The Girl with Stars in Her Eyes: A story of love, loss, and rock-and-roll

Book 1: The Lillys

by Xio Axelrod

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Romance; second chance; childhood friends to lovers; rock romance

Synopsis

* MOST ANTICIPATED: Buzzfeed, Goodreads, Country Living, Bookish, Frolic, and more! *

A Star is Born meets Daisy Jones and the Six by way of Colleen Hoover in this unique story following an all-female band on the brink of breaking out. This diverse cast of characters play hard and love harder...no matter the ultimate price.

"Sharp, propulsive, and sexy. Once I started, I couldn't put it down. Antonia and Seb are imprinted in my book-loving heart. I genuinely, truly, relished this book."—CHRISTINA LAUREN, NYT and #1 International Bestselling Author

Growing up in dive bars up and down the East Coast, Toni Bennette's guitar was her only companion...until she met Sebastian Quick. Seb was a little older, a lot wiser, and before long he was Toni's way out, promising they'd escape their stifling small town together. Then Seb turned eighteen and split without looking back.

Now, Toni's all grown up and making a name for herself in Philadelphia's indie scene. When a friend suggests she try out for a hot new up-and-coming band, Toni decides to take a chance. Strong, feminist, and fierce as fire, Toni B. and the Lillys are the perfect match...except Seb's now moonlighting as their manager. Whatever. Toni can handle it. No problem. Or it wouldn't be if Seb didn't still hold a piece of her heart...not to mention the key to her future.

"Fans of Daisy Jones & the Six will enjoy this rich, romantic novel."—Booklist

 

Read more

Release date: May 4, 2021

Publisher: Sourcebooks Casablanca

Print pages: 466

Sample

It isn’t where you came from,

it’s where you’re going that counts.

—Ella Fitzgerald

 

Prologue.

Antonia: 12 years old

Antonia Bennette woke from her after-school nap to the sound of a guitar. It was coming from somewhere inside the small dressing room in the back of Ginny’s Jazz House where her mother was gigging tonight. She listened for a while, searching for something familiar amid the improvised notes, giddy with anticipation.

The tenor of Mary Bennette’s prized old Gibson was unmistakable. Softer than the Fender or even her other, newer Gibson. Antonia loved the way its tone could change note to note—from the sound of water dripping from the roof when it rained to the crunch of loose pavement under her shoes. And the way her mother could make it sing, make it harmonize along with her own voice, gave Antonia goose bumps. Audiences loved Mary Bennette too. They packed small clubs in Chester, Baltimore, and even Philadelphia to hear her. Antonia’s mother was a star.

After another few bars, Antonia was able to pick out the melody to Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.” Her mom had remembered and must have something special in store for her. Maybe she’d even let Antonia stay for the show and not send her off to stay with one of her play-aunts across town.

Slipping off the tiny cot in the corner, Antonia padded around the wardrobe and into the main area.

Mary Bennette sat on the edge of the old, striped sofa against the wall. Wrapped in her dressing gown, and her hair in rollers, she had the cherry-red guitar propped on her right knee, her left foot tapping along.

Antonia watched her mom vamp on the melody for a while longer before finishing it off with a flourish. Then she looked up at Antonia, her dark eyes flashing. “I wondered if you was gonna sleep the whole night,” she said with a smirk. “Happy birthday, Sweet Potato.”

“Thanks, Mommy!” Antonia walked over to sit on the footstool by her mother’s side. She was only allowed to call her Mommy when they were alone. In public, she was Mary. Her mother said it was better for her image, as people sometimes thought they were sisters rather than mother and daughter.

Mary pursed her lips and brushed the hair back from Antonia’s forehead. “You’re practically grown. Almost as big as me.”

Antonia beamed as Mary started playing a different song, one she recognized from her nightly performances.

If you don’t like my ocean, don’t fish in my sea.

Stay out of my valley, let my mountain be.

Her mother’s voice was sweet and smoky, and Antonia loved when she sang, especially when it was just for her.

She eyed Antonia. “Go get the Fender.”

