Page 1 of Heartbeat Highway (Love Along Route 14)

B o—two years ago

Where the hell is our new lead singer?

I’m sitting at a table in a dive bar in North Hollywood, sheets of music spread on the table between me and Maxim, my friend and brand new bandmate. Maxim points at one of the song sheets, somehow maneuvering the chocolate chip cookie he’s holding so it doesn’t dust crumbs all over his work.

“These songs are going to slay,” Maxim says. He inhales the cookie and leans forward on the table, resting his tattooed forearms against the surface. “We don’t want Howl to be like every other band, right? This is going to be different.”

“Our new lead singer might have things to say about that,” I reply. In the background, two college-aged kids get on stage and twang their way through a country version of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” No, it does not work for them.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, but every time I’ve looked at it lately, it’s been my dad, and there’s fuck all chance I’m going to talk to him.

Instead, I take out my drumsticks and rap them thoughtfully on the table, against the songs Maxim’s written.

I’ve known him since college, when we met at an audition for a Rick Astley cover band.

Don’t judge. I was desperate.

Not for money. I didn’t need the money for that and I don’t need the money from playing in Howl now, scant as it is. That’s one thing dear old dad is good for. He set up my trust fund and doesn’t mess with how I choose to spend it.

One thing he isn’t good for is his notoriety. Every audition I’ve ever shown up for, they wanted Bo Harley, son of the great Runner Harley, former lead singer of the 80s hair metal sensation, Crooked.

Let’s just say meeting me has been a disappointment. I’m not flashy or bombastic. I stick to what I’m good at, what I love. I’m not here to be the front man.

It’s meant drumming and music has taken backstage.

Until Howl. Playing with Dan, who put the band together, and Maxim has been amazing. We just didn’t have a lead singer and guitarist until a couple weeks ago. He’s a bit of a douche, but he’s got a husky voice and a vibe audiences are going to go wild for. He’s “the missing link,” according to Dan.

He’s definitely a missing link, just not in the way business-school-educated Dan means.

“Bo.” Maxim covers my drumsticks, stopping their momentum. “Focus.”

“On what?” I gesture around the bar. The “Bohemian Rhapsody” murder is over, and now a gorgeous, curvy blond woman with cream-colored skin and a new-in-the-city aesthetic climbs the stairs, hands in the pockets of dark wash jeans that cup her full ass.

My gaze lingers on her for a moment before snapping back to Maxim.

I don’t need distractions. “K isn’t here yet. ”

Maxim snorts and stabs a French fry into a pile of Maxim sauce. It’s ketchup mixed with mustard, but woe to anyone who asks for his special recipe. “I don’t know about K, man. He’s into the covers. He said something about reworking some of Crooked’s songs.”

“There’s zero chance I’ll let that happen.

” My blood turns to ice, even as the unmistakable opening cue for “True Colors” plays in the background.

Poor woman. This crowd is not going to be into classic pop anthems. Besides us, the bar is full of Hollywood music hopefuls, guitars in hand.

The woman can’t be good enough to hold their attention.

“Bo—”

Maxim’s protests fade into background music. The entire bar fades, and it feels like it’s just me and this blond woman on stage, lit by a single spotlight.

She has a killer voice. It’s not that she hits all the notes just right—and trust me, that’s a rarity on an open mic night—but it’s all the feeling she puts behind it. She can’t be much older than the college students, yet there’s an endearing sincerity in her smoky, lilting soprano.

She’s captivating.

I let my gaze travel down from her face as she sings, letting her voice work itself through me.

She has the body of a Raphaelite goddess, full and sensuous.

She wears a loose white shirt but I can still see the outlines of her shape.

Her cheeks are flushed with the song, her eyes bright and her mouth…

Even I could write ballads about those perfect, red lips. Especially the way she’s cradling the microphone.

My cock stirs and I shift in my seat.

The song ends, and Maxim snorts beside me, which snaps me back into reality.

“Thank you, everyone!” The woman waves gaily—so fucking cute—and practically runs off stage.

“Need something, Bo?” Maxim pokes me with a French fry.

I swipe him away, my gaze still locked on the woman. Now that she’s offstage, some of her confidence has faded. She’s looking around like she doesn’t have a seat, doesn’t have people.

“Hey!” I call her and raise a hand. She looks over at me, a tentative smile on those kissable lips. I can almost hear Maxim’s eye roll. “You can sit with us if you want.”

