Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27906 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 140(@200wpm)___ 112(@250wpm)___ 93(@300wpm)
I know this song – this whole fucking album – by heart.
It got me and Jer through some of our roughest days.
Played while he lifted.
Did wind sprints.
Pushed himself running ‘til he was sick.
I stretched.
Tumbled.
Trained and strained and broke bones to the beats.
The band is one that’s sacred to us, so singing it is an easy choice, yet sharing it with the man I’m pretty sure I’ve fallen for is an even easier one.
In sync, our mouths get closer to the microphone and croon at the famous chorus, fists lifted and eyes closed. Hearing the crowd sing along inspires us both to sink deeper into character.
The experience.
Our once in a lifetime memory.
For the remainder of the session, we stomp around the stage, never breaking the Klingon mentality by adding appropriate grunts and additional marches.
At the end of our stretch, we’re given a warm reception, including unmistakable hollers from a voice I’d know anywhere.
One I’ve been trained to recognize everywhere.
Upon fleeing the stage in the direction we came, we wrap our arms around one another for a hug like no other. Being tangled in his arms instantly instills something I wanna feel again and again and again. Something I longed for post performances in the past but never had.
Which is something I wanna confess to him right now.
“That was probably the craziest shit I’ve ever done,” laughs my duet partner as he pulls back.
“Round of shots says your bestie taped it for blackmail.”
Horror immediately cuts through his face pushing him to fumble around his pockets for his phone to verify.
His checking reminds me to do the same during our stroll back to our table; however, the voicemail number abruptly stops me in my tracks.
Has me rushing to listen to the news that simultaneously fills my stomach with elation and dread alike.
“What is it?” J.T. gingerly asks. “Who called?”
“The Highland Hellcats,” I quietly inform, stare locking onto his, voicemail continuing to play, tearing my world in two. “They want me to come in for a second audition tomorrow meaning I have to be on the first flight out of here in the morning.”
Chapter 8
J.T.
I watch Weston Wilcox, my first best friend, father of my nephew, anxiously pace the floor of his home office, bouncing around his screaming son from the other end of the video chat. “He hates me.” Wes switches Wyland to the other side. “My son actually hates me.”
“He doesn’t hate you,” leaves me at the same time I fidget with my glass of whiskey that’s on my bedside table. “He just takes after his mom.”
“Meaning?”
All of a sudden, Clark Baker, trusted member of the estate and our honorary father, steps into the frame to transition Wy out of his father’s arms into his. The second he’s there, Wy stops wailing and starts laughing.
Clapping.
“Meaning he gets a kick out of you all wound up.”
“Is that true?” His mismatched gaze moves to lock eyes with his son’s. “Is that what you want?” He lets his scarred face wrinkle in consternation. “Do you want daddy sounding like something Batman needs to lock up in Gotham?”
Wy leans over and open mouth laughs in Wes’s face.
“Unbelievable,” murmurs the man I technically work for.
“You mean diabolical.”
“Come along, young Wilcox,” chortles Clark during his exiting of what I envision is the room. “Perhaps a late-night snack will help you get back to sleep.”
“Always helps Bryn,” I teasingly interject, gathering Wes’s glower once more.
“And where is the mother of my first born?” He migrates his way around his desk to flop down into his leather, office chair. “Getting her own munchies?”
“Taunting my security detail over his sucky karaoke skills.”
“Singh did karaoke?”
“We all did.” One hand lifts to coincide with my correction. “Except Hurst”
“Wait,” his black hoodie covered frame leans back in amusement, “you did karaoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Bryn record it?”
An attempt to smile is made. “For future blackmail purposes, of course.”
“Of course,” chuckles the male on the other end before folding his hands together in his lap, “but I’m guessing that’s not what’s got you nursing a glass of whiskey off camera.”
Guilt makes itself briefly seen in my gaze.
When your best friend is a recovering alcoholic – the type that could’ve cost him everything – it’s only right to do your part in the sobering practice.
Not drinking in front of him is one of those things.
But I needed it.
I needed something to wash down the bitter disappointment of the woman I’m meant to love walking out of my life without a second thought.
“I appreciate you keeping it out of view.”
Another grin does its best to grow on my expression.
“You know whatever answer you’re looking for isn’t at the bottom of that glass.”
“I know.”
“So, what’s the problem you’re looking to solve?”
“I’m not…looking to solve anything.” Running one hand through my dirty blond hair precedes me explaining, “There’s nothing to solve. The chick I’ve been spending the week with got a chance at her dream job and is gonna take it. And she should take it! She’s earned it! That job should be hers! The fact they’re even making her audition again is ludicrous! The fact they didn’t just hire her to begin with is even more fucking ridiculous! I’ve seen her performances, plus, I’ve been on stage with her to see it firsthand.” Bashful beaming can’t be held back. “She is unstoppable with those lights on her, dude.”