Antonia jumped up and went to the corner to grab the newer instrument. It was styled like the guitars from the 1940s that her mother had once shown her in photos. The body was solid wood and its body wasn’t as rounded as the Gibson, but Antonia liked its buttery finish. She was usually afraid to even breathe too close to Mary’s guitars, and only touched them when her mother told her to.

“Go on, pick it up,” Mary commanded, and Antonia obeyed. “Bring it here. Careful, now.”

Antonia gingerly carried the Fender over to her mother and sat on the stool when Mary pointed at it.

“Wanna learn this tune?”

“Yes!” Antonia answered breathlessly. “Please.” She placed the guitar in her lap and her mother handed her a pick, the lamplight glinting off her polished crimson nails.

“Starts in F7,” Mary said. Antonia could feel her mother’s eyes on her as she positioned her fingers on the fret board. “Good, now B-flat, back to 1, then 2. Repeat that. Now go to E-flat-7.”

Antonia followed her mother’s instructions, picking up the 4/4 rhythm of the song easily. She’d heard standard blues enough to understand what was expected.

“Gimme that again with some feeling,” her mother instructed. “Now, where do you think it goes?”

Antonia thought as she played. “To the B?”

Mary’s dimples popped as her mouth curved into a grin. “Diminished B, you’re right. You sure have a good ear.”

Antonia looked up at her mother. “Like you?”

Mary huffed out a laugh. “Someday, maybe. Those big hands were meant to hold a guitar, though. That’s for certain.”

At school, Antonia had been teased for being so tall and so developed for her age. Her hands were especially noticeable, with long, spindly fingers that looked more alien than human to her. She’d hated them until the first moment she’d picked up a guitar.

“Okay, girlie, I laid out a new dress for you. Clean up and put it on. I’m on in an hour, and I need to work the room,” Mary said, setting the Gibson aside.

“A dress?” Antonia dutifully wiped down the Fender with a cloth and put it away. “Aren’t I going to Aunt Dot’s or Aunt Jean’s?”

“You’re staying with me tonight,” her mother replied as she sat in the dressing room chair. She spun to the mirror and started removing the rollers from her hair. “Ginny said since it’s your birthday, you can stay for my set tonight.”

“Really?” Antonia ran toward her mother, wanting to hug her, but Mary held out a hand.

“Don’t muss me up!” Antonia froze, and Mary turned back to the mirror. “You sit on the side of the stage and you don’t move, you hear me?”

“Yes, I promise,” Antonia replied, eager. “Can I get a Shirley Temple?”

“Only from the waitress.”

“Aww, I want to order it at the bar,” Antonia complained as she slipped the dark-red cotton dress over her head.

When she emerged from the fabric, Mary caught her gaze in the mirror. “What part of ‘Sit on the stage and don’t move’ did you not understand? The last time I let you do that, the club almost got shut down for serving a minor. Thank goodness the cop on duty was a fan of mine and let Ginny off the hook, or I’d have lost a string of gigs at this place.” She shook her head. “Maybe I should get Dot to watch you.”

“I’ll stay put, I promise,” Antonia said, hands clasped.

Mary stood and dressed, her rich brown skin perfectly complemented by the deep plum of her own dress. With her figure, her thick mane of black hair, and her pearly white teeth, she was so pretty. Antonia wanted to grow up to be just like her.

“Why you standing there gawking?” Mary asked. “Grab the Fender and let’s go.”

When they left the dressing room, her mother led her down the short hallway. Straight ahead lay the door to the bar. To the side, another door led to the kitchen.

“Wait here,” Mary instructed before slipping into the main bar.

It was dark, and the hall smelled like week-old garbage. Antonia could’ve sworn she saw a rat or two scurrying around in the dim light. Wearing the thin cotton dress—basically a long T-shirt—she shivered, but not from the cold. After what seemed like forever, Mary returned. She pulled back a curtain, revealing a short set of steps that led to the stage.

“Get on up there, Sweet Potato.” Mary pointed, and Antonia picked her way across a tangle of cords and cables to the opposite wall.

It wasn’t a big space and close enough to the kitchen that the smell of grease and smoke nearly choked her. Antonia swallowed it down, not wanting to give Mary any reason to send her away.

