with you, MacKenna Lawson. I've known you two hours, and you are already under my skin.

She pales again. The shock of rejection is plain on her face. I bet she has never been turned down, not once—because no guy would be a stupid as I am. It's killing me to be the first. The sweet smile is gone now. She shrugs. "Okay, then." She rises. "You know what? I'm actually kind of tired..."

"Yeah, me too." Before I even know what's happening, she's closing the door in my face.

"See you at practice." Her voice is muffled and a little shaky on the other side of the door.

I ride the elevator down.

Then I ride it back up and bang down her door.

She takes a long damn time opening it.

"Are you kidding me?" Her voice is venom as she flings open the door. She's already taken her makeup off. She looks even sweeter than I imagined—her sharpish tone just doesn't match her delicate beauty, nor the rapid rise and fall of the breath moving her tiny frame. "What the fuck—you think it was a standing offer? I was interested for a second, but you fucked that up, Preacher."

I ignore her false protest and get to the point.

"Don't call me that stupid nickname in bed, ok? It's just...wrong."

She stares at me with green eyes, and that's the first time I realize she and Leed have that same predatory gaze.

"Ok."

Before she can even fully open the door for me, I have my hands in her hair, kissing her for the first time. We are naked fifteen minutes later.

Mac changes my religion.

Up until then, I guess I'd always felt a little bit guilty about casual sex. My upbringing, you know. Sex is sacred. Sex is for marriage.

With Mac, there was no guilt. With Mac, sex is pure paradise.

I've never regretted a minute in bed with Mac. I only regret the mornings after, when she lies and tells me it doesn't mean anything.