chapter 2

" WHAT? " I GAWK DOWN AT the seven-dollar box of salad greens in my hand. " Seven dollars?" I grumble, scowling at the organic baby spinach as if it's wronged me. With a sigh, I put it back on the refrigerated shelf and reach for the fresh romaine instead; it's better not to pay for the plastic anyway.

I'm just slipping the romaine into my canvas shopping bag when my phone rings. My hands are wet from the lettuce, and I wipe them hurriedly on my jeans before digging into my purse and yanking my phone out. It's from the concert hall, which is weird, because they never call me.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Nora Miller? This is Meredith, from the front office. How are you?"

"Oh, um, fine." I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and continue pushing my tiny cart through the fresh produce section. I still need beets, carrots, and—

"We got an interesting call for you this morning," Meredith says, sounding almost giddy.

"For me ?" I'm only half paying attention. The beets are a glorious purple red, and they're calling my name. I grab a bundle of them and toss them into my bag with the romaine.

"You're not going to believe this."

She pauses for a moment, probably trying to build the suspense, but I'm already moving on, looking for the carrots I'll need for my potato soup tonight.

"It was an agent... for Loaded God Complex."

My search for the carrots stops abruptly.

Did I hear her right?

Loaded God Complex?

I know their music vaguely, just from hearing their songs on the radio during my commute to and from the concert hall. They're a popular rock band with a lead singer who's often on the front covers of those glossy magazines in the checkout lines.

"What do they want?" I ask, now standing stock-still in the middle of the aisle. A woman glares at me and wheels her cart around mine with a distinct air of frustration, and I quickly move to the side and out of the way.

"I don't know. To talk to you, but they didn't tell me what about. The agent gave me her number to give to you. Are you ready for it?"

"Oh, yeah, hang on." I dig into my purse for a pen and an old business card from a lady who did my eyebrows once. "Go ahead."

She reads off the number, and I jot it down, then slip the business card and pen back into my purse.

"Okay, thanks. "

"You'll tell me what she has to say?" Meredith asks.

"Um, s-sure."

She lets out an excited squeal, and then another phone rings somewhere behind her. "Hey, gotta go, but call her right away! Okay, bye!"

"Bye."

The line clicks, and I stand there for a second, staring down at my phone in a stupor.

Loaded God Complex? Really? That can't be right. Hopefully that isn't right. What could they possibly want with a classical violinist?

I shove my phone back into my purse, then resume my search for the carrots, trying to put the whole thing out of my head for the time being.

BACK HOME, I UNLOAD THE groceries, crack open a coconut water, and stare at the number I jotted down on the business card.

This is just the agent , I remind myself. It's not like I'll be calling the band directly.

I'm the type of person who practices what I'm going to say to the guy at the curry restaurant before I call to place an order, but I have no idea what to expect with this phone call, no way to prepare for it.

I have to call though. Meredith will want to know what the agent had to say, and I am curious. How could I not be?

Taking a deep breath, I pick up my phone, dial the number, and double-check to make sure it's right. Then I hit the call button, and my heart rate skyrockets.

It rings once, twice .

Maybe I'll get to leave a message.

I love leaving messages. It's so much easier than—

"Hi, this is Ashton Montgomery."

My mouth goes dry. For a moment, I forget what I'm calling for. Then, pulling myself together, I stutter, "H-hi, my name's Nora Miller. The LA Orchestra said—"

"Nora! Yes! God, I'm so glad you called." Ashton's voice is feminine and confident, and I can picture her walking on a treadmill while drinking a protein shake and making calls to all the big names in the industry. "I was at your concert last night, and that solo blew me away. God, I'm getting goose bumps just thinking about it." She laughs, and I try to laugh too, but it sounds slightly forced, so I stop.

"Thank you," I say, but I'm not sure what to say next, so I just leave it at that. This is usually where an awkward pause would happen, but Ashton jumps right in.

"So, here's the thing. I work with Loaded God Complex, and we're looking for a violinist to play strings on a new track. Hearing you last night, I think you'd be a perfect fit. You'd still need to come in and audition, of course, but the spot is as good as yours."

She pauses, and maybe she thinks I'll squeal or scream or faint or something, but I just sit there, mute, trying to process what she just said. After a moment, she laughs.

"Well, what do you think?"