Mary gestured toward a big black Marshall speaker. “Stay there and don’t move.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

She pointed a stern finger in Antonia’s face. “What’d I say?”

“Sorry, Mary.”

Her mother scowled but then smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll tell Corinne to bring you your Shirley Temple, but behave. This is a big night for me. There’s a man here from Atlantic City that saw my show and wants to talk.”

“I will, Mom…Mary.”

“Good girl.”

Antonia watched from the wings as Mary worked the room. She seemed to know everyone, and everyone knew her. It was like watching a queen hold court. Men, especially, seemed to be taken with her, and she paid a few of them a little extra attention.

Several waitresses wove in and out of the packed crowd, moving from table to table with trays full of drinks. One of them stopped and whispered something to Mary. Her eyes lit up and she nodded before glancing back at Antonia. Mary held up one finger and Antonia nodded.

“You Mary’s kid?”

A pale man with bulging eyes and yellowing teeth stood at the open stage entrance. He was dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him, but it was clean and looked expensive.

He stepped closer, and Antonia gripped the edges of the amp. She realized she hadn’t answered his question. “I’m… Yes, sir.” She blinked up at him and he narrowed his eyes, deep crinkles at their corners.

Was she supposed to tell people if they asked her directly? Should she have lied?

“Well, now,” the man drawled. “She didn’t tell me you was so pretty.” He crouched down and Antonia moved as far away from him as she could, which earned a chuckle. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I won’t bite ya.” He flashed a broken smile. “Unless you want me to. I’m Mr. Allen.”

Not knowing how to respond, Antonia looked out at the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mother, but she’d disappeared.

Mr. Allen circled behind her, way too close for comfort. “How old are you?”

“Today’s my birthday. I’m twelve.” Antonia didn’t turn around to answer him, her eyes glued to the room looking for any glimpse of her mother’s purple dress. She didn’t care if she was being rude; the man was practically breathing down her neck. Antonia could smell his cologne—and the scent, combined with the odors in the bar, was enough to make her want to gag.

“No way.” His voice rumbled like a freight train. “I was about to ask if I could buy you a drink.”

Antonia did turn to him then, shocked.

He laughed low in his throat, and suddenly she was terrified. She’d seen men look at her mother the way he was looking at her.

“Do I scare you, sweetness?”

“I–I should go find my mom.” Antonia scooted forward on the speaker.

“No need to be skittish,” he said, backing away with his hands up. “It’s all good.”

“Ray.” The sound of Mary’s voice brought a wave of relief so sharp that Antonia nearly lost her breath. “I was looking for you.”

Antonia got up and practically ran to her mother’s side.

Mary gave her a funny look.

“I was right here,” Mr. Allen—Ray—responded. “Introduced myself to your lovely little girl.”

Mary cut a sharp look at Antonia. “Antonia, Mr. Allen is—”

“I own a club in AC, just off the main drag,” he said, talking to Antonia. “But I also manage one of the casino lounges. I’m gonna make your mom a star.”

Antonia looked at her mother. “Are we going to Atlantic City?”

Ray laughed under his breath.

Mary glanced at him and then back at Antonia. “I’m going, but I can’t take you with me.”

For the second time that night, Antonia was breathless. “Wh-what?”

“Your mom is going to be very busy—” Ray began.

“Ray,” Mary cut him off. “Why don’t you go to my table? It’s the one just there.” She pointed at a table offstage and to the right. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.”

Ray eyed them both but nodded. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll take good care of your mommy.” His smile made Antonia’s skin crawl.

“What do you mean, you can’t take me with you?” Antonia asked as soon as Ray was gone. The members of Mary’s backing band for the night entered the stage and began to settle in for the show.

Mary grabbed Antonia by the arm and pulled her down the steps and into the hall, checking around them before she spoke again. “This is the big break I’ve been working toward. I can’t let any…distractions get in the way.”

“But…” Antonia’s breath hitched. This couldn’t be happening.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the PA. “Ginny’s is proud to welcome back to the stage the fabulous Mary Bennette!”

