Blast Out

By Nia Arthurs

A broken beast with a dark secret and the beautiful bass player who can heal him...

Tall. Gorgeous. Silent. Will Young hates the spotlight despite being in the middle of it.
To his legions of music fans, Will's got it all but, below the surface, he battles his past alone. 
Until he meets her. 
Morgan Frasier sees the brokenness in Will’s eyes and she’s stubborn enough to draw the secret from him. 
While she keeps the melody flowing as the new bass player in Dust and Ashes, she helps Will put the pieces of his soul back together again.   

Can the beautiful bass guitarist thaw the ice around his stone-cold heart? Or will the truth behind his darkness scare her away? 

*Please Note* This book contains themes that may be triggering to some. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nia Arthurs
• Release date: Mar 1, 2022

Book preview

prologue

When Will Young closes his eyes and lies down to sleep, he doesn’t see darkness. He doesn’t find relief. He does not feel peace.

When Will Young closes his eyes at night, he dreams. The dreams plague him, suffocate him and render him impotent.

And when morning comes, Will faces life with the battle-hardened sternness of a man with too many demons.

He’s learned to hide his scars because the world wants nothing to do with his fear, with his sorrow, with his pain.

The world knows him as Big Will, the giant keyboard player for the internationally acclaimed reggae band, Dust and Ashes.

The handsome band member with the grim features and the muscled physique. They see what they want to and that suits Will just

fine.

Dust and Ashes’ success never caught Will by surprise. The way he, Jace, and Trey lived for music, it was just a matter of time before the world took notice.

Will only marveled that the color of their skin kept hampering their progress. It was different for all of them.

Jace Kelly loved music because it shaped his identity, it answered every existential question that he had.

Who am I?

What am I here for?

Music replied and brought clarity every time.

Trey Johnson used music as a means of expression. Anger, sadness, fear, they were fueled through his thick arms and into wooden sticks.

And with every pound, anger slipped away, sadness bowed to peace, and fear made way for courage. Trey banished every feeling, every thought beneath the expert striking.

Boom, boom, tap.

Yet, both his friends existed outside of music. It was a right, not a privilege for them to play. They approached with no reverence, and very little gratitude.

This was by no fault of their own. They had not been through hell. They had not been brought back to life by a melody.

Music, to Will, was his way of putting one foot in front of the other every day.

It was his only link to survival, to life. When he placed his hands on ivory keys, breathing in the scent of potential, the essence of songs yet unwritten, he came alive.

Will loved every instrument and had learned long ago to surrender to the strings, the brass, and the drums. Yet, the keyboard held a special power over him.

The sea of white was always interrupted by the black keys. White. Black. Innocence. Evil. They created chaos in Will’s soul, but on the keyboard, he was a god.

Control sat beneath his fingertips. Destiny responded to the gentlest pressure. Fate moaned beautiful things when he played a chord.

Every time Will touched an instrument, a little piece of his soul was healed; a fractured mirror of his heart was sewn back to the cracked surface.

He became whole for a few moments and the feeling remained long after withdrawing his hand from the keys.

It was Will and music. And then he found a Kingdom that promised peace and it became: The King, Will and music.

He had nothing else to offer. No space in his head for distractions.

The King, Will, and music.

His heart could not handle any more.

chapter

one

WILL

---

Before us is a sea of pumping fists and swaying bodies. I stand behind the keyboard, bouncing up and down to the steady beat that Trey is striking on his drums.

Jace is at the front, going crazy on the guitar and the audience is shouting out in approval and excitement.

Jace tilts his head, listening for the count, and then grabs the microphone, allowing the bright red electric guitar to slap his chest.

"This is who I am inside.

I’m not gonna hide.

The greatest risk by far

Is standing in the light Be who you are…"

Jace’s deep-throated voice is slicing through the room and taking everyone in it to higher heights.

I keep time with the bass melody as Trey pulls back on the hi-hats and thumps the bass drum along with my rhythm. Jace pauses and then barks. "Be who you are." He flings his hand down and that’s our cue.

I stretch my hands over the keys and play both the bass line and the piano melody, quickly pressing a button so that the sound changes to the trumpet track that we’ve been practicing.

The crowd loves it. An object is flung onto the brightly lit stage and I glance at it casually before a smirk climbs my face.

It’s a bra.

Before making it big time, I’d thought thrown articles of clothing were reserved for the wilder genres such as rock or hip-hop.

This undergarment is far from the first that’s been tossed at our heads.

