THERE IS NOTHING more crushing than the ruin of a perfect moment.
They happen so rarely, those fleeting instants when the energy is sparking and the music is penetrating your heart. And how can the music not be right? I’m the one who’s creating it. I’m behind the microphone. It’s my voice that fills the rooms of Apocalypse, this little piece of heaven and hell tucked away in the corner of Los Angeles’s Sunset and Vine. The crowd is made up of actors and writers and musicians, each one a different vessel for their art, each one moving to my songs, my rhythms, my passions. I can hear Tonio’s guitar holding up the sound, increasing its intensity as my voice rises higher and louder. Brad is setting the pace with his bold and dexterous beating of the drums. Traci’s fingers on the keyboard add gentle melody when my vocals get rougher, stronger, when my song demands that everyone here feel my sexuality, my strength, the force of my will.
In less than thirty minutes the twenty-first century will begin, and no one knows what will happen. Some think that Y2K will propel Western society into chaos; others worry about terrorists and psychopaths; some say it’s the beginning of the end of the world.
And I don’t care about any of that. I just don’t. I care about the moment. I care that I now have streaks of pink woven into my dark blond hair and the words Carpe Diem tattooed on the back of my shoulder. I care that the bodies on the dance floor are swaying and shaking, their excitement and approval brilliantly clear in this dimly lit space. I care about the walls of the club that look like they’re made of stone and the graceful curvature of the ceiling, arched like a Byzantine cathedral. I can feel the eyes of some of these men on me. That gorgeous black man in the corner, the fair-haired muscle boy dancing so close to the stage, the older gentleman at the bar—they all want me. Because right now I have the dynamism, the control. I have the vitality that everyone wants to touch and share.
It is the perfect moment . . . until I spot him standing near the corner of the room. He’s almost entirely in the shadows, his features barely visible, but still, I recognize him. There’s something about the way that man holds himself. Right now he’s leaning against a beam, his arms crossed over his chest, chin up. Like with a lion, it’s difficult to tell if he’s on the verge of sleeping or attacking. The first time I saw him—when was that, a year ago? No, over thirteen months since we met—I couldn’t stop staring. I loved his high, chiseled cheekbones and his lightly tanned skin that hinted at a possible Native American heritage, or maybe Latino. But then his bright green eyes insisted that the story wasn’t so straightforward. Oh, and I loved his tribal tattoos and the way his full lips curved into a slow, sensual smile when he saw me for the first time at that club in Seattle. An aspiring musician is how he described himself, but that night, when he sang to me, I could see that his talent was a lot more than aspirational.
His first name is Ash—maybe it’s short for Asher or Ashley, I don’t know, and at the time I didn’t care. I just recall thinking that a man with a name like that had to have a story to tell, one that involved passion and adventure and yeah, okay, maybe a little destruction. We had talked for hours and I had felt like I understood him in a way that I had never understood anyone else. And then, later, I realized I didn’t know a thing about"Davis creates a fabulous tale of rejection, indulgence and redemption. The heroine goes on a journey to find out who she is and if she likes the person she has become. What follows are the intriguing people that she meets and invites in to her life. Readers will be turning the pages wondering what will happen to Mercy next. A great book about a character on a journey of self-discovery."