Black Lilith: Book One (Black Lilith #1) Read Online Free

room, all long limbs, and gawkish enthusiasm. He drapes himself on the singer’s shoulders and messes up his hair. “That show was awesome, we totally slayed it… Oh, hi!” he says, finally noticing Mikayla. “Didn’t realize we had company.”
    “I’m not a groupie.”
    “Yeah, me neither,” the guitarist replies. He pushes himself off of the singer and holds out a hand to shake hers. “I’m Dash… awesome lead guitar. You must be Mikayla? Slate told us about you.”
    Mikayla shook his hand, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the singer is frowning in confusion.
    “Slate didn’t tell us about her,” he says.
    Dash gives him a look. “He did. Just now. You know… at the end of the set when you ran off muttering about checking on something?”
    The door bangs open again, and Slate enters the room with two scantily-clad women draped on his hips. The bass player follows, still holding his instrument and giving Slate a look of wry amusement. When Slate notices Mikayla, he holds up his hands in triumph.
    “Mikayla!” he shouts. He drops the two girls and rushes over to pull her into a sweaty hug. Despite the circumstances, she can’t help but smile and return it. His enthusiasm infects her as easily as it had that morning when he’d offered her the job. “You’re here! What did you think? Have you met everyone?”
    “ What is going on here?” the singer asks. Mikayla pulls herself out of Slate’s arms to find him standing at the edge of the group with his hands on his hips, looking deeply annoyed.
    Deciding to put him out of his misery, she steps forward and thrusts out her hand for him to shake.
    “I’m Mikayla Strong,” she says. “I’m your new personal assistant.”

Chapter Three
     

     
    The singer’s eyes go wide, and he doesn’t take her hand. Now that she thinks that she has an excuse to look at his arms, she takes a moment to examine what she could see of his tattoos. In the stage lights they had looked dark and mysterious, but up close she could see that they were actually a vibrant blue—swirling over his skin in blue and gray, like a Van Gogh painting. In among the blue and gray are vinyl records with bright labels, a vintage microphone, and some headphones at the crook of his elbow. It’s a beautiful design. Mikayla had never considered getting a tattoo before, but seeing gorgeous work like that always made her pause.
    There’s an awkward delay as her hand hangs in the air, unshaken before Dash starts to snort beside her.
    “You hit on her, didn’t you?” he asks. The singer’s cheeks go red, and he sputters indignantly, prompting Dash to laugh out loud. “Unbelievable.”
    Slate shakes his head in mock disappointment. He takes one of the magazines from the table, rolls it up, and waves it threateningly at the singer. “No! Bad Logan! No hitting on the PA!”
    The singer—Logan, Mikayla’s brain supplies—holds his hands up in surrender. Then he turns to the bass player. “Tommy… I’m sorry, man—”
    “It’s fine,” the bass player replied. His voice was quiet and easy; the sort of voice that she would have liked to have read her to sleep. He’s got a half-smile/half-grimace look on his face. “You didn’t know.”
    “Why are you apologizing to him ?” Mikayla asks.
    Slate ducks his head to speak into her ear. “ Shakespearian drama .”
    “Your girlfriends look bored,” she whispers back.
    The girls don’t look bored, really. But they were clearly thinking that this evening would be going in a different direction by now. They’re lounging on the couch together watching the band with mild interest. One of them reaches over and takes a piece of cold fried chicken from the bucket.
    “So… hey!” Slate says, suddenly realizing something. “You said you’re the personal assistant. So you’re taking the job?”
    Mikayla’s eyes flicker to Logan, who’s avoiding her gaze. He’s crossed his arms over his chest and seems to be chewing on his