It’s a running joke in the band to guess who the ladies are aiming for when they toss their unmentionables.

Obviously, this one was intended for me. I shake my head and focus on the bass line.

Jace repeats the chorus and then the music fades. This is the last song that we’d arranged for the Jamaican Sumfest and we’ve already done an encore.

Francis, our manager, is standing in the wings with a frown on his face.

He rarely smiles, even when we’re closing deals, like the one we recently signed with Reggaepedia, an American grassroots reggae agency.

Encore! Encore!

I glance behind me at Trey, almost hidden from sight by a huge drum kit on a heightened box. His dark brown eyes are alight with adrenaline even as sweat pours down his face.

Jamaica’s climate is very similar to our Belizean temps back home and the humidity is like a living, breathing thing.

Trey’s outfit probably isn’t helping matters. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket and dark skinny jeans.

Since our last trip to London, Trey has calmed down quite a bit in his ladies-man ways. That has a little something to do with Charlie

Villanueva, his girlfriend.

I’ve never seen my friend so committed.

Despite his changed attitude, Trey still has the moves of a player and the look to go with it.

He’s encouraging the crowd with a funky drum beat and I’m following his lead, experimenting with the different sounds on my

Yamaha.

Encore! Encore!

The organizer of the event is standing helplessly on the steps, watching us and then the crowd.

Jace is grinning from ear to ear. Though his hands are gripping the neck of the mike stand, he’s not making a move.

We’re all waiting for the organizer to either shut us down or wave us on. The tiny man in the white shirt and white pants, reminding me of a pubescent Backstreet Boy, seems unsure and a little frightened.

The thunderous request of the crowd is only growing more frenzied the longer the hesitant man remains on the step.

Jace decides for him.

Alright, guys. We’ve got to head out! He holds his hand out as the crowd boos. Ya’ll were a great crowd. We love you, Jamaica! Realizing that their protests won’t lengthen the concert, the throng quickly changes their tune and applauds us off the stage.

The little manager, clearly relieved, runs up and introduces us once more. I step from behind my keyboard and wave at the hundreds of faces as I walk off stage.

Francis offers us water, shoving the cold bottles in our faces. If Izzy, Jace’s wife, were here, we’d get our water bottles with a little more encouragement and a friendlier demeanor.

Francis practically tosses the cold bottles at us and then tells Trey not to get plastered.

He’s a sweetheart that guy.

Thanks, Francis. Trey nods at our manager.

While Francis seems to tolerate Jace and me, Trey has a special talent for getting on the strict, Asian man’s nerves.

It’s a game that Trey likes to play and one Francis will never win.

Francis shakes his head and grumbles about being too old for this. The guy’s barely thirty-seven and compared to the other groups he’s managed, I’d say we’re a pretty okay bunch.

Francis leads us to the VIP trailer where we sit down and cool off. The trailer has air-conditioning which we blessedly enjoy as we strip down to our undershirts.

Dude, that was epic! Jace pumps his fist in the air. His blonde hair is spiky in the front and low in the back. Izzy picked it out. Jace hates it, but he won’t ever tell his wife.

I know right. Trey bounces up and down on the sofa, twirling his drumsticks between his fingers. They couldn’t get enough.

My two friends are a lot more talkative than I am. I usually don’t have much to say after a concert. While Trey and Jace reach a musical high that leaves them full of energy, I’m spent.

But in a good way.

They know better than to expect any comments from me.

I sip my water bottle and close my eyes, trying to capture the peace that I’m feeling right now. I wish I could bottle it up with me and carry it into my dreams.

Jace and Trey are chatting excitedly when Francis cracks open the door.

You decent? It’s a tradition. We’re always decent, but Francis asks anyway.

Yeah, Jace says before Trey can yell something stupid.

Francis pushes our trailer open and sinks into the arm chair across from Jace. I can tell by his face that what he’s come to discuss is business.

He usually leaves us to decompress after a concert like this one. The Jamaican Sumfest was a huge gig and it was an honor to be the main act.

So… Francis says, slapping his hands together. I watch the movement with unease. Though Francis isn’t broad, he’s tall and solid.

His slanted eyes regard us coolly, but he licks his lips, betraying his nerves.

Something’s up.

I’ve given thought to your idea of adding another player to the band. A bass player. We all lean forward.

A few months ago, I’d expressed interest in hiring a bass guitarist to free me up on the keys.

There’s so much more that I can do, but I’m limited by the necessity of the bass line which is the heartbeat of reggae music.

