Black Hearts (Saints & Sinners #1) Read Online Tori Fox

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Saints & Sinners Series by Tori Fox

Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)

I’ve been in love with Charlie Fortier since we were seven years old and she punched me in the face for pulling on her pigtails.
She was the girl next door.
I was the punk ass kid who got in trouble.
She told me she loved me when she was seventeen. I broke her heart instead.
Then I left. And my band became one of the biggest in the world.
She was always around. On the sidelines. Being my friend.
And I’ve spent the last twelve years in love with her. She just doesn’t know.
But I can’t tell her. Because I can’t be with her.
I made too many deals to keep her safe.
I owe too many debts for those same reasons.
Now I’m back home. And she is everywhere. Staying away is too hard. But the truth is harder.
I have scars on my black heart and they all belong to her.




“Take it again from the top.”

I nod at my producer, adjust the headphones on my head, and start singing into the microphone. I try to find my voice, my heart, some kind of passion to put into the words flowing out of me, but I know they suck. I’ve been struggling for months to try and write music that our fans will love. Like our last three albums. All platinum records. All with chart-topping hits. Hell, we won a Grammy.

Us, Saints & Sinners, some shitty rock band that started in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. And now we are selling out arenas across the world. I never thought I would get here. None of us did. We figured we would just be playing shitty dive bars for as long as we could support doing that. Playing with secondhand instruments and stolen amps. And now we have shit custom made for us. The kids from the wrong side of the tracks are living in mansions and flying on private jets. A life you only dream about that somehow became reality.

But now I stand in front of a microphone at one of the best studios in LA and the words coming out of my mouth are weak. Fake. I feel like a sellout. Some would say we are. After the success we had. But I never felt it. We worked our asses off to get here. And up until now, I’ve believed one hundred percent in the words I sing, in the music we play.

But these songs are shit.

I know it. The band knows it. The producer knows it.

We can’t give this to the label.

And I know if Riot hears this, all hell will break loose.

The playback cuts out in our ears and I look up at the booth to see a scowling Riot standing with her arms folded across her chest.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is this crap?” she shouts so loud I can actually hear her through the booth. And Rico, our producer, has his ears covered as he slowly rolls away from her.

She leans over the soundboard and hits the button to speak into my headphones. “Jax, I really have no idea what the hell that was, but I am hoping it’s some practical joke because y’all knew I was stopping by today.”

Fuck. I had no clue she was stopping by today. And this is exactly what I didn’t want to have happen.

She snaps her fingers. “Meeting now!”

I glance over at Rico, who is trying to keep a laugh in but gives me a sympathetic look.

“Fuck!” I scream as I toss the headphones aside and open the door to the recording room and slam it behind me.

Riot is already out of sight, no doubt rounding up the rest of the guys, with hellfire in her eyes.

I love the woman. She is half the reason we are where we are and have had the success we’ve had. But she is ruthless. She doesn’t take no for an answer. And when she is on one, you do not want to be on the receiving end.

Riot Arceneaux is a force to be reckoned with. One of the top producing managers for rock music in the country. And she is permanently a part of this band.

I head into the lounge and see my bandmates already in there. Roan, our lead guitarist, looks bored. Knox, our drummer, is tapping his fingers along the armrest of the worn-in black leather couch. Wilder, guitar and backup vocalist, is pacing behind the couch, no doubt anxious over what Riot has to say. And Silas, my closest friend in the band, my brother from another mother since we were eight, has a glassful of whiskey. He smirks at me as I walk in, then mouths, “You’re in big trouble” before gulping down half his drink.

I lean against the wall, folding my tattooed arms over my chest.

Riot storms into the lounge as she hangs up the phone. She may only be five feet tall, if that, but her voice and her command of the room can make the largest men cower.