She glances between me and Maxim. Blue. Her eyes are cornflower blue. Midwest, I’d stake my jaded Angeleno heart on it. Her shoulders rise in a moment of hesitation, then she settles into herself and walks toward us.

I doubt it’s because of me, as much as I want it to be. Maxim is quintessential girl bait. He’s almost six-four with dark brown skin, tattoos that wind from his wrists to his shoulders, and eyes that women have swooned over.

I know because I’ve caught them. It’s a good thing drumming also works as an arm workout.

“Here we go.” Maxim relinquishes his plate of fries and leans back against the fading leather of the booth.

“Hi.” The woman stops at the edge of the table and holds up a hand.

I love a shy girl. My last relationship was with a vitamin influencer.

There’s a good reason our series of hook ups ended after four months.

She’d wanted the Son of Runner Harley and I wanted someone who liked Bo.

“I’m Lily.” She shifts from foot to foot.

“Hey.” I set down my sticks. “I’m Bo. This is Maxim. Take a seat. It’s hard to find one tonight.”

She hesitates another moment. I’m fascinated by her.

Onstage, she was so confident, so alive, and now on the ground she’s timid.

Then she nods once and slides in beside me.

She smells like roses and something bright and citrusy.

I wonder if I can take a larger whiff without looking like a total creep.

Probably not.

“Thanks,” she says.

Maxim looks between the two of us, a smirk playing around his mouth. “What do you want to drink, Lily? I’m buying.”

“I don’t know.” She blushes, and I like the color of it on her full cheeks. “Are you guys going to judge me if I say I want a fruity cocktail?”

“Absolutely not.” Maxim slaps the table. “Fruity cocktail, little umbrella if they have it. I’ll be right back.” He kicks me under the table and gives me a pointed look. I could remind him that I’ll do just fine striking out on my own.

“You guys are musicians?” Lily gestures to the sheet music and my drumsticks, strewn across the table. “It’s a little obvious.”

“Yeah. Maxim plays bass, and I’m the drummer. We’re in a new band as of a few days ago, so you’ve never heard of us.”

“Yet.” She holds up a finger, and there’s something so unpretentious about her declaration, I almost believe it myself. “It’s a good thing I didn’t know you guys were out here earlier. I never would have sung in front of real musicians. I was nervous enough.”

“You sing beautifully,” I say. “You had the whole crowd captivated.”

“Really?” Her entire countenance lights up. “I’m not pitchy?”

“Not in the least.” I drink from my half-full bottle of beer. ”Are you a singer?”

“Only in my dreams.” She sighs. “I moved out to LA a couple weeks ago, for law school. I haven’t met a lot of people so far, though.

The other students are all so stressed out already.

It’s either let’s-drink-our-cares-away or they’re deeply entrenched in the library.

” She leans a little toward me, one hand covering the side of her mouth, like she’s about to divulge a huge secret.

It’s incredibly cute and somehow arousing as well. “Classes started three days ago.”

I feel the smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “You’re going to be a lawyer? That’s great.”

“Is it?” She plays with her hands. She should take up drumming.

That’s how I manage my nervous habits. I went to college for graphic design, and it pays the bills along with my trust, but as much as I have no desire to live my father’s life, I kind of can’t live without music.

It’s a conundrum. “Okay. This is something you only tell a stranger. So, my mom and I, in high school, used to watch The Good Wife all the time. It was our ‘girls night in’ special.” She spreads her hands wide, excited as she’s discussing it.

I lean into her, her enthusiasm infectious.

“My mom loves that show, and I loved Alicia Florrick. She was so gorgeous and confident, but still empathetic. She had this magnetism that I craved.”

Why can’t she see how magnetic she is? Whoever dampened her confidence, I’d like to rip them a new one. “I’ve never seen it, but it sounds like I need to change that right now. Is that why you wanted to go to law school?”

“I figured if I couldn’t be a singer—”

“Why can’t you be a singer?” I’ve tried not being a drummer, but no matter how hard I try, the music keeps pulling me back in. It’s why I built my walls and list of rules. If I could sing like she can? I definitely couldn’t walk away from that. Music is in some people’s DNA.

Takes one to know one.

She rolls her eyes. I’ve never even seen cornflowers but I swear her eyes are that color. “My parents are amazing, but they’re from the Midwest.” Ha. Nailed it. “Singing is something you only do in the shower and on long car trips, not a career.”