Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series) Read online

  Sun Poisoned

  The Sunshine Series Book Two

  Nikki Rae

  Copyright by Nikki Rae Colligan. All rights reserved worldwide under Berne Convention. This work may not be copied, stored in a retrieval system, or distributed without prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. If you have this file or a print out of this file, you are depriving the author and the publisher of their rightful royalties and are punishable under law.

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted and trademarked owners of the bands, music, and movies quoted in this book.

  Cover design copyright Regina Wamba of MaeIdesign.com. Stock/Model by MissSouls-Stock: www.misssouls-stock.deviantart.com, Photographer:

  Tom Lanzrath.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who read Sunshine and loved it. Thank you for giving my dream a chance.

  H.D. and Janelle, you girls are amazing, and I love the support you’ve given me.

  The entire indie community, Beta readers, book bloggers, and reviewers.

  Sara, for being my last minute editor, for your friendship, and your honesty while reading anything I write first. You will always be first. I promise.

  And those loved and lost:

  Robert Wrecker. You were more of an inspiration to me than you knew. You taught me to be who I am, and to “fuck everyone else”.

  Norma. You were the first story-teller I ever knew.

  And Boo. Though I doubt you’d care about a book because you wouldn’t be able to eat it (and as far as I know, cats can’t read), we both know that you saved my life on more than one occasion, and I owe you, little man.

  I couldn’t do this without any of you. I love you.

  Midnight

  Chapter 1

  “I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket.”—Cake

  The dream always starts out the same. Michael is hovering over me, my wrists are above my head. It’s dark and cold. My heart bumps inside my chest on overdrive, air tries to find its way into my lungs.

  Please, I say.

  Then the dream changes.

  I’m tied down to a shiny metal table. I’m blind folded. And the blood that pours out of me is hot and fast, running down my neck, my stomach, my legs. My mind is clouded, but I can hear chirping. Faint bird-like sounds coming from an open window, or maybe there’s a bird somewhere in the room with me.

  His voice is always there:

  You are going to die here.

  ***

  “So you want to play it slower now?” Boo complains, nearly throwing his drumsticks.

  We're in one of the practice rooms owned by Evan and Club Midnight, the one we now get to play at and get paid for. I’m glad I have something to distract me from the nightmare. They’re nothing new, but last night’s was especially creepy.

  Sometimes I have to repeat things about this new life to remind myself that it's actually real and actually happening.

  I came to the conclusion that a career in music was my only option when I was very young, yet whenever I’m in a room with my band members to rehearse, all I can seem to think about is going to college and getting a nice, safe degree in nursing or math.

  The room itself is kind of small—about the size of a garage. There are five of them on the first floor of the apartment building we now live in, owned by Evan, whom we do not have to pay rent to because we are friends of Myles’.

  We share the practice room with two other bands, but tonight is our first show and the rooms were being renovated until this morning, so they let us have their time slots as well.

  The red and white paint still smells fresh, and there's a shiny black piano that I get to use. It's not mine, but it'll do. Mine's still at Stevie and Jade's house, where we decided it should stay for recording songs. For now.

  I stare down at the rectangular zebra print rug beneath my boots, trying to think of a way to explain what's going on in my head.

  We were going to stick mostly to our own songs, since it's a “showcase” show, which means that most of the regular bands that play at Midnight will be there, along with a few of us newcomers like us. We only have a short amount of time and a handful of songs to make an impact.

  Even when Boo told us that he wanted to play covers a few days ago, I wasn't as nervous as I am now. We added covers in the lineup—ones we knew already—but Boo heard me fooling around with chords of a different one yesterday afternoon and both he and Trei insisted that we play it tonight.

  Not just play it. Open with it.

  Michael Jackson's “Billie Jean.”

  “No,” I say, running a hand through my magenta strands and mashing it into a sloppy ponytail. “I mean, at first, I think we should start off slow because I've only played this a few times and I don't want to screw it up in front of these people.” And musicians.

  “So let me get this straight.” Boo rubs one of his eyes with the back of his hand.

  I glance at Trei, who is patiently sitting on the rug, leaning against a piano leg next to the violin she set down a few minutes ago when this conversation started.

  “You want to play it slow,” Boo continues, “then speed it up? How fast? When?”

  I shrug. “We can just double the slower speed, that should be fine.” I stare at the keys, my fingers twitching and waiting to start as they hover over their slick black and white surface. “And it doesn't matter when, just as long as it’s not abrupt.”

  Boo sighs. “You know, if you learned how to read sheet music, we could save a lot of time.”

  I stick out my tongue at him and he rolls his eyes. Trei ignores both of us.

  “How about this,” she starts, folding her long skirt over her knees so she can sit on her legs. “We can start off slow and just let Sophie play for…about the first verse, then Boo, you come in with the drums and I'll follow you.”

  “You mean after I sing the first 'who will dance on the floor in the round'?”

  Trei shrugs. “I was thinking after that. I think you should play it solo until the first ‘the kid is not my son',” she suggests.