“Mommy—”

“We’ll talk later,” Mary snapped, her grip tightening. “If you can’t sit still and stop looking at me like I shot your dog, then go back to the dressing room and wait.”

The band started the first song, Mary’s cue to go on.

“Please don’t leave me,” Antonia pleaded.

Mary’s expression hardened. “Go. Wait. I won’t tell you again.”

She spun Antonia around and shoved her toward the dressing room before mounting the steps to the stage.

“Hey, Chester!” Antonia heard her mother say to the crowd, sunshine in her voice. “How it do, how it do?”

* * *

“Oh, stop your blubbering. You’ll be fine,” her mother had said as they arrived at the bus station in Center City Philadelphia. “Besides, it won’t be forever—you can even take my old Gibson with you.”

“You’re giving me your guitar?”

“Hold onto it for me, and I’ll send for you both as soon as I get established,” Mary had promised. “Imagine it, Sweet Potato! My name on a billboard over I-95. Ray’s gonna make that happen. We’ll be set!”

“What if Mo doesn’t want me there?” Antonia had asked.

She’d been about to board a Greyhound bus bound for Bordon, Pennsylvania, a town she’d never heard of, to stay with a man she’d never met.

Mary had seemed to think about it. “He probably doesn’t,” she’d said, handing Antonia her backpack. “But I’ve carried you all these years. It’s his turn.”

Her mother had kissed her cheek, told Antonia to be good, and walked away. Antonia had fought tears the whole trip, and they threatened to spill over when the driver said they’d reached Watertown, Pennsylvania—their final destination, and the closest bus stop to Bordon.

The transit station was small, dusty, and gray, but it was a welcome sight after being stuck on a bus for five hours. Antonia retrieved her mother’s guitar and her small suitcase, and looked for a taxi stand. Few others had gotten off at this stop, so it was easy enough to get a cab.

“You visiting family?” The driver was chatty and had offered continuous narration as they made the trip from downtown Watertown to its outskirts.

Antonia didn’t know how someone she’d never laid eyes on could be “family”. Mary Bennette was all she’d ever known. From everything Antonia’s mother had told her about Mo, she’d been lucky not to grow up around him.

Didn’t stop her from shipping me off to live with him, though.

What would happen to her if Mo turned her away? A heavy weight settled on Antonia’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Kid?”

“Yeah?” Antonia answered.

She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. He seemed friendly enough, but she hugged her backpack to her chest and went back to staring anxiously out the window. “I asked if you traveled all by yourself?” he said.

“Y-yeah.” Antonia touched the outside pocket of her bag, relieved when she felt the outline of the prepaid cell phone her mother had given her. For emergencies.

“Can you put the radio on?”

The driver turned the knob, and a twangy voice emerged from the speakers. “I’m bettin’ you don’t like country.”

Antonia shrugged. “I haven’t heard much, but probably not.”

“Well, I’m not listening to any rap,” the guy groused. He fumbled with the tuner until a familiar set of chords caught Antonia’s ear.

“Leave that on? I love this song.”

“Sure, kid.” He gave her a quick glance in the mirror. “You’re a little young to know about these guys, though, aren’t you?”

Antonia stuck out her chin. “I love classic rock. And I’m not a kid.”

The man chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

They passed a quarry and a stretch of farmland that softened the gray landscape, and Antonia thought maybe living there wouldn’t be so bad. After all, it was only for a little while.

But they kept driving. Past the large farmhouses and green spaces. Past the colorful barns and the roadside diner and the old-timey gas station.

They drove until the streets narrowed and became uneven. Great dips in the asphalt shook the chassis, and the driver—who said his name was Arnie—would take a breath and apologize before continuing his narrative on the significance of the insignificant scenery.

“This area’s where they have the farmers market.”

Arnie explained that it was one of the oldest outdoor markets in the state, but to her it looked like one big dump. Wooden pallets lay stacked along the rows, topped with what looked to Antonia like garbage. Matted straw and rotting food.

Not a place she’d want to visit.

Despite its fresh air and open spaces, Bordon had rows and rows of boarded-up buildings and empty, overgrown lots. It wasn’t home and would never be. Home was with her mom, one hundred and fifty-three miles south.

