Chapter One: The Sound of Chaos

  The bassline rattled the sticky floors of The Whiskey Barrel, its thrum reverberating in Jessica Monroe’s chest like a second heartbeat. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the acrid tang of spilled beer, but Jess barely noticed anymore. At 31, she’d spent enough nights in venues like this to feel at home, even if her real home was a cramped studio apartment with unreliable plumbing.

  She adjusted her leather jacket, trying to signal to the bartender that her empty glass wasn’t just decoration. The man, swamped with orders, barely spared her a glance.

  “Gin and tonic,” she called out, slapping a twenty on the counter.

  The crowd was a chaotic cocktail of teased hair, denim jackets, and black leather—a pulsing sea of rebellion under the dim glow of neon lights. It was 1989, and the Sunset Strip was still a mecca for dreamers, hustlers, and misfits. Jess, somehow, was all three.

  She pulled her battered notebook from her bag, flipping through the scrawled pages as she waited. Tonight’s assignment was an elusive interview with Storm Crows, the hottest new band in LA’s rock scene. Their grungy, high-octane sound was all anyone in the industry could talk about, and Jess had fought tooth and nail for the chance to cover them. This was her shot to prove she wasn’t just some fluff writer relegated to reviewing B-list gigs for the back pages of Rock Pulse Weekly.

  But naturally, the band wasn’t here yet.

  Jess sighed, scribbling a note to herself: Ask Levi about the new album—any creative tensions? The rumor mill was already churning about infighting between Levi Kane, their enigmatic lead singer, and Eddie Drake, their mercurial guitarist. Drama like that sold, and Jess needed this piece to land.

  The bartender finally delivered her drink, and Jess took a long sip, savoring the burn of gin.

  “You don’t look like you’re here for the music,” a voice drawled behind her.

  Jess turned, met with the smirk of a man who looked like he’d been born with a guitar in his hands. Long hair, leather pants, a cigarette dangling from his lips—the whole look screamed “rock star.”

  “Let me guess,” he continued. “Writer? Photographer? Or just a really dedicated groupie?”

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Journalist,” Jess shot back, arching an eyebrow. “And I’m here to interview Storm Crows. Assuming they bother to show.”

  The man laughed, a low, raspy sound. “They’ll show. Levi loves an audience, even if it’s just one.”

  “Good to know,” Jess said, already unimpressed. She turned back to her drink, hoping the conversation was over.

  “I’m Eddie,” the man added, sticking out a hand.

  Jess froze mid-sip. Eddie Drake. Of course. She’d just brushed off the band’s guitarist—the very person she needed to charm for a good story.

  “Jessica Monroe,” she said, shaking his hand. “Rock Pulse Weekly. Sorry about the…uh, groupie comment.”

  Eddie smirked, his cigarette dangling precariously as he spoke. “I’ve heard worse. You want an intro to Levi?”

  “That’d be great,” she said, clutching her notebook like a lifeline.

  Eddie led her through the packed club, weaving past screaming fans and self-proclaimed industry insiders. They climbed a narrow staircase that creaked ominously underfoot, leading to a cramped VIP lounge drenched in smoke and dim red lighting.

  Levi Kane sat sprawled on a lumpy couch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and he looked up lazily as they approached. A few groupies lounged nearby, laughing at jokes Jess couldn’t hear.

  “Levi, this is Jessica,” Eddie said. “She’s with the press.”

  Levi’s eyes narrowed as he studied her, his expression unreadable. “Press, huh?” he muttered. “Hope you’re not one of those writers digging for dirt.”

  Jess met his gaze without flinching. “Depends,” she said coolly. “You got any?”

  Eddie barked a laugh, but Levi didn’t seem amused. He leaned forward, setting his cigarette in an ashtray. “You got twenty minutes,” he said. “No stupid questions.”

  Jess flipped open her notebook, her pen poised. This wasn’t exactly the professional setup she’d hoped for, but it would have to do.

  An hour later, Jess emerged onto Sunset Boulevard, her head spinning with the adrenaline of the interview and the chaotic energy of the club. Her notebook was filled with scrawled quotes about the band’s upcoming album, their grueling tour schedule, and a few hints of the tension brewing between Levi and Eddie. It was gold—exactly the kind of story that could land her name on the front page of Rock Pulse Weekly.

  Her heels clicked against the sidewalk as she approached her car, a beat-up Toyota Corolla that barely passed for reliable. The Strip glimmered around her, its neon signs casting fractured rainbows across the pavement.

  Jess paused to light a cigarette, leaning against the hood of her car as she stared out at the city. She thought about the life she’d left behind—a safe but suffocating marriage to her college boyfriend, a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs, a future that felt more like a death sentence.

  Now, every night was a gamble, every day a fight to carve out her place in an industry dominated by egos and chaos. It was messy, unpredictable, and exhilarating.

  And it was hers.

  She took a drag from her cigarette and let the smoke curl into the night air. Tomorrow, she’d pitch her story. And maybe, just maybe, this time it would be enough to prove she belonged.

  For now, the city hummed with possibilities, and Jess wasn’t ready to go home just yet.