Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Me, I wasn’t given a middle name, so last year, Sherlock decided he’d make one up for me. It changes every single time.
Sherlock kisses me softly. “I’m going to miss you. So fucking much.”
“Me too. Maybe I should go out to New York instead or—”
“No. LA is where you need to be.”
His body leaves me, and I miss it already. When he flops onto his back next to me, I don’t hesitate in cuddling up to him.
We lie there in silence, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me.
“You’re going to make it,” Sherlock says. “One day the name Cashton Beverly Kingsley will be everywhere. And I’ll be able to say ‘Yeah, I took that guy’s virginity.’”
“How nice of you.”
He squeezes me in a hug. “We’re doing the right thing. It’s the mature decision.”
“I never claimed to be mature, can I take it back?”
“No.”
I sigh. “I know this is the right thing, but fuck … my heart is breaking.”
“Mine too,” he whispers. Sherlock rolls on his side, bringing me with him so we’re face-to-face. “Let’s make a deal. When you’re big and famous and have practically forgotten about me, we’ll reconnect.”
I’ll jump at any chance or excuse to see him, but I’m not naïve. The chances of me actually making it are small, but I need to give myself a shot. Trying and failing is better than not trying at all and all that other inspirational bullshit.
“Okay, but what constitutes as big and famous? Do I, like, have to win a Grammy or something? Because I’m pretty sure we’ll never see each other again if that’s the basis of fame.”
Sherlock purses his lips. “Hmm, no. You can be successful without a Grammy. What about …” His eyes glimmer. “If you ever get to play Death Valley, I’ll go.”
“But you hate Death Valley. When I dragged you there last year, I thought we’d break up, you hated it so much. You said it was hot and gross and I quote, ‘Too much desert for this ginger.’”
He grins. “All the more reason for me to go when you’re there. I’ll be going especially for you.”
“That’ll take me three years, tops.” Hopefully.
“I guess I’ll see you in three years, then.”
“Promise?”
“To the ends of the earth.”
“Sherlock, I …” I can’t swallow. My tongue is too thick. “I lo—”
“I know you do. I do too.”
His lips meet mine, and I try to lock in the taste of him. His mouth is warm and soft, and he tastes like cherry from drinking Dr. Pepper.
The sound of the front door to my house closing echoes down the hall, and Sherlock pulls back, his eyes wide.
“Is that your mom—”
“Cashton, honey?”
“Fuck,” we hiss and scramble to get dressed.
There’s a twinge in my ass as I stand that I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, but it was worth it. As I watch Sherlock pull on his pants and throw his shirt over his head, I think … yeah, it was totally worth it.
But now it’s tainted with the memory of him kissing me briefly and climbing out my bedroom window for the very last time.
It’s done. We’re over.
Chapter One
Cash
“Looks like you all had fun last night.” The sound of Thorne’s voice this early in the day is like someone stabbing me with a million tiny knives in my brain.
“Shh,” Seb, my lead guitarist, says for me. We’re kindred spirits.
The armchair I fell asleep on is uncomfortable … wait … did my hotel room have an armchair?
I crack my eyes open and move my long hair off my face. It’s gotten so long lately it sits past my pecs and I can use it as a curtain over my eyes when I sleep. I slowly shift and glance around the room. High ceilings, brick walls, black floorboards, and lights. Oh, dear God, the harsh dressing room lights. “When did we get to the arena?”
My drummer, Jasper, laughs at me. “We dragged your passed-out ass here.”
“Oh. Good work.” I close my eyes again. “Go team.”
“You might want to be awake for this,” Thorne says.
I open one eye to glare at our manager. “For what?”
Thorne smiles. “I got the call. It’s official. A two-hour set on the mainstage at Death Valley is yours.”
“Holy shit,” Greg, our bass player, exclaims. “Fuckin’ really?”
Thorne, composed and immaculately dressed in a suit like he always is, says, “Fuckin’ really.”
The guys jump up out of their seats, suddenly forgetting their hangovers.
Mine sets in worse. I don’t move. I might not even be breathing.
It’s been a long journey to get here. So. Fucking. Long.
Much longer than I thought it’d be.
Years of shitty gigs after shittier self-funded tours, two steps forward, ten giant leaps back. The number of times we almost got signed to a label only to have something go wrong to make the deal fall through was heartbreaking.