Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65884 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 329(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
He squinted like an owl through his thick glasses. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that, but…”
“But…” I prodded. “What were you thinking?”
“I—no, never mind. I’ll ponder the dilemma over a cup of hot cocoa, Assassin’s Creed, and—”
I caught Robin’s elbow, jostling his camera bag from his shoulder. “If we’re reporting this story, we have to act now. Timing is everything. So…out with it.”
Robin hesitated a beat, no doubt studying my body language before blurting, “Ty’s idol is Ketchum Clomsky.”
My mouth fell open. “No.”
“Mmhmm. I read it on his high school bio pic. Don’t look at me like that…you know I have a predilection for hockey players. Perhaps you could offer a jersey, a signed puck or photograph, or—”
“I—no.”
“Understood.” He stepped away, pasting a cheery smile on his face. “I’ll put the ol’ thinking cap on and hopefully wake up with a genius idea in the morning. Do we have a shoot tomorrow?”
I ignored the hollow feeling in my chest and inclined my head. “A fellow student-slash-ceramic artist who makes anatomically correct brains out of clay.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Next week, we have the Brewsky Brothers at the Tavern.”
“A hard pass for this fella.” He held up both hands in surrender.
“I figured. I’ll take photos with my phone and use their logo for a place-saver. You’re off the hook.”
“Ceramics and drunken frat boy bands?”
“Smithton entertainment at its finest,” I chirped sarcastically.
“That’s why we need the hockey hero. G’night, sleep tight, and all that hooey,” Robin called over his shoulder.
My gaze flitted to the gaggle of students exiting the stadium. Time to go. I’d made a point to park in the farthest corner of the lot possible, but if anyone spotted me, they’d expect a happy-go-lucky grin and a friendly word from Smithton’s celebrity influencer.
Don’t laugh—it’s true. My hair alone usually was enough to earn me a double take. I’d taken advantage of my red locks by including a redheaded illustrated figure on the What’s New, Smithton? logo. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right?
Yeah, well…I wished I had a hat handy now and that my adorable Mini Cooper’s Union Jack design was less recognizable.
But I didn’t, and it wasn’t.
My only recourse was to slink home and ride out my gloomy mood with a pint of rocky road and a Gilmore Girls marathon in peace and quiet. My Ty Czerniak dilemma could wait till tomorrow.
Unfortunately, my Ketchum Clomsky problem was a life sentence, and I was exceedingly irked by the notion that he might unknowingly save the day. If, of course, I stooped so low as to use that particular ace up my sleeve. And I wouldn’t.
No chance. I wasn’t that desperate.
CHAPTER 3
WALKER
Okay, I was desperate.
And I was in danger of losing my hearing along with the will to live as the strains of an electric guitar warred with a tinny drumbeat and the banshee wails of the Brewsky Brothers’ lead singer. Geez, they were awful.
My guess was that they were going for an edgy rock vibe, but don’t quote me. I was never going to be a fan. I preferred dance music or at least lyrics that didn’t sound so…cringy.
“Baby, where’d you go? Why won’t you let me know? Everything is low…and it’s snow-snow-snowing a-gain!”
I mean…really? The rhyme was there and then…not.
I snapped obligatory concert photos on my cell and nursed the complimentary gin and tonic that Crysta the bartender, an adorable blond with tats and a nose ring, who just happened to be in my Environmental Science class—slid my way.
“Trust me, honey, you’ll need this,” Crysta said.
She was right.
The Tavern was Smithton’s only bar-slash-music venue. The quality of the performers didn’t seem to matter to the audience, which was made up almost exclusively of students eager for an excuse to get drunk on cheap beer and watered-down cocktails. I’d taken up residence on a barstool in the corner, chatting with a few acquaintances while feigning interest in the band.
As soon as they finished their set, the plan was to meet backstage, conduct the briefest of interviews, and get the heck out of Dodge.
“They’re…enthusiastic.” I winced at the screech of the guitar as I swiveled on my barstool.
“And loud.” Crysta delivered a drink order and returned to fuss with my cocktail-napkin situation…and gab. “The band is friendly with the kid whose dad owns this place, so this is probably the fifth or sixth time I’ve had the pleasure of partaking of these sick tunes.”
I snorted. “Lucky you.”
“At least they’re easy on the eyes.”
I studied the greasy long-haired quartet rocking holey jeans and sweat-stained plaid shirts. “If you say so.”
Crysta snapped my arm with a dish towel. “I do say so. C’mon, that drummer is fine. Admit it.”
“He’s all yours, honey.”
“Oooh, thank you. And who do you think is sexier than the drummer? No, wait. Let me guess. You’re in your boy-next-door era. If so, the guy bopping near the speakers is adorable.”