When we were cruising around playing dives in Belize City, I made it work. But now that we have the resources, I’ve been pushing for a fourth member of Dust and Ashes.

Francis has been dragging his feet. According to our manager, adding a fourth guy would make us too much like a boy band when we’re making a name for ourselves as an edgy reggae group.

Francis doesn’t like to rock the boat and changing things up now, when we’ve got so much headway, is like flipping the boat on its head.

You found someone? Trey twirls his sticks.

Yes. Francis glances at me. Yes, I found someone.

Well, that’s great. Trey slaps me on the back. The guys know how badly I want to broaden my skills on the keyboard. I don’t ask for much, but when I do, they scramble to get it done.

Who is it? The inquiry was on my tongue, but I’m glad that Jace said it first.

Francis clears his throat and loosens the tie at his neck. No matter where we are, Francis always dresses like a business man. I’ve never seen him in anything more casual than a button-down shirt and pressed slacks.

I followed your stipulations to a T, Francis says. You asked for a Belizean. Someone who understands your… Kingdom culture… Most people don’t understand and I don’t blame Francis. Until Jace had sat down and explained it to me, I hadn’t understood either.

It’s not that complicated to comprehend. Trey, Jace and I have signed up for another culture, language, and thought-pattern in exchange for access to a Kingdom with a government far more fair than any on earth. And uh, preferably single. I found one. Spit it out, Trey says. Her name’s Morgan Frasier. I swallow.

Her? Trey says, sticking a hand into his ear as if he’s heard incorrectly. I keep my face expressionless, but beneath the façade, my heart is beating. Hard.

Look, Francis puts up a hand, before you reject this, hear me out. She’s a Youtube star. She put up a few videos on her channel and she’s got a heck of a decent following. She’s good and she’s got enough eyes on her to be an asset to this group.

Dude, Jace says. No deal. Tossing a female in the mix is a bad idea. We’ve got wives, girlfriends. That’s a whole lot of drama for the sake of some kid that can play bass.

I know, Francis says. I’ve thought of all those things. I don’t show it often, but you’re one of the best bands I’ve ever worked with. I respect your dedication and your morals. He narrows his eyes at Trey. "Some of your morals."

Dude!

Before you strike her out because she’s a woman, listen to her sound. Check out her videos. She’ll only be an asset. No deal, Trey says.

The guys are all sticking up for me.

Beyond the fact that this girl could potentially cause problems with their partners, I have some… issues with being around the opposite sex.

The tabloids have been wondering about my sexuality for years.

The reggae world is dominated by black people, and many Caribbean men are averse to variant sexual orientations.

This is fodder for the tabloids who know that by plastering questions about my sexuality on their magazines, they’re guaranteeing big bucks.

I’m not gay.

I’m not shy as one blogger once labeled me.

I just prefer not to be around women. They make me very uncomfortable.

Though Izzy was a strange exception, it took me a while to warm up to Charlie, Trey’s girlfriend.

Of course, both women soon won the war between my discomfort and my desire to hang with my friends.

I’m glad to say that I approach both Izzy and Charlie at the same comfort level that I’d approach the guys.

Still, I make it a rule to avoid women as much as I can, given that I’m a part of an award winning group and women are daily trying to get our attention.

Jace glances at me and lifts his chin. This is my call and the guys will stick with me no matter what I choose.

She’s as good as you say? I ask.

Yeah. Our manager offers his phone and clicks on a few things. A beep sounds as his phone connects with the portable speakers.

The fuzz of wind rushing by a microphone fills the room and then a bass string thumps. I close my eyes and listen.

The player plucks another string and then, with little warning, breaks into a unique arrangement of Michael Jackson’s I " Want You

Back".

The notes rumble over each other as she thumps a unique riff that would take me hours to get right on the keyboard.

I open my eyes. Everyone is bobbing their head, their lips set into thin lines as they listen.

This musician is eerily good at what she does.

The track ends and Francis gauges our expression. What do you think?

She’s good.

She’s amazing! Trey yells. He holds up his hands in a show of surrender. If Charlie’s okay with her being here, I can deal.

Jace nods. I can talk to Izzy. Since she’s on a break from school maybe she’d consider coming along on our tour. You know? Like a chaperone. But that’s if… we take her on.

Is she interested?

I didn’t want to contact her until I got your okay.

I purse my lips in thought. Jace sits up and shrugs his shoulders, his blue eyes trained on me.

It’s all you, man. We won’t step an inch without you.

Trey bumps me with his fist. "Same here. We can find another bass