Once Mom gets everything worked out, she’ll send for me.

The thought comforted Antonia a bit. Life would return to normal, and this ugly, broken place would be nothing but another weird story to tell the kids at school. Why not? They already thought she was pretty weird anyway.

Arnie turned onto a street lined with buildings that had definitely seen better days. White vinyl siding covered most of the brick facades. On the corner sat a three-story building with a sign over the door that read MO’S TAVERN & BAR. The upstairs windows were dark.

Antonia had seen plenty of places like Mo’s before. And though it was a slight step up from the crab shack she and her mom had been living above for the last few months, she’d give anything to go back there.

“Here you are, young lady.” Arnie popped the trunk and got out to retrieve her stuff.

She hesitated, staring at the bar from the back seat of the taxi, unsure of what she’d find when she went inside. Memories of the night before flashed through her mind, and fear had her hand tightening on the door handle. Antonia considered telling Arnie to take her back to the bus station, but she didn’t have enough money for a ticket back to Chester. After everything that had happened, she wasn’t even sure if her mom had stayed there.

“Out you go,” Arnie said, opening her door. Her bags sat waiting on the sidewalk. “I’ve got time for another long-haul fare before I quit for the day.”

Antonia grabbed her backpack from the back seat and stepped gingerly onto the crumbling sidewalk. The air smelled different here. Metallic. She scrunched her nose.

“We’re close to the train tracks—that’s what you’re smelling,” Arnie provided. “Factories and trains. All that metal exposed to the moisture in the air means lots of rust.”

Antonia’s ears perked up. “We’re near the water?”

“Walk six blocks in that direction, past the abandoned train tracks, and you’d have to swim across Lake Tasker.” Arnie hooked his thumb toward a clump of trees in the near distance. “Not good for much more than dipping your toes in, though, unless you want to grow a third arm.”

He held out his hand and Antonia looked up at him, confused.

Arnie’s expression turned suspicious as he eyed the building. “You do have money, don’t you? Or do I gotta go inside?”

“Oh!” Antonia reached into her book bag and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills her mom had given her. “Is this enough?”

The cabby groaned, but took the crumpled bill. “Hardly, but I’ll cut you a break. You look like you could use one.” He shoved the cash into his pocket and rounded the car, slamming the door once he was inside.

Antonia watched the cab pull away, her stomach tightening more the further the taillights got in the distance. A cloud of dust had kicked up in the cab’s wake, and she had to shield her eyes. They stung and watered—because of the dust and not because she was crying. She was twelve, not two.

When the air cleared, Antonia wiped her eyes with the hem of her shirt and blinked. Wiped them again.

It didn’t matter; the tears kept falling.

Her mother had really shipped her off to some weird little town that looked like the set from a dusty old movie. She half expected a tumbleweed to come rolling down the street. For the first time in her life, Antonia felt truly alone. But she didn’t want to meet her father like this, wet and weepy and desperate.

Antonia rifled through her backpack for something to use on her dripping nose, relieved when she found a clean napkin. Balling it up, she shoved it back inside when she was done. She fished out her brush and tried to tackle her hair, determined not to go into the bar looking like an urchin.

“Hey.”

Antonia shot up straight. Across the street, a boy stood staring at her. He wore ripped jeans and a T-shirt that read Caspian’s Ghost in faded gold letters. With long, dark hair that fell into his eyes, he looked like a rock star, like he’d stepped right off the pages of Rolling Stone. He hadn’t been standing there the whole time. Had he?

“You okay?” he asked as he walked slowly across the street without even bothering to look for traffic.

“I’m fine,” Antonia replied, lifting her chin.

His gaze slid over her, sizing her up when he got closer. “Never seen you around her before.”

Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and there was a small white scar across his left eyebrow. But that’s not why Antonia smiled.

“Who are you, and what are you grinning at?”

“Antonia Bennette,” she answered, the tight feeling in her stomach loosening a bit as she stared at the guitar strap slung across his chest and caught a peek of the lacquered wood resting against his back. “And you?”

