Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 99540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99540 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
My eyes widen. DAP Studios. That’s only the most prestigious recording agency in the state. We sent them a sample of our work a few months ago but never heard anything back. I always thought we were rejected and that we wouldn’t hear about it anymore.
“Holy shit,” I reply, getting up to pick up the envelope.
“I know,” Tristan says with a grin on his face. “Open it.”
I pick it up, but then I realize the rest of the band isn’t here. “We should wait for the others.”
“Benji, sure …” He frowns. “But since when do you care about Michael?”
I shrug. “We’re a band. I don’t like him, and I don’t have to, but I can at least be a man about it.”
He makes a ridiculous face. “I’m impressed.”
I throw him a playful punch. “Oh, shut up.”
“No, I’m serious. I know it’s been hard ever since … well, you know.” His eyes travel away from mine, and suddenly, the air feels thick with unspoken words.
He knows I miss Jayden. He was our number one guitarist, and I could never match his solos. But sometimes, the pressure of being in a famous band gets too much, and it got to him in the worst kind of ways. Drugs killed him … and his death was a wake-up call to me.
“I miss him too,” Tristan says, and he places a hand on my shoulder.
I nod in response, but as I look up, there she is, marching down the hallways.
Monica Romero, the only girl who manages to catch my eye not once but twice.
She doesn’t look my way even though we both know she only passes through this hallway to watch me play. Today she pays no attention, not a single glance, and for some reason, that makes me want to shout out to her. It’s infuriating, and I don’t know why.
Fuck.
“Cole?” Tristan mutters, narrowing his eyes at me. “What was that?”
By the time he turns around to see what I’m looking at, she’s already long gone. “Nothing,” I reply, and I tap my foot to deal with the urge to run after her.
“Nothing?” He shakes his head. “No, I recognize that look.”
“What look?” I gaze up at him in feigned ignorance.
“That look,” he retorts. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not—”
“It was a girl, wasn’t it?” he says, his jaw dropping. “That’s why you’ve been acting out so much lately.”
“No, I’m just tense because of the new setup, that’s all.”
I brush it off as if it’s Michael’s fault, but Tristan’s right.
He laughs and bites his lip like it excites him to see me get worked up over a girl. “Who is it?”
“No one,” I reply, making a face.
“Oh, c’mon.” He rolls his eyes. “You’ve got chicks following you for days. There must be one who’s distracting you so much.”
God, I hate it when he digs. “It’s not some chick, just … it’s not important.”
Fuck. I may have said too much because he’s completely silent and judging me with a simple look.
“Wow,” he mutters. “She must be really good for you to be protecting her like that.”
“Protecting?” I step closer. “I’m not protecting anyone. She means nothing to me.”
“Right …” He throws his bag over his shoulder. “You tell yourself that. As long as she doesn’t get in the way of that.” He points at the envelope.
“It won’t,” I say.
But he’s already turned around and thrown his finger in the air as he walks off out the door.
“Fuck …” I growl, staring at the envelope right in front of me.
A lot is hinging on this one letter.
If they wrote us back, that means something. Something important that we’ve been working for our whole lives.
Tristan is right.
Nothing can get in the way.
Not even finding out about the secrets of Monica Romero.
Monica
I was so not looking forward to my first class without Mel but with Cole. But here I am, walking right into the death trap. Unfortunately for me, he’s beaten me to it, as I spot him sitting in his usual seat at the back of the room, a moody look on his face as he stares out the window.
I try to be quiet, but the teacher immediately says, “Monica! Do you have that paper for me?”
I completely forgot. “Oh, right,” I mutter, digging into my bag. “Here it is.” I place it on her desk. “Sorry for the late turn in.”
“It’s fine,” she replies. “As long as you tell me up front.”
“Of course,” I say, nodding awkwardly.
The whole class must think she’s playing favorites, but my mom talked to her about my … problems, and now the teacher is willing to give me more time to get my stuff done because of the therapist appointments I have. Or had … at least … because I wasn’t planning to attend anymore.
But maybe that judgment call was too early.
As I look around for a seat, the only available one is right next to Cole.