Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
She was half-right. It happened eventually.
“I’m not saying I need to get as skinny as I was when I was touring. I’m talking a few pounds here.” Twenty-ish. Twenty-five, maybe.
“You don’t need to lose anything, but if you’re doing this for yourself and are serious about it, I’ll stop bringing all my leftovers to your house.”
“Thank you.”
She puts the pancake mix and chocolate chips back in the cart. “This was actually for your niece and nephew, not you. Geez, one visit from your old friends and suddenly you think the world revolves around you again.”
I laugh and then realize something. “Wait. If you’re not going to cook for me anymore, does that mean I’ll finally need to learn how to do it myself?”
You’d think living alone for this long, I would’ve learned something, but Mom’s house is literally a two-minute drive away. It’s on the same property with acres of land between us, but it’s easier to go there for food than drive all the way to Big Sky where we are now for our usual grocery run. I always bring Mom to the store so we can stock up and not have to come back for a few weeks.
When I first moved home, I used to wait in the car while Mom did her shopping so I wouldn’t be recognized, but then I found out putting on forty pounds and growing my hair and beard made me invisible.
We finish our shopping, Mom puts in some healthier foods and promises to show me how to cook them, and then we make our way through the checkouts.
As we’re putting the bags in the back of my truck, the telltale sound of a camera shutter flicking a million miles a minute startles me. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard to me even after eighteen months of complete silence.
Sure enough, when I turn, some asshole has a camera pointed in my direction. But … how do they know it’s me? I’m in invisible mode, damn it.
“Mason, have you been hiding up here this whole time?”
Fuck.
I turn back around so he can’t get a good shot of my face. “Mom, get in the car now.”
My fifty-something-year-old mom, all five foot four of her, ignores me. She storms over to the paparazzo, who found me God knows how, and starts yelling at him. “Can’t you leave him alone? He gave so much—all of him—and you’re still tormenting my boy.”
“Mom! Let’s go.” I have to drag her back to the car.
We get in the truck, and I speed away as fast as I can get out of the spot so they can’t follow us home. Not that they can get on my property without trespassing. Paparazzi are invasive, and they know how to skirt the law, but they never completely break it.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to give them anything?” I bark.
“Why are they even here?” Mom asks.
I know she means well, and her heart is in the right place, but I’m dreading the headlines tomorrow.
Ex-Boy Bander’s Mom to the Rescue.
“I’ll give you two guesses, but you really only need one. What has changed in the last few days? I guarantee word got out about Harley Valentine and Blake Monroe being here—no doubt when they came into town to get food.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“Yeah. Me too. I’m going to have to lie low for a while.”
“Or …” Mom looks at me like I should come to her conclusion on my own.
“Or what?
“Or you could maybe go back to LA and face them. Why were your old friends here? You never said.”
I shake my head. “They want to get Eleven back together. I’m not interested.”
“Why not? You were never happier than when you were performing with them.”
Ugh, I can’t go through this again. “I’m just not, okay? They’re not even my friends. They’re ex-work colleagues. At least, that’s how they’ve treated me since we split, so fuck each and every one of them.”
“You don’t really mean that, do you? Denver loves you. He was practically part of the family once upon a time.”
I scoff. “Denver’s the worst of them all.”
“Oh. Oh, dear. What happened between you two?”
I still don’t know why he avoided me. Not entirely.
“Did you fight over a girl?”
“Hardly.” I wish it were that simple.
“I still think you should consider it. You’re miserable at home, and don’t lie and say you’re not. You miss that life. You miss performing.”
I grit my teeth. “It’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see.”
“No, we won’t see. It’s not happening, end of story.”
Apparently, it is happening.
Go to LA, she said. Try to get back your old life.
Motherfucker. What am I doing here?
As I stare at Denver’s Malibu home, I curse my mother and the millions of paparazzi swarming Big Sky.
Denver’s house is still the same as it was. It’s not your typical Hollywood celebrity home where the house is hidden by trees or a long driveway with a locked gate out front. There is a gate, but the front door is visible from here. The gate is closed and locked, but it’s late, so he might be inside, or he might not. I’m just trying to build the courage to hit the intercom button.