The boy stopped in front of her, his gaze landing on the guitar case at her feet. He cocked his head to the side and looked up at her from under thick lashes. The corners of his mouth lifted, one green eye squinting.

“Sebastian Quigley,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Antonia Bennette.”

“Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I like your shirt. They’re pretty awesome.”

He grabbed the hem and glanced down as if he’d forgotten which one he’d put on that morning. “What do you know about Caspian’s Ghost?”

“I know they should have won the Grammy for Best Rock Album this year.” This was good. This was something familiar Antonia could latch onto. She breathed a sigh of relief.

Sebastian’s eyes widened excitedly. “Right? They were robbed!”

“At least they picked up a bunch of new fans from their performance.”

“Man, they killed it.” Sebastian gave her an assessing look. “How old are you, kid?”

Why did everyone keep calling her that? “I’m not a kid, I just turned twelve.”

“Well, I’m thirteen and a half,” he said sagely. “Practically an adult.”

“Thirteen doesn’t mean you’re an adult, Sebastian,” she scoffed. “Just means you’re a teenager.”

“Whatever,” he said dismissively. “Anyway, call me Seb. Everyone does—well, except my dad. What do your friends call you?”

The question hit her like a slap, and her easy smile dissolved. Antonia didn’t have any friends. Her mother had moved them around too much.

“I’m just Antonia.”

“Okay, just Antonia,” Seb said with a teasing grin.

She rolled her eyes but found herself relaxing again despite everything. “What does your dad call you?”

Seb snorted. “Asshole.”

“Oh. Well, are you one?”

He tapped his chin, thinking. “What’s today?”

“Tuesday,” Antonia supplied, frowning a little.

“Lucky you,” Seb said, his eyes full of mischief. Reaching behind him, he pulled his guitar around—a weathered black Gibson acoustic. “I’m only an asshole on Mondays.” He began strumming softly, tuning as he played. He nodded toward the case at her feet. “You play?”

“Yeah,” she said. “A little.”

Seb strummed a few chords.

“You need to tune that D.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning the peg for that string. “Good ear.”

The sound of laughter split the air. Antonia glanced over her shoulder to find a man and woman walking out of the bar. She caught a glimpse of its dark interior before the door shut again.

“You going in there?” Seb asked, sounding skeptical. “You know that’s a bar, right?”

“My…uh…my dad owns it,” Antonia replied, turning back to him. “I’m moving in, I guess.”

His lips twisted into a grimace. “Bummer.” He looked up at the building and back at her. “You don’t gotta go in right away, do ya?”

It only took a second for Antonia to decide. “No, not right away.”

Seb’s grin made her insides go all funny. “C’mon,” he said, stowing his guitar and reaching for her suitcase. “I’ll show you where I hang out. We can jam.” At her hesitation, he paused, his brow furrowing. “Trust me?”

Antonia didn’t know why, but she did trust him. She shouldered her backpack and handed him the suitcase. “Sure, but I’ll carry my own guitar.”

 

Chapter 1.

A musty combination of caked-on blackout paint and well whiskey filled Toni’s nostrils.

The Electric Unicorn was little more than a double-wide rowhome in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia. The first floor had been transformed into a dive bar sometime during the 1960s. It wasn’t much different than the run-down places Toni had grown up around.

Cheap drinks, faceless musicians, and loyal locals haunted the poorly lit tables and booths. Somehow, the Unicorn had survived the rash of gentrification that had transformed the neighborhood from a pockmarked, blue-collar holdout into a thriving hipster wonderland, complete with organic biergartens and vegan pizzerias.

“Hey, Toni.”

She raised her head in time to see Axel Page step into the room. He was a regular on open mic night. Axel twirled the e-cigarette in his left hand and hoisted his backpack on his shoulder with the other.

“Not playing tonight?”

Axel shook his head. “Nah. Can’t. I’ve got an audition for this theater gig in Old City.”

“Theater?” Toni lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah, some sort of one-man show.”

“Sounds cool.”

Axel nodded. “I thought so. Listen,” he began, running long fingers through his shock of brown hair. “That asshole from last week is back.”

Toni cursed under her breath. “I thought he’d been banned.”

