Blurb:
Since the moment he picked up his first guitar, Dez Conway dreamed of being a Rockstar. A multi-talented musician with the ability to play the electric violin, electric cello and even the bass, he’d be an asset to any group of musicians, if only the bands who’d hired him over the years had truly thought that way. Instead, he’s singing for the dishes in an upscale restaurant, bitter, pissed off and unwilling to entertain the offer to replace the front man of the world-famous Deviant Angels. After all, why the hell would they be any different than the guys who’d kicked him to the curb in the past?
Only…they’re not the Deviant Angels. Their longtime front man took the name with him when he left, along with their hopes of getting back on the road again and playing the music they love. Of course, a talented musician like Dez could change all that for them, if they can convince him that this time, his dreams of rock stardom, and love, can actually come true.
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“Okay, I know it’s almost Halloween and all, and I’ve got to admit, the Ripley’s Believe it or not Museum was hella fun, but this…is sick…and whichever of you thought it would be a good idea to come here…”
“Holy shit, Rals come check this out!”
Zakk’s bellow left Riley pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing for the hundredth time he would drop the stupid nickname before Dez started calling him that too and it would never go away.
“How can you stand to look at this stuff knowing it was literally designed to rip people apart?” Riley muttered, even as his morbid curiosity got the best of him and he headed that way.
“Technically, this isn’t designed to do any ripping, more like roasting, I mean damn. You wanna talk sick, that would be the mind that came up with this thing. Could you image being led out of prison to see this big ass iron bull standing over a firepit full of wood. I’d confess to any damn thing they wanted me to at that point.”
“And still end up roasted to death,” Riley grumbled. “That’s a hell of a way to go.”
“You would be correct. Confession by no means ended the torture, in some cases, it even slowed it down some while they endeavored to extract additional confessions,” Damien intoned, their brilliant drummer having crept up beside them, causing Riley to jump at the sound of his voice. “In fact, it was proven that on more than one occasion, people confessed to things that they had not done in the hopes of a swift and decisive death. Of course, there were those rare instances where torture extracts nothing, like with Giles Corey of Salem, who reportedly requested more weight while they were pressing him with stones in an effort to elicit a confession of witchcraft out of him. He died silent despite two days beneath the rocks.”
Riley fixed Damien with a pointed glared. “It was your idea to come here, wasn’t it? You and your morbid fascination with the macabre!”
“Actually, it was my idea,” Zakk replied, the smirk on his face making Riley wish to draw and quarter him with his own guitar strings. Okay, so if the creators of these devices had friends like his, then it stood to reason such things had been dreamt into existence.
Tapping his foot, Riley glanced between his oldest friends. “And why did you think this would be a good idea?”
“After listening to Dez talk all about the things he and Koda had seen when they were out here, no way could I resist.” Zakk replied.
“I knew it…I knew it! Dez!”
“You bellowed?”
“I thought you said you had nothing to do with this little detour?” Riley grumbled, hands on his hips as he glared up at the band’s new singer.
“I didn’t. I simply shared a story with Zakk about this place after he told me about wanting to visit Villisca House. I told him that I’d been out there, and it was kind of creepy, but that this place with all it’s displays was creepier. Of course, that could have been ‘cause I didn’t have the time or cash to stay the night at Villisca, seeing as how I was on a bit of a time crunch.”
“Which isn’t the case this time, and since we’re rolling right past there…”
“Oh no…no no…don’t even think about it, Zakk!”
“Too late, we’re already booked.”
“I hate you so hard right now.”
“If you are truly afraid of what the experience might bring, then you are free to stay on the bus,” Damien commented, smoothing a hand over the buckled front of his gothic shirt. “Of course, you will be out there alone as James has elected to join us inside the house and is currently working on procuring an EVP meter.”
Smacking a hand to his forehead, Riley turned, and damn near fell into a roped off chair with a bunch of spikes sticking from every conceivable surface. Sighing heavily and hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and his band, he shuffled left, being careful not to skewer himself on something called the pear of anguish. He didn’t even want to know what the hell that was so he sidestepped carefully, working his way towards the door, which brought him face to face with a rusty metal collar with a fork attached to it. From the photos on the wall above it, it was latched around an individual’s neck, the fork prongs pressed to the underside of their chin while the prongs on the other end dug into the base of their throat. A heretic’s fork. Joy.
“Cool huh. Don’t fall asleep. Talk about a precursor to Freddy Kruger. Too bad we can’t shoot a video in there. Would be kinda wicked don’t you think?” Zakk replied, practically bouncing like a kid in a candy store the sick fuck.
“What I think is that your version of wicked and mind is extremely far apart. I’ll be out on the bus when you guys get through.”
“Suit yourself, but if you ask me, you’re missing out on a wonderful opportunity to learn about Medieval History.”
“Yeah, I’m good, thanks, plague, poverty and witch trials pretty much covers all anyone needs to know about that particular period in time.”
“Don’t forget war, the crusades and the Spanish inquisition. Oh and the Magna Carta, Divine Comedy and Consolation of Philosophy were all written back then.”
“What the hell is the Consolation of Philosophy?”
“Seriously? It’s the shit about why band things happen to good people. Kinda like you and that wasps nest incident.”
“Did I mention how hard I hate you right now.”
“Yeah, you did, and honestly, Rals, it’s gettin’ kinda repetitive. I think you need another phrase.”
“Actually, I think I need a drink, a big one. I’ll be at the bar across the street, drowning a hurricane.”
“Okay, but, uh, you know what the theme is over there, right?”
“No…what?”
“Serial Killers. All the drinks are named after them and their crimes, so A Jack the Ripper Ripple, and…”
“Never mind, just, no, nope, I quit, I’m done. Fuck it, I’m goin’ to the bus to drink some Sprite and plot your demise.”
As he plunged through the doors into the rainy Wisconsin afternoon, all Riley could hear from behind him was the laughter of his bandmates and the creepy ass curator who’d gleefully accepted their nine-ninety-nine at the door.
Bio:
LAYLA DORINE lives among the sprawling prairies of Midwestern America, in a house with more cats than people. She loves hiking, fishing, swimming, martial arts, camping out, photography, cooking, and dabbling with several artistic mediums. In addition, she loves to travel and visit museums, historic, and haunted places.
Layla got hooked on writing as a child and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.
Layla got hooked on writing as a child and she hasn’t stopped writing since. Hard times, troubled times, the lives of her characters are never easy, but then what life is? The story is in the struggle, the journey, the triumphs and the falls. She writes about artists, musicians, loners, drifters, dreamers, hippies, bikers, truckers, hunters and all the other folks that she’s met and fallen in love with over the years. Sometimes she writes urban romance and sometimes its aliens crash landing near a roadside bar. When she isn’t writing, or wandering somewhere outdoors, she can often be found curled up with a good book and a kitty on her lap.
Layla Dorine can be found at:
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Author Website: layladorine13.wix.com/layladorineauthor
Author on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9814124.Layla_Dorine
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