Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 60726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60726 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
“I just need a second, asshole,” Shawn spat at me.
“Why, because your first one’s too loose?” I asked.
Anthony coughed.
Maria and a few others let out a collective spluttered laugh, and the song kinda died out when Anthony stopped playing.
I stopped playing too.
Shawn shot me a glare but made no further comment. He was dressed for a Friday night in the city, so I bet he was in a hurry. He squatted down in front of Anthony and turned on the charm, speaking too quietly for me to hear, though I already knew he was here to ask for cash. It was what he did, and my infuriating brother always gave it to him.
Or maybe not this time?
I tilted my head, not bothering to pretend to be subtle, and watched Anthony’s body language. There was tension in his shoulders, but he spoke casually. Nothing casual about Shawn, though. He scowled at whatever Anthony had said.
My phone buzzed, and I dragged my gaze away to check it. A reply from Gideon.
I’d be a poor stalker if I announced my presence.
I grinned and typed back.
Well, if someone were to decide to stalk me, it’s the second entrance where there’s a sign for rehearsal studios. The door code is 7845, and I’m in the first room to the right. Stalkers are encouraged to take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall. Just in case.
If he did show up, I’d be somewhat surprised. He’d told me he wasn’t comfortable with other people’s spontaneity. He needed time to mentally prepare himself and go over all the steps and routes and risks. He’d also told me he believed it was the reason he couldn’t cook, whereas he was great at baking bread. Baking was like math. There were perfect formulas to follow to achieve perfection. Cooking required a practiced touch and feeling, he’d said.
I had to admit I loved getting to know him. Bit by bit, he shared parts of himself during our walks, sometimes serious topics, but mostly easygoing stuff.
Learning about Claire was probably tougher on me than on him at this point. I’d found out she was a family friend—Gideon’s cousin’s family had a lake house next to Claire’s family’s “estate,” and so on and so on, and just shoot me. She was perfect for him in the vision Gideon had created. A family life with heirs and lake houses and private jets. Blah.
Shawn stood up and marched for the exit, and I looked over at my brother in question. He just shook his head subtly, not wanting to get into it, and ordered everyone to focus and get back to work.
When he lost his politeness, which was rare, everyone heeled and listened.
It was a physical jab in the anxiety pump to hear Anthony snap at you because it happened practically never.
An hour later, we were all lost in the music again.
Anthony and I were both playing the guitar for this, and the song was fast enough for us to have worked up a sweat. I fucking loved it. We were in our element. We played, we sang, we stopped to make changes, and the choir was given freedom to be creative with the harmonies. Sometimes, it was the best way to create a song. To let it surface from a sea of improvised freedom.
We had Sylvia, an old classmate of Anthony’s, playing synth next to Luiz on the drums, and she’d gotten a lot better at her new hobby since last time. It was Anthony who’d encouraged her to learn an instrument after her sister died, and she’d always loved the eighties…
“Sorry!” Tia exclaimed after mixing up the cues for the harmonies. I shook my head and made a quick circular motion, silently telling her to just jump in again, before I played the next lick. It was our favorite way to work, to keep going and going until we nailed the song.
Anthony hit the chorus again and sang of getting back up and holding on tight because love was hard. And it was fucking supposed to be. I wanted to drill the lyrics into his skull.
The third verse was quiet, with focus on the synth and backup vocals, and it built up to the last chorus where I got some action too. I stepped forward to the microphone and joined in on the singing.
Anthony and I stood across from each other so we could communicate throughout the rehearsal, and when he nodded at my guitar and said, “After the third, I want more freestyle,” I knew what to do.
We started the song all over again.
Everyone was fired up, and it was a rush to me. To Anthony too. To have this steady flow of energy traveling through us—it was why we loved playing.
I grinned and screwed my eyes shut as I missed a cue, but there was no time to think about it. Keep going, keep going. I jumped in again as soon as I could, and I blew out a heavy breath.