Page 1 of Killer Notes
PROLOGUE
Danny
It doesn’t matter how big or small the venue, the buzzing excitement before a concert stimulates every molecule in my body, making me edgy.
Pre-show nerves always threaten to get the best of me. But once I’m out there, microphone in hand and my band behind me, I remember that I am Warrior Black’s lead singer and belt out the songs I’m meant to sing.
Almost five years ago, after my friends and I got rid of Siles, my ex-lover and our former band manager, we became more serious about our music. Since we entered the Midwest Clash of Bands Contest a year and a half ago, our lives have changed drastically. It’s been surreal.
We honestly didn’t expect anything much out of the contest. We’re five people from the Chicagoland suburbs who have been playing together since high school, and the opportunity to play our music on a big stage for a large crowd was too good to pass up. The euphoric thrill we felt when we came in second place was indescribable. The small cash prize didn’t hurt either.
Best of all, though, is that the contest is where we met Ron Darling, who became Warrior Black’s manager. He made things happen for us. He found better gigs, like this one tonight at The Independence.
We’ll be recording our first album in the coming month, and he pulled out all his tricks and got us on a tour this fall, opening for Def Flowers and Whip Lash, two of our favorite bands.
And let’s not forget Rocktoberfest in Black Rock, Nevada in a few weeks, where we’ve been invited to play. What’s even more kick ass? We’ll be there with a dozen other bands, including two more of our favorite bands— Maiden Voyage and Social Sinners. We can’t wait to be a part of the festival.
I blow out a heavy breath, trying to control the rapid beating of my heart. The last thing I want to do is pass out. But one glimpse through the side stage curtain, and I have to step back and ground myself.
With my lip tint in hand, I swipe it across my lips and take in several slow, deep breaths. The scent of mint and chocolate calms me.
Tonight, the open floor of the venue is crammed full with fans impatiently waiting for us to step onto the stage and jam our songs. No doubt, Ron’s in the audience now, passing out flyers for Rocktoberfest.
“Are you ready?” Connor Wild, my best friend and our drummer, asks while he twirls his sticks between his fingers.
“Fuck, yeah,” Callum Fitz, our bassist, crows as he slides his fingers down the neck of his Stratocaster.
“Damn straight,” Raef D’Angelo hoots. The lead guitarist strums the strings of his Gibson ES 35 and then winks at me.
“I’m fucking ready.” Bobby Hicks, Warrior Black’s keyboardist, puts his fingerless black leather gloves on and gives me a double thumbs up.
“I guess we are,” I say with a smile, then turn to the announcer and give him a nod.
After a quick intro, we rush onto the stage and the crowd goes wild. They’re chanting “Warrior Black” and most of the women in the front row are trying to get our attention by screaming out our names.
“Raven. I love you!”
“I want you, Connor Wild!”
“I want your baby, Raef!”
Despite their exuberant efforts to get our attention, we jump right into our music.
We start with “Hit it,” our first single, and a fan favorite. Then on to “Dangerous,” where Bobby sings back up to my lead.
There’s so much charged energy in the air, from us, and from the fans. We are sweat slicked, running on pure adrenalin for the rest of our set.
The night couldn’t have gone any better. Or so I thought.
After our final encore, I step off the stage feeling high and wide awake. Needing to piss, I head to the bathroom, telling my friends who are celebrating with drinks that I’ll be back.
Not two steps into the bathroom, something hard smashes into the back of my skull. I stumble forward, pain showers across my skull, my vision goes wonky and I free-fall. Right as my cheek hits the cold tile, a face blurs in front of me. There are words spoken but I can’t understand them because the ringing in my ears is deafening. I try to get up, but a hard kick to my stomach drops me like a rock and blackness takes me under.
CHAPTERONE
Danny
“Is it the same handwriting?” I ask with defeat, seeing the now-familiar beige card stock in Ron Darling’s hands—the same type of paper that was duct taped to my back when they found me two weeks ago in the bathroom at The Independence. The same paper that has been used to send notes practically every day since.