Axel grunted, his expressive blue eyes flashing. “You know Elton has a three-strike rule.”

“‘Unless they get physical,’” she quoted.

“Unless they get physical,” Axel echoed. “Ignore him. Okay?”

Toni nodded, already backing off from her decision to try out some new arrangements.

“Have a good night, Toni.”

“You too.” She offered him a thin smile, her brain working overtime.

Hecklers came with the territory, but Toni loved the Unicorn because they didn’t frequent the place. They weren’t encouraged here, as they were in other venues. The Electric Unicorn was a safe space.

Well, usually.

The multicolored lights were hot and bright in her eyes, but she smiled at the smattering of applause that greeted her introduction to the tiny stage.

Toni lifted her weathered Fender and looped her guitar strap over her head. It settled into its usual place on her shoulder. She shifted it with her thumb to stop her bra strap from digging into her skin and tried to stretch the tension out of her neck. She could feel every pair of eyes on her, ready to pass judgment. On her skills. Her appearance. Her everything. Ugh.

Taking a moment to collect herself, Toni stared over the heads of the patrons. She focused on the bar’s logo—a mural of an anthropomorphic unicorn rocking out on an electric guitar—and turned up the volume on the guitar enough to strum out a few chords and check her tuning. After a quick run to warm up her fingers, she was good to go.

“Freebird!”

A few patrons laughed, and Toni gave a small salute because it was such an original joke. Maybe he’d take it easy on her tonight.

“You gonna play some Tracy Chapman for us? Or…or how about some Beyoncé?” he called out. “Show us some moves, sister thang!”

Or not.

Toni squinted in the direction of the disruption and caught the exasperated glower of Elton Pepple, the Electric Unicorn’s owner-slash-manager. His scowl, and a very stabby finger, were aimed at a guy sitting at the bar.

The guy held up his hands, apparently pleading his case.

Elton looked at her and shook his head. She offered him a wan smile, once again questioning why she’d accepted his offer of a residency. Oh, right. The money. There weren’t many steady gigs in Philly with a guaranteed payday. Toni knew how lucky she was, but every time she stood under the lights, they burned a little.

“Now or never,” Toni muttered to herself as she stepped up to the microphone. “Uh, hey, Unicorn.”

On cue, a screech of feedback burst from the speakers. Toni jumped back, shielding her eyes as she squinted in the direction of the sound board tucked in the front corner of the bar.

Luca, the sound person, waved and gave her a thumbs-up.

Heckler dude’s laugh rang out. Great. Not that she needed to impress him, but it would be nice to shut him up.

Approaching with more caution, Toni stepped back to the mic and smiled. “Let’s try this again.”

A few people laughed with her, and Toni exhaled some of the apprehension that had coiled at the base of her spine. The idea of performing in front of a room full of strangers always filled her with dread. Toni loved to play, and she played often—in the studio, or sometimes for a few friends. But situations like this unnerved her because, once she was under the lights, it was too easy to get caught up in it. Too easy to accept the adoration, even to expect it. Too easy to let the audience get under your skin and tear you down when things didn’t go their way.

Toni took a deep breath. She was too much in her head tonight, and she didn’t want to let Elton down. She had this.

“What’s up, Electric Unicorn? My name is Toni B.”

“Tone-eeee!” A man yelled her name from the back of the room and lifted his glass to her. Ah, that would be Sticks, one of the Unicorn’s regulars.

This place wasn’t much, but it was hers.

Toni tried on another smile, which quivered at the edges. Ugh, stupid nerves. She nodded at Sticks and twisted the volume knob on her guitar up to seven with shaky fingers.

Strumming a fat F-sharp chord, Toni closed her eyes and let it ring out for several seconds before stepping on the pedal of her loop station.

A bass drum track she’d recorded earlier in the week thumped out a 4/4 beat, and Toni launched into the opening riff of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box,” a move that seemed to make Sticks sit up a bit straighter in his seat. Recording the guitar loop, she pressed the pedal again and layered another guitar part over it, something that never failed to draw the audience in.

Sure enough, when Toni let her gaze sweep over the Unicorn’s crowd, many—including the heckler—were leaning forward, their heads bobbing. She had their attention. Good.