  “I like it,” Boo decides.

  I'm a little uneasy about this plan. “I think that's too long.”

  I really don't want to be playing by myself in front of all those people who know about music, as well as fans of music, who may be prepared to judge anything different from what they're used to hearing.

  “Oh stop being such a baby,” Boo teases. He kicks the bass pedal for emphasis.

  I glare at him.

  “These people should know what they're in store for from the first minute we're on,” he continues in a lighter tone.

  “Yeah,” Trei agrees. “We’re going to be awesome.”

  Boo smiles.”You, Sophie Sunshine, are going to show them just how awesome we are.”

  I sigh and roll my eyes.

  “You scared?” He's back to teasing now.

  “Fine,” I say, obviously outnumbered. “We'll practice it one more time like that, then we're done until we go on at ten.” I glance around at my band mates for agreement and they both nod.

  We stop at about three in the afternoon so the next band can practice if they want to, but mostly so Boo and I don't end up ripping each others’ hair out. I head back to my apartment once we agree on a time to meet up at the club.

  There are six floors in total, each one housing four apartments. Myles was the one to sign us up for them, and originally we each had our own, but Boo and Trei wanted to be roommates, so they share one on the third floor. Myles has one on the fourth floor, and I get a space all to myself on floor two.

  Clomping up the last few stairs in my
combat boots, I fish my keys out of my bag.

  The place isn't too big, but it's fine for just me. As soon as I walk in there's the living room with a simple grey couch with a few lime green pillows on it. A dark brown coffee table is in front of a flat screen TV on the far wall. A state of the art, brand new keyboard with too many buttons on it sits in the corner near the small kitchen that closely resembles Stevie and Jade's. There's a fridge, stove, microwave, and coffee machine. Across from that is my bedroom, and there’s a bathroom down the hall, near a closet.

  The apartments are mainly all set up the same with different furniture in them. I have a feeling that Myles had something to do with the keyboard and the ghost and pumpkin printed curtains hanging in my bedroom, though.

  There are five hours to kill before doors open and people start sound checking, so I compulsively practice the intro to “Billie Jean” a few more times before I decide that this is only going to psych myself out more, give up, and begin getting dressed.

  Boo, Trei, and I agreed on matching our clothing about a week ago. I chose a black and white striped halter dress. It has no sleeves and an open back that shows off my wing tattoos, and it’ll come in handy when I start sweating on stage. The front wraps around my neck and covers most of the pink vertical, scar on my chest and the smaller horizontal one where the breathing tube was last winter. Not that I'm exactly embarrassed by them, but I just want tonight to be about the music, not about people being distracted by my physical deformities.

  I pair it with my usual black combats and start doing my hair, twisting the straight flamingo pieces in the front and pulling them to the back of my head so they stick out in spiky strands. It looks like I took a long time making it look sophisticatedly messy, but it takes me five minutes.

  There's a knock on my door just as I'm finishing up.

  Myles is standing there when I open it, wearing a wide grin.

  “Hi,” I say, a smile spreading across my own face as well.

  He has black pants on, a grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a black vest. A tie with thin black and white alternating lines peeks out from it.

  “Hello,” he says back. I step aside so he can come in. “You look nice,” he points out, gently touching my arm.

  I pretend I don't hear him. “So you decided to match us, huh?” I gesture toward his tie.

  He glances down, adjusting the material like he's just realized he had it on. “Oh, I guess so.”

  I smile, not really sure what else to say.

  I sit down on the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest. Myles sits down next to me.

  “You seem anxious,” he points out, gently clasping my hand and dragging it to the couch between us.

  “I thought you couldn’t feel what I feel anymore.”

  “I can't.” Myles looks like he’s going to explain, but I figure it out.

  “You can hear my heart.”

  He nods.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m kind of nervous.”

  Myles' hand leaves mine so it can wrap around my back.

  “There's nothing to be nervous about,” he says. “You guys are going to be great.” He kisses the tiny scar on my temple, also from last winter.

  I get up, grab my iPod off of the kitchen counter, and clear my throat. “You ready to go?” I ask, glancing at the clock that reads 6:30. The show doesn't kick off until eight, but I want to get there early.

  He stands up and shrugs. “Sure.”

  It's about seven blocks from the apartment to the venue. I slip my headphones in my ears, selecting the playlist named “first show playlist of doom.” and Myles walks by my side as “Billie Jean” plays again.

  One of the most awesome things I've noticed about living in New York is that for the most part, no one cares what you look like or how you dress. I don't have to be self-conscious about my trench coat and shades, or the black umbrella that I use during mainly the summer, when the sun is stronger and I don't feel like slathering SPF 100 all over myself. I don't draw nearly the same amount of attention I would back in New Jersey wearing the same thing.

