Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129207 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 646(@200wpm)___ 517(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Can I get you a coffee?” she asks, knowing it’s useless to suggest I try and get some sleep.
“No, I—”
The sound of my phone ringing cuts through the room, and my response turns to silence as our gazes drop to the small device in the middle of my messed-up bedsheets. It’s a private number, but somehow, I just know. This is the call I’ve been waiting for.
My heart races, beating right out of my chest as fear grips me in a chokehold.
My hands shake, too terrified to even reach for the phone, but I know if I miss it, it could be hours before it rings again.
The tears grow fatter in my eyes, and a weight drops against my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. I stare at the phone like it’s a bomb about to detonate, and as I curl my fingers around the cool metal, it feels heavier than it ever has before.
My gaze flitters to Madds, and as she holds my stare, she grabs my other hand and squeezes it tight. “I’m right here,” she whispers, and with that, I swipe my thumb across the screen and lift my phone to my ear.
“Hello,” I croak, my voice wavering and cracking with pain.
“Rae.”
And there it is, right there in that one heartbroken, breathy syllable from a voice I’ve spent years trying to forget. I don’t need anything more, not an explanation, not even a name, because everything I need to know is right there in his tone, his actions, his silence.
My brother, my best friend in the whole world, is dead.
7
Raleigh
Thousands of screaming fans linger in the street, causing hell for the security team as my driver slowly tries to make his way through the masses. People throw themselves against the car window, desperate to peer in and see who’s inside, and realizing that I’m not one of the three remaining members of the band, they pull away in disappointment.
It takes almost an hour to get from the top of the street to the front of the church, and the whole time, I can barely manage to hold myself together.
Today, I say goodbye to my brother.
It’s been a week since his passing, and I still can’t believe it’s real. It’s as though someone is playing a cruel joke on me and, at any moment, he’s going to jump out at me, call me a turd, and laugh about how clever he thinks he is. But I’m starting to realize that the only cruel joke going on is my life.
My driver pulls to a stop, finally making it through the weeping fans to the front of the church. There’s a sectioned-off area for attendees to get from their cars to the front doors, which allows them not to get mobbed, but unfortunately, that means there’s plenty of space for the press.
They’re all lined up and snapping shots of the guests like this is the red carpet for the Met Gala, and I’ve never been so uncomfortable. Obviously I know they have no interest in me. They’re waiting for the band and all the famous friends Axel met along the way, but just the thought that this will be splashed across every news outlet before the funeral has even begun makes me sick.
A man in a suit steps up to my door and opens it for me before offering me his hand, which I graciously ignore. “Thank you,” I mutter, my voice not feeling like my own. Hell, nothing has felt like my own this past week.
As I stand out on the street, a heaviness weighs down on me, and I lift my gaze to the church, taking it all in. It’s huge. Don’t get me wrong, it’s an architectural piece of art, but it’s not what I would have pictured for Axel. None of it is. He would have preferred his privacy, maybe something back in our hometown where he could be buried next to our mom.
My feet feel glued to the ground, but the longer I stand here, the sharper the ache in my chest becomes, and if I don’t get my ass inside, I fear I’ll never get my chance to say goodbye. I take a shaky breath and as my driver slips away behind me, I’m left with no choice but to get a move on.
Keeping my head down, I make my way to the church doors, ignoring the press as they scream out, asking me who I am and what relation I have to Axel Stone. Their cameras go off nonetheless, flash after arrogant flash, blinding me as I stumble across the entryway.
Stepping into the foyer of the big church, the insane noise from outside is somewhat blocked out, and I’m greeted by a woman with a clipboard. “Welcome,” she says, handing me a small program. “Name?”