Untouchable Face

Untouchable Face An Iron Thorns Novel Selena Untouchable Face Copyright © 2023 Selena Unabridged First Edition All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, and events are entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand. Published in the United States by Selena and Speak Now. ISBN-13: 978-1-955913-28-7 Cover © Book Brander Boutique For Crystal. Table of Contents one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen epilogue acknowledgements one Valentina Rose “This is it, ladies,” Marisol says, giving a shimmy of excitement as the band ahead of us leaves the stage. “Let’s show the boys how it’s done!” DeeDee folds her hands under her pierced chin like she’s praying and rolls her eyes heavenward, toward her spiky, silver hair. “Dear Buddha, Muhammed, Shiva, Jehovah, and Crimson Franco, please let us kick all the ass today.” “And land a record deal with Iron Thorns’s new label,” I add, excitement thrumming inside me. “All in, hookers!” Shana yells, putting a hand in the center of our circle like we’re her basketball team from high school instead of a band taking our shot at Battle of the Bands. We all reach in though. I stack my hand on the lighter brown one of Marisol, my best friend since I joined the Screaming Divas in high school, and Dee places her pale hand on top. “Lord God, Great Goddess, Baby Jesus, Zeus, Odin, Satan, all the pagan gods, plus whoever Mormons pray to…” she continues muttering under her breath. “Let’s fucking rock and roll!” Shana yells, then pumps her hand down and up for us to break the circle. She thrusts her fist in the air and jogs to the stairs, leading the charge onto the stage where we’ll perform three songs and try to impress the rock legends who are sponsoring the event. One band will win a contract with the new label they started for unsigned bands like ours. It feels vintage and cool to do it this way in the digital age. Chills race over my skin as I take my place at the keyboard, positioning my long fingers on the black and white keys. My heartbeat is thundering in my ears. Though we have a small following on YouTube and a slightly bigger one on The Tea, we haven’t broken out yet. Performing in front of a real rock band is an opportunity we couldn’t pass up. I know we’re ready, but nerves still twist and tangle inside my belly as I look out over the crowd gathered in the June evening, plastic cups of overpriced, warm beer clutched in their fists. I wish my boyfriend could have come so there would be a familiar face in the crowd, but he didn’t want to take off work. “One—two—three,” Shana yells, counting us in from behind the drum set. DeeDee lays down the bassline, and Marisol layers in a guitar riff before grabbing the mic, swinging her black braid over her shoulder, and belting out the lyrics. My fingers move over the keys automatically, muscle memory taking over after the months of practicing to perfect the song. My nerves settle as the music flows through me. I let my eyes drift over the crowd again. A magnet seems to draw my gaze, and I lift my eyes to a small, enclosed platform at the back of the crowd. My gaze moves over thickly muscled, inked arms, broad shoulders, and a chin covered with stubble. Suddenly, I’m staring straight into the warm, chocolate eyes of Adrian Hart. A jolt of electricity winds through my body when our gazes lock. He doesn’t look away. I don’t look away. Time stops, and there’s just him and me, suspended on the last rays of early summer sun. My fingers caress the keys, but I don’t hear the music anymore. All I hear is my heart hammering to some new rhythm it’s never played before. Electricity shimmers from the crown of my head, down my back, all the way to the soles of my feet, vibrating from the soundwaves coursing over the stage. I close my eyes, severing the connection. The last thing I need is to get distracted by the Iron Thorns drummer and screw up. A chance like this doesn’t come along often. Even if nothing comes of it, how many people can say they played in front of the biggest rock band in the world? And if something does come of it… I picture the life that comes after signing with the new label. A contract for an album. If it does well, maybe a tour. If a US tour does well, a chance to travel and see the world with my three besties, maybe brush up on my Italian and Spanish. Other labels will come calling, and we could sign on with a huge label like Nyso Records, or better yet, put this one on the map. We wind up the first song, and chills run along my arms as excitement grows into a burning ember in my chest. We’re killing it. We sound amazing. I open my eyes and shoot Marisol a quick smile. She’s grinning ear to ear. Shana throws her black-and-green hair forward and back like she’s in a metal band, bouncing on her stool as we transition into our next song. I glance at the raised box where the Iron Thorns members are watching. Adrian Hart is standing at the side of the