Beat Down (UnBroken – The Series #3) Read Online KC Enders

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: UnBroken - The Series Series by KC Enders

Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76055 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)

This band is my life and there is nothing worth screwing that up—except maybe my best friend’s sister. I spent most of my teenage years with her front and center in my mind, and that isn’t changing anytime soon.

But a huge surprise dropped on my doorstep could ruin everything.
-Ian Scott, drummer for The UnBroken

My career is my life. I have been working toward this for as long as I can remember, practicing my skills on my little brother and his friends whenever I was forced to babysit them. Only one of the boys ever seemed eager to be my guinea pig, my best friend.

He’s the one that every other guy has paled in comparison to.
-Sasha Keller, head chef at Kitchenne

Too bad these recent twists and turns in life will leave me feeling more than a little Beat Down.





Throngs of people push their way past, diverting around me like fast-moving water around… a… thing in a river. Or some shit like that. For the love of fucks, this is why I don’t write songs. I leave that up to the rest of the guys in the band.

I know there’s a better, more poetic way to put that, but who the fuck cares? Not a single one of the faceless people trying to get past where I’ve planted myself on a busy New York sidewalk to check a notification. That’s for damn sure.

A well-placed shoulder knocks into me as I swipe open the waiting message, almost knocking me into a lady with a baby strapped to her chest in some weird backpack-looking thing.

“Sorry,” I murmur, offering my hand to steady her.

She glances at it, barely acknowledging me, and is off, down the sidewalk, and swallowed up in that fast-moving river of bodies.

Huh. That was kind of poetic. Maybe I should start carrying around a notebook like Nate and Gavin do and write that shit down. Not likely. That belongs strictly to the bassist and lead guitarist of The UnBroken. Our singer doesn’t even get in on lyrics; Kane’s not likely to lower himself to things like that. He’s the quintessential rock star.

I weave my way to the edge of the sidewalk and step between two parallel parked cars, turning my attention back to the latest message.

This lady—woman? Girl? Nope. Those descriptors might be accurate, but none of them work here. This chick has been messaging me more and more frequently.

I tap out a quick response, stow my phone in my pocket, and continue down the sidewalk.

It’s a trek from my apartment in Tribeca up to Hell’s Kitchen, but I have the time. And if I’m going to partake in and fully enjoy the feast that will absolutely be laid out in front of me, I need the cardio kick.

Notifications buzz against my thigh a handful more times, but the sun is shining, the city doesn’t smell like overcooked garbage, and I’m going to enjoy the fuck out of the handful of blocks I still have before I reach my goal.

At the corner of 46th Street and Broadway, I turn left and cross from Times Square into Hell’s Kitchen.

The black awning above a door set back into a red brick facade calls to me. And as soon as I can see the lettering announcing my favorite restaurant, Kitchenne, I cut across the street, dodging a yellow taxi and ignoring the way he lays on his horn. I earn a unicorn fist from the guy, but whatever. He’s driving a taxi in New York City, he should expect someone to cross in his path. Amateur.

My tongue flicks at the hoops in my lower lip as I push through the door of the restaurant, and it’s like coming home. Every. Single. Time.

“Reservation?” the girl at the hostess desk asks without bothering to look up.

“Nah, I’m just headed to the bar,” I say, already trying to move past her. And doesn’t that get her attention.

Recognition flickers across her face, but when it truly hits, she does what they all do. She smiles big and looks over my shoulder, that recognition changing to hope and then finally disappointment. Her shoulders drop, and if there was a facial expression for settling, this would be it. The smile is there, but it’s less, and the interest only goes as far as maybe she can get at what she really wants through me.

I sigh and give her my public relations smile. I fucking hate that shit. There’s nothing like being famous, in the hottest alternative rock band, and still being treated like a consolation prize.

“It’s just me, so—” I nod toward the bar area, and she waves me on like some kind of game show host presenting me with a prize.

“Of course, Mr.—”

I don’t even know if she gets the right last name, her words lost in the din as I move down to the empty seat at the far end of the bar. I do know that it was either my last name or Nate Calloway’s because everyone knows who Gavin Keller and Kane Newton are. The lead guitarist and singer are the ones who get all the love. And no one gives a shit about the drummer or the bassist. No glory at the back of the stage.