  Club Midnight is in the middle of Chinatown, as Myles pointed out to us the first time we went. It’s not hard to see why they call it that. It's a small town on a busy street with sidewalks on either side. There are small, colorful Asian businesses and restaurants with a constant flow of people milling around. But if you blink, you miss the club, which is only indicated by a painted black door cut out of a wall of plain, tan ones. Mainly only people like us—music people—know about Midnight, so they know how to find it.

  Our first night here, Boo, Trei, and I got invited to our first show at the club. Usually, I hate going to shows just because there are people everywhere, sweating and pressed up against each other like pickles in a jar—all gross, smelly, and touching you and shit. But Myles made sure we got balcony seats, which are usually reserved for VIPs.

  The band featured that night was one of the more popular ones: Honus. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was excited to finally see the place where we would be playing.

  Midnight seems so small when no one's in it. The stage, set at the far end of the space, is no bigger than the one at Lucky High School. There are plain black linoleum floors, and the walls framing the stage are made out of gray stone. There are also two huge fireplace-like nooks carved out like caves to the left and right of the stage where people can sit. On either side of the stage are statues of stags with sweeping antlers. Everything not outlined in grey cement is draped in thick, crimson velvet.

  At night, when the lights go out and the music comes on, the place becomes a warm, beautiful dream. The first time I took this all in, I almost freaked. How were we going to pull this off? How were three punks from South Jersey with little professional training supposed to fake this?

  As I walk into the cool, dark lobby of the place, I realize that's what's been bothering me. My heart thuds an extra loud beat that causes a lump in my throat. Myles places a hand on my shoulder and smiles reassuringly.

  I take out my headphones. “I can't do this,” I say, feeling the bile in my stomach rising.

  There are other performers arriving: a guy with long black hair and a handlebar mustache that I recognize as the lead singer of Honus is rigging red and white Christmas lights around the stage. A girl with half of her head shaved and the remaining brown strands curved in dreadlocks, is duct taping wires down.

  More enter; a warm breeze from outside hits my bare legs as the door opens and closes again.

  Myles' calm expression fades a little when he notices the look on my face. He grabs hold of my hand and leads me left of the stage where there's a door to the dressing rooms.

  “No, I want to go.” I tug him the opposite way, but his hand is firmly around mine, not letting go until we’re inside one of the dressing rooms. There are some couches and chairs, a lighted mirror, as well as a flat screen that broadcasts what's going down on stage. This only makes me more uneasy. We're not the kind of people who get to play in awesome places made out of stone with musicians who know their stuff and get their own dressing room.

  I sit on the edge of a black armchair, staring at my knees.

  “Hey,” Myles says from behind me.

  He loosely wraps an arm around my neck, and I turn my face to him. “I think they made a mistake,” I say. “We shouldn't be here.”

  Myles laughs lightly in my ear. “They did not,” he says. “Both Evan and Jamie listened to your CD and thought you were perfect.”

  Jamie's the one who runs the inner workings of the shows. I've only met him a few times, but he's nice enough. Probably dumb for picking us, but nice.

  Sighing, I pick off a loose thread from Myles' shirt. “What if we aren't good enough?”

  He walks around the chair now, sitting down on the actual seat next to me. I watch as a smile spreads across his face. “That's impossible.”

  Just then, the door swings open and Boo and Trei appear, followed by Jam
ie, who is clutching a clipboard.

  Trei's wearing a black tank top with an alternating black and white tulle skirt. Boo's pants are vertically striped black and white, and he’s paired them with a top hat and a black buttoned vest with nothing underneath.

  “Whoa,” Boo says upon entering. “Are we interrupting something?

  That's not funny and he knows it.

  It wasn't funny when he said it for the first time a few months ago, when he spied Myles and I holding hands, and it hasn't gotten funny since.

  “No,” I say anyway. “Were you interrupted while you were looking for your shirt today?”

  “I'd hate to interrupt,” Jamie butts in with his English accent.

  He has a brown flannel shirt on and tight, straight legged jeans and converse. His clipped brown hair matches his eyes, which are framed with thick, black framed glasses. Fashion glasses. Gag. If I knew him better, I'd tease him.

  “But,” he continues, “your time has been moved up. You're now opening for Honus, so you're on first, at eight.”

  “What?” I almost lose it.

  At the same time, Boo and Trei say, “Awesome.”

  We're opening for Honus.

  The band that everyone goes bananas over. The one that has a piano player that’s probably way better than me in the crowd’s opinion. The band that most of the people are here to see.

  Fuck.

  Jamie leaves, off to talk to more of the musicians. Boo and Trei set their stuff in front of the mirror.

  “This is going to be awesome,” Trei says.

  “I know, right?” Boo agrees with her reflection before turning to me. “People are like, guaranteed to love us now.”

  My stomach lurches. Myles places a hand on mine again.

  “How do you figure that, Boo?” I ask.

  “A lot of people like Honus.” He shrugs. “If we open for them, people might like us too.”

  “Are you serious, Boo?” I try to keep my voice normal but I’m not sure if it actually sounds that way. “You have heard them, right? How are we supposed to go on before that with 'Billie Jean'? People are going to think we're a joke.”