Growing up, L.V. Lewis wanted to be an internationally known rock star, but unfortunately, lived in the wrong part of the country to pursue that career (and neither American Idol nor The Voice were available then). An early love for the written word gave her the plan B she sought. Now she pens romance novels that let her live vicariously through rock stars and other fascinating archetypes.
Learn more about L.V. Lewis at www.lvlewis.com .
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After a brief hesitation, Sky joins me at the mic. Her harmony blends with my melody. Our voices intertwine effortlessly.
At the bridge, I can’t help myself. I get lost in an elaborate guitar solo. It feels so fucking good to have an axe in my hands again, bringing music to life in the way only Savage Saban can. My nerves thrum as my body absorbs the energy that always surrounds me when I play. Audiences ate that shit up, and I fed off their energy, creating a vicious cycle—one that literally almost swallowed me whole.
Thoughts of how the very thing I love killed Kim and almost killed me, is the cold dash of water that awakens me from the musical zone that threatens to overtake me.
As I strum the final chord, I open my eyes, and survey the faces of my audience of three. All staring at me, eyes wide, mouths slack. Sky’s face is flushed in awe. Malik has the widest smile to accompany eyes big with incredulity. Mrs. Samuelson manages to look slightly offended and surprised.
I’ve either impressed the hell out of them or scared the ever-loving fuck out of everyone in the room. I’m not sure which I’d prefer