Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107630 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
I glare at her. “Did you find anything about them being identified? I’ve searched, but it sounds like you’ve done more reading while I was focusing more on the video watching.”
Her eyes sparkle with wickedness. “I did my fair share of video watching too. Ben can sing. Well—scream, but also sing.”
I nod, agreeing with her. The screaming, heavy music like that has never been my style, but in listening to it on repeat, I’ve found a respect for the nuances of Midnight Destruction’s music. It’s different from other bands in the genre, which I’ve definitely clicked on as suggested listens during my YouTube perusals.
“Yeah, their identities are totally top secret. There’s even talk that most people at their record label don’t know who they really are,” Joy said, dishing like she’s been eager to show off her work to someone who’d appreciate it. “They show up to concerts already in costume so the crew doesn’t have a clue, they take different vehicles each time so there’s no stalking for a tour bus, and they don’t do meet-and-greets under any circumstances. Ben even stays back from the edge of the stage after a fan tried to grab his leg and almost pantsed him. They kinda show up, do their thing, and get the hell outta there, which I can respect.”
“Do you think they’d get in trouble for telling?” I ask.
“Well, I can’t access their contract with AMM Records,” she says regretfully, “but with as big a deal as their anonymity is, I can only imagine what their lawyers would do to someone who spilled.”
“Shit,” I hiss.
Joy lays her hand on my knee. “Hope, you need to give him a chance to explain. You need to talk this out with him. Maybe you get closure or that adventure you say you want. Or maybe you get something even better.”
Love. Maybe I get love and all its unexpected, messy glory with Ben.
I’m about to say something when she tilts her head pointedly to the kitchen, where Dad’s bringing in a big pan with a delicious-smelling chunk of meat and singing, Fleetwood Mac this time.
“Dinner’s ready!” He sets the pan down and turns, finding us on the couch looking at him like we did when he busted us drinking his beers when we were seventeen. “There’s my girl!” he says with a tentative grin, the reminder of us being a two-for-one deal extra sweet, given the last few weeks of drama. It only takes him a heartbeat longer to fully admit to himself that we’re up to something. “Lorie! Help! They’re plotting again.”
Mom pops out from the bedroom. “Plotting what?”
“Hope finally got her head out of her ass,” Joy announces. She holds her arm out, taking a bow. “You’re welcome.”
“Really?” Mom asks, looking hopeful.
“Sean the Asshole sent her a plane ticket for tomorrow and a meet location in LA,” Joy answers Mom for me. Then, to me, she adds, “You want to not know what today or tomorrow holds? Go get him, sis. It sounds like he would definitely be an adventure.”
Her eyes dance with the pointed tease, and Dad’s gaze narrows. “What does that mean?”
Joy didn’t tell them. She did all that research and has known Ben’s secret but kept it safe. For me. I throw myself into her arms, hugging her tightly. “Thank you.”
“Wait, I have one question first,” Dad says. “I’ve seen how torn up you’ve been. You don’t have to tell us why if you don’t want to, but is what he did worth what you’re going through?” I start to answer, and he holds up a finger, not done. “If so, fine. Go through it because the pain will eventually get better. But if not, you’re wasting days when you could be working things out. Build wisely on solid ground, and it’ll be your foundation for a happy life,” he says, bastardizing his own saying. “So is whatever mistake he made worth it?”
I blink, not expecting Dad to be so . . . deep. I mean, he’s not a superficial guy. But he’s not known for long monologues on love, either, which is essentially what he just said, in his own way.
“What if we both messed up and the ground’s not solid?” I ask, sticking with his metaphor.
“Then till it up, take out all the rocks and crap, add some fertilizer, and replant.”
“Since when did you become a gardener?” Mom teases, sidling up to him and curling into his side.
“Since that daughter of yours became full of shit,” he tells Mom, planting a kiss on the top of her head. To me, he says, “Sack up and go, girl. I like that kid, and he loves you.” That’s the poetry I’m used to from him, but Dad’s blessing means more to me than he’ll ever know.
“Oh my God! I have to pack!” I shout.