Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100441 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“I need a favor from your badass boyfriend,” I say.
“Need a bodyguard? Because mine is taken.”
I laugh. “No, but I assume he and his badass friends you’ve told me about can do a background check on a nanny I’m thinking of hiring?”
“Background check? Wouldn’t a nanny agency do that sort of thing?”
“Well, uh, he’s not with an agency.”
Silence.
“Harley?”
“You know you can’t fuck your daughter’s nanny, right? That’d be like …”
“Like a famous person fucking their bodyguard?”
“Touché.”
“And I don’t want to fuck him. I want to hire him to look after Kaylee.”
“Male nanny … interesting.”
“He’s just a nanny. Why do you have to put his gender in front of it?”
“Sorry.”
“Anyway, can he?”
Harley’s voice goes quieter as he dips the phone away from his mouth. “Hey, Brix, can you do a background check for Ryder on the guy he says he doesn’t want to fuck but really he does?”
“Harley,” I growl.
But I no longer care about him giving me shit when his boyfriend says it’s easily done. I give them Lyric’s name and the phone number he gave me, and Brix promises to get back to me as soon as possible.
If it all comes back clear, I’ll have no reason not to hire him. He needs the job, and I need a nanny.
I can put my attraction to Lyric aside for Kaylee. I’ve practically been a monk for years. Minus that one slip with Cash.
Easy.
Totally easy.
Chapter Four
Lyric
Little secret about those so-called talent shows: majority of people who get through the large cattle-call casting audition are handpicked and selected after private auditions first.
Which is how I’ve ended up here. At yet another audition where I’m failing miserably.
Rumor has it, Denver from Eleven is one of the judges on this new show. It’s supposed to reinvent all the Idol, The Voice, and X Factor shows there have been throughout the years.
I was hoping Denver would be here so I could break the ice with, “Hey, I met Ryder the other day,” but no, I’m standing across from two producers who are wearing passive expressions after I finish my rendition of “It’s Time” by Imagine Dragons.
I blink at them.
They blink back.
I know how this ends. “Thank you for your time.”
Crouching down, I start putting my guitar away when they whisper to each other. I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to.
I’m already running the audition over in my head and trying to pinpoint where I went wrong. My pitch was great, my guitar-playing flawless. The only thing I can think of is that they don’t see that thing inside me. The spark. The it factor.
Story of my life.
“Mr. Jones, can you hold a second?”
Hope blooms in my gut, but I don’t have faith it’ll last. I’m waiting for the inevitable “Thanks but no thanks” speech.
That’s not what they give me.
“You have an identity problem.” This coming from a guy with a bland face, even blander suit, and the personality of a walnut, but sure, I have the identity problem.
“How so? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“You dress like you want to be a rock star and sing like Kurt Cobain, but your face screams pop. We’re willing to give you the on-air audition if you dress trendier and sing a Harley Valentine song.”
Oh dear God. I’ve died and gone to hell, haven’t I?
“Like I said earlier, thank you for your time.”
I turn to leave, catching their stunned expressions as I do. They’re probably not used to being turned down, but my dad spent his entire life changing his image because of advice “the professionals” gave him. He sold his soul to become famous. I want fame but not at the cost of being myself. If the public doesn’t want me as me, then I’m happy to teach kids to become better humans than those who judge us solely on our looks or what we’re into.
Maybe Ryder was right when he said that’s naïve of me, but I won’t give up my life the way my father did.
Regret might haunt me for the ride home, and I might scold myself for being stupidly stubborn, but by the time I pull into Chase’s school to pick him up, I’m over it.
I’m going to stand my ground. And hey, if this industry kills me before I’m famous, at least I can say I went down with dignity.
While waiting for Chase in the long-ass pickup line at school, my phone starts vibrating, and I hate that I hope it’s the producers from the show saying I can audition as myself.
It’s a blocked number.
It could be them.
I hold my breath and barely get out a “Lyric Jones” as I answer.
“Hey, uh, Lyric.” The warm voice sends a jolt of want to my dick. It’s definitely not the producers. “It’s, umm, Ryder. Uh, Kennedy.”
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
“Hello, Ryder, uh, Kennedy.”