What do I think? I don't know what to think. My brain froze up as soon as she said "perfect fit."

"You want me to play on the track?" I finally say, blinking as if coming out of a coma. "Are you sure?"

There's that laugh again, so pretty and light and bubbly. I wish I laughed like that.

"I'm absolutely sure. But like I said, we'd need you to audition first. Would tomorrow work? Around noon?"

This is the moment where most people would respond with an emphatic yes, but I can't. I need to think about this, wrap my brain around the idea that I could possibly play strings on a track for the most popular rock band in the country.

"Um... Can I take some time to think about it?"

Now Ashton does go quiet. A beat passes, then two, and I picture her looking down at the phone in confusion, probably wondering if I've lost my mind.

"Yeah, of course," she finally says. "But things are moving fast, so can you let me know today?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"Okay, great. Just give me a call back at this number. And you really were phenomenal last night. You'd be such a great fit!"

I let out another one of those forced laughs. "Okay, thank you. I'll let you know."

We say goodbye and hang up, and I slouch back in my chair as if I've just run a marathon.

Loaded God Complex. Me. On a track. In a studio.

Together.

How am I supposed to act around rock stars? I can barely befriend the other violinists in my orchestra, let alone celebrities.

Margot wakes up from her nap on the couch and does a big stretch, then trots over and leaps gracefully onto the kitchen table.

"What am I going to do?" I ask her, and she pushes her warm cheek against mine, purring like this is the easiest decision in the world. Then she walks to the patch of sunlight at the other end of the table and begins grooming herself. "Big help," I grumble.

Grabbing my phone, I call my mom, and she answers on the first ring.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Mom, I just got the weirdest phone call."

I convey it to her, and my heart starts pounding again. Once I'm done, she sits quietly on the other end. The furnace hums softly in the background. I check the temps in Denver every day, and they got six inches of snow today, so Dad's probably out with his snowblower. He loves anything with an engine, and I'll bet he's offering to clear all the neighbors' driveways as well.

"So?" I say, standing to go stare out my kitchen window. "What do you think?"

After a moment, Mom sighs, and I can tell one of her big speeches is coming.

"I think you need to go for it. You're so talented, honey, and the world needs to see that! You can't play second chair forever. This could be life-changing."

Fear grips me, twists my stomach into a knot. "But—"

"And I know it scares you," she says, cutting me off before I can come up with an excuse for why I can't play, "but you can't run away from these things. Imagine how disappointed you'd be if you turned this down and then had to listen to some other violinist play the part that was meant for you."

I hadn't thought of that, but she's right. I'd never forgive myself .

I'm silent for a few beats, and I can all but see that proud little smile she gets when she's talked me into doing something I don't want to do.

"Let me know how it goes," she says, and I groan.

ASHTON WAS ELATED WHEN I told her I'd come in for an audition. Now a little note is hanging from the calendar in my kitchen, staring at me from across the room. LGC Audition @ 12 . I glare at it while I sit at my kitchen table, my laptop open in front of me and a hot cup of tea steaming to my right.

I pull up a new browser tab and type Loaded God Complex into the search bar. Thousands of results pop up: songs, music videos, upcoming shows, and news articles—mostly about their lead singer and guitarist, Dex Reid.

His picture is all over the internet, and he's usually either shirtless and showing off his plethora of tattoos or is being danced on by half-naked women with boobs so perfect and round that they can't be real—at least, mine certainly don't look like that.

I keep scrolling. Most of the recent stories are about Dex and Serena White, an actress even I know. According to the tabloids, they were the hot new thing this past summer, but they called it quits before Christmas. There are a ton of photos of them together, and she's gorgeous: blond hair, big blue eyes, designer clothes that look like they were made for her.

Well, they probably were.

I click away from their photos and choose a song at random, "Last Night." It starts with an electric guitar, the string noise amplified to the point it almost makes me flinch. The drums come in, followed by Dex's vocals. He's got a rough quality to his voice, a masculine edge that makes me lean almost imperceptibly closer to the screen and hit the volume button so I can hear him more clearly. I stare off into space as he holds a high note I wouldn't have thought him capable of, and a tingle goes down my spine.

As soon as the song ends, I close my laptop and sit back from the table.

"Shit," I whisper. Margot opens one yellow eye to look at me from where she's lying on the back of the couch. "What did I get myself into?"