Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 408(@200wpm)___ 326(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
“Hey!” I feign offense. “I am not a metalhead. Would you call Aerosmith a metalhead? How about Matchbox Twenty or OneRepublic? No, you wouldn’t, and I’m not either.” Not that there’s anything wrong with someone being one. I grew up listening to Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. They’re just a couple of the reasons I fell in love with rock instead of the pop shit my dad and sister sing.
But when Braxton and I sat down in the sixth grade and decided to start a band, I knew I wanted my lyrics to be less heavy and a bit more soulful. Braxton agreed. And when we met Declan—who is a hopeless romantic—and a year later, Gage—who didn’t give a fuck what we sang as long as he could beat the shit out of the drums—they were both on board with the vibe we wanted to create.
“Whatever.” Kendall rolls her eyes playfully. “It all sounds the same to me.”
“And so does your bubblegum pop crap.”
She laughs as we get into the Town Car taking us home. Technically, Kendall lives in California, but after a tour, she always spends time at home so our parents can spoil the shit out of her before she goes back to LA to record her next album. She could easily record her album in New York, but she swears the California beach speaks to her, and she has no desire to live anywhere else.
Dad has already said if he signs us after graduation—yeah, if, because he refuses to agree to anything until after the four of us have our diplomas—we’ll have to move to LA, at least for a while since that’s where Earl James is located—one of the best producers in our genre.
When we get to the house, our mom fawns over us, crying about how much she’s missed us, while Dad asks us how the tour went, even though he knows everything that goes on with Blackwood.
“Breakfast is ready,” Maria says, popping her head in and shooting a wink my way, silently telling me she’s made my favorite. Maria is officially our nanny/housekeeper, but unofficially, she’s our nanna—at least that’s what we’ve been calling her since I was born. She was hired to help when Mom was pregnant with me and eventually moved in.
While our parents have always been there, they’re still busy with Blackwood since Dad is the president, and Mom is Blackwood’s attorney and VP. When Dad’s parents retired several years ago, they stepped down. Dad retired from making music and instead focuses on running the family business. The first musician he signed was none other than Kendall.
“Cream cheese French toast,” Mom says, sitting at the table. “You haven’t made these since—”
“Since my birthday,” I say, stabbing a piece with my fork. “Because they’re my favorite. Thanks, Nanna.”
She smiles brightly, sitting at the table with her own plate of food. She’s in her late seventies now, and Mom insisted years ago that she stop doing anything around the house and relax. She’s hired someone else to do the cleaning and cooking, but Maria swears she gets bored if she’s not taking care of our family. I’m not going to argue since she always makes my favorites and cleans my dirty clothes even though we do our own laundry. And before you get on me, I’ve never asked her to do it. She’s like the laundry fairy. My clothes go from the hamper to my drawers, and I’ve never even seen her do it, but I know it’s her. Nanna’s been spoiling me since I was born, and everyone knows I’m her favorite.
“Anything for you, my boy,” Nanna says with a wink that has everyone at the table, besides me, groaning. “It’s been quiet around here all summer without you and those boys making a ruckus downstairs.” Her eyes meet mine, and they’re a bit glassy. “Sure gonna miss you when you’re in LA.”
“Oh, Maria!” Mom wraps her arms around her. “No crying. Besides, we still have a year before they leave.” She glances at my sister, then back at Maria. “And they always come back.”
“But if you’re worried about missing me, you’re more than welcome to tag along. You can live with me, enjoy the beach and the sun, and make me French toast every morning.”
Dad kicks me under the table, Mom glares, and my youngest sister, Phoebe, who’s eleven, scoffs. “She’s not going anywhere. She still has to take care of me. Right, Nanna?”
Nanna laughs. “I’m not going anywhere, dear. If your brother wants my famous French toast, he’ll have to come back here.”
“You couldn’t keep me away,” I tell her as I stuff a bite of delicious food into my mouth.
After breakfast is over, I head up to my room to shower. While I’m waiting for the water to heat, I scroll through my social media, checking out Layla’s photos. She hasn’t posted a lot this summer, but the few pictures from her time at the beach have all been saved to my phone. And one in particular, where she’s lying on a towel and laughing at the camera, has become my background. We’ve texted almost every day, up until a couple of weeks ago, when the tour went overseas. Between the time difference and my phone rarely having reliable service, we’ve only spoken a few times.