Toni sang her version of the melancholic rock anthem, using the smoky quality of her voice to infuse it with a bit of soul and turning it into a pseudo torch song. By the time she finished, a few people had abandoned their seats altogether in favor of standing at the foot of the stage.

She fought against her need to put more distance between her and these strangers, completely fine with them loving the performance. After all, it’s what she’d come to give them. But so often, people wanted more. And more wasn’t something she was willing or able to give.

For the next forty-five minutes, Toni let the songs breathe for her. She let her guitar be her voice, let the music put her soul on display for a little while. And then, before she knew it, it was over.

After her set, Elton was all smiles. Applause and whistles filled the air, and Toni gave the small crowd a wave.

“Fuck me, little girl, you sure can play!” Elton grabbed Toni’s shoulders as soon as she stepped offstage. “I keep telling you this hole-in-the-wall is too tiny for a talent as big as yours.”

“Hey! Don’t bad-mouth the Unicorn.” Toni headed back up the steps toward the club’s only storage-slash-dressing room. “This is home, you know.”

Elton grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulders for another quick squeeze. “It warms the cockles of me heart to hear you say that, love. It really does.” His grip on her tightened with his enthusiasm, and Toni couldn’t hide the grimace this time.

Elton immediately loosened the embrace and let her go with an apologetic smile.

Toni was not a hugger.

Fortunately, Elton had picked up on that pretty quickly and had stuck to awkward back pats and shoulder squeezes since. More often than not, he refrained from touching Toni at all. She appreciated that about him, which was why she put up with his delusions about her grandeur.

“I keep telling ya, you’re too good for this place,” Elton said again as he wrapped up a stray cord and set it on top of a speaker. “Not that I’m complaining. I love having you here, but it’s only a matter of time before you realize you’re cut out for more.”

“I bet you say that to all your regular acts.”

Elton opened the door to the back room. “Only the pretty ones who can shred as well as you do, darling. I swear to God, if I wasn’t watching you with me own eyes, I’d think you were a bloke.”

Toni stopped and gave him a pointed look.

Backing into the room, Elton held up his hands in surrender. “Now, before you go and lecture me on girl power, I’m only saying. In the twenty-three years I’ve been in the pub biz, I’ve never heard a…” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Lady, especially one as young as you, rock as hard as you do. Except maybe that one who plays in the Lillys. Candi something or other? Now, there’s a real rock guitarist,” he gushed. “Usually, you girls only play—y’know—strummy bits.”

Toni smirked. “Strummy bits?”

“Quiet folk songs and the like. I can’t think of too many women that can wail.”

Her jaw dropped. “Uh, Sister Rosetta Tharpe?” Tony held up a hand and started ticking off her influences. “Barbara Lynn? Lady Bo?”

Elton frowned with obvious confusion. Of course, he had no idea who they were.

“Sister Rosetta practically invented rock and roll,” Toni informed him. Elton looked skeptical. “Okay, how about Joan Jett?”

“Ah, well, she’s an exception, isn’t she?”

Shaking her head, Toni dropped onto one of the ottomans. “YouTube is your friend, Elton.” She pulled a cloth from her back pocket and began to wipe down her guitar. “Anyway, I heard the Lillys aren’t real musicians. I bet it isn’t even Candi playing on their EP. They probably brought in a bunch of hired guns.”

“Hired guns don’t get multi-record deals with YMI Records, my dear,” Elton scoffed.

“If they look like that, they do,” Toni bit back before her brain caught up. “Wait, they signed with YMI?”

He walked over to the mini fridge, muttering something about Toni not keeping up with the industry, and grabbed two bottles of water. He tossed one to her, and she caught it with one hand.

“Rumor has it, they were discovered in a no-name place like this,” he said.

Toni wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and squared off to face him. “Yeah, well, I’m no Cinderella, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. No Prince Charmings in my future.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Elton said sagely.

“Not to people like me.”

“Talent is talent, even when you try to hide it under a bushel,” Elton countered.

Toni was over this conversation. She set the bottle aside and picked up her guitar strap to fold it. ...