“Gringras’ good looks—the high cheekbones, the thin nose, the brilliant green of his eyes—were mesmerizing. How could she have thought he was older than her father? He was simply beautiful, and he moved beautifully, too, like some great jungle cat, all oiled motion, flowing. The drummer, Johnny Alabas, had some of that same beauty, but slightly tarnished. Everything about him was too sharp, too long, too white, as if he were a funhouse mirror reflection of the piper. Bass player Tommy Nickels wa...s small, compact, and dark. But it was the guitarist, Scott Morrison, who held Callie in thrall, with his long blonde hair tied back in a braid, his wide Viking face set with faded blue eyes. If Gringras was a cat, Scott was a horse. A stallion. Big and powerful and gorgeous. He was wearing black leather trousers with rats painted around the bottom of the legs, their tails twining up like strange vines. And a black tee with Celtic knotwork printed on front and back. As she watched him, Callie felt something like an ache under her breastbone.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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