Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88586 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 354(@250wpm)___ 295(@300wpm)
7
Tegan
The following morning, we bumped into each other in the kitchen. I poured myself a cup of coffee, then leaned against the countertop, admiring his profile and sexy forearms. I had a thing for strong hands and masculine arms. But I was not allowed to have a thing for Dec.
“Let’s leave at two o’clock today,” I said grumpily.
Dec lifted his cup to his lips. “Okay. I’ll bring trip treats.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” he countered.
“It’s a thirty-minute drive. Not a camping trip.”
“You’ve got to be prepared. What happens if you run out of gas and get hungry on the 405?”
“That’s not gonna happen. I have a full tank of gas, and we’re going after lunch.” I raised my mug in a mock toast.
“Hmph. I’m still bringing snacks.”
“Like what?”
“Popcorn, Skittles, corn nuts.”
“Do not bring corn nuts into my truck. Those things are gross, and they smell.”
He scoffed. “How about Funyuns?”
“Are you fucking with me? Those are worse.”
“Funyuns it is,” he teased. At least, I hoped he was teasing. “How do you want to do this? Should I meet you at a gas station?”
“Why would you do that?”
Dec glanced cautiously into the empty office space beyond the kitchen before running his finger down my chest. “We’re one-day-old boyfriends, T. What are the rules?”
I captured his finger and twisted it. “Fuck if I know. Since we’re also supposed to be friends who grew up together, I don’t think coming home to visit my mom is a red flag. But if you want, I’ll just tell the guys I’m dropping you off at the pharmacy to pick up your erectile dysfunction medication.”
Dec pulled his hand away and glared, but his lips twitched with humor, so it was kind of a wasted effort. “Very funny. I’m definitely bringing Funyuns.”
“Do not bring Funyuns,” I growled.
He brought Funyuns.
Dec flashed a wicked gleam and shook the package before setting it on top of the recyclable grocery bag he’d brought. “The party can officially begin.”
“If you open those, I swear I will leave your ass on the side of the road off the 405. Don’t try me,” I warned gruffly. “And what else did you bring?”
“You’ll see.” He clicked his seat belt on, then twisted to face me. “I couldn’t show up empty-handed. I haven’t seen your parents in years.”
“Hmm. Dad will probably be at work, but we may run into Mom’s knitting crew. I tried to time it so we won’t have a big overlap. But don’t worry. We’ll keep it brief. One hour, tops.” I cast a quick sideways glance at him as I turned onto the freeway entrance.
A classic rock, eighties fusion played on satellite radio. They were doing a double-header special featuring back-to-back hits from an odd combo of artists, like Depeche Mode and Lynyrd Skynyrd.
“Sweet Home Alabama” played in the background while we dissected our favorite rock anthems from every era and tried to guess which song they’d play next.
“It’s gotta be ‘Freebird.’ ”
“The ultimate anthem. Love that song. I want to write an anthem someday. I don’t know if I’d be any good at it, though. Pop-rock tunes are my sweet spot,” he said, tapping a rhythm on his knees.
“You’ve written a few nice ballads. I like the song I played with you. ‘The Magic,’ right?”
“Wow. You complimented me. I need to remember this date. This is fucking huge.”
The rush of warmth in his voice washed over me like a wave. “You don’t need me to tell you what you already know.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m an artist. I write and make music for a living, T. I need constant praise and adoration. I crumble when critics tell me they’ve heard better. I can’t win, but I keep trying. Which means I’m probably a masochist too.”
I smiled. “When did you start writing?”
“The second I picked up a guitar. My first few attempts were terrible. I really was more focused on learning how to play. It seemed more important to rhyme. In retrospect, that didn’t always work.” He cleared his voice and sang, “I was in pain, walking in the rain, wishing everything felt the same. Genius, right?”
I made a universal “yikes” face that made him laugh. “You obviously changed your method.”
“Yeah, I started writing poetry. I know that sounds pretentious. I’m not saying it was any good, but it gave me a direction…stylistically. I had a writing assignment my junior year of high school to write a short story about summertime. One thousand words. I loved summer but I had nothing to say. I hung with friends once in a while, but we didn’t do anything worth writing about. How much can you say about watching Law and Order reruns, practicing guitar, smoking pot, and talking shit with your friends about people you don’t really know? Not much. So…I wrote about you.”
“Me?”
“Our childhood. Simpler times. Every day was an adventure when we were kids. We never stopped. We ran all over the freaking neighborhood from dawn till dusk in the summer and made up stories as we went.” Dec turned the volume down on the radio. “I don’t ever look back on those days and wish I’d had a bigger house or that we’d lived closer to the beach…things my mom assured me I’d love when we moved. They were perfect the way they were. Full of sunlight and laughter and…warmth. I got an A on that assignment and made it into a song.”