Frank knocks on the doorframe. “You’re up in ten.” He scans the room, pausing on my keyboardist who’s sulking in the corner, pissed we dragged him down here tonight. Frank holds out a flashlight to me. “So you don’t kill yourself backstage. The steps are steep.”
“Thanks, man. You’re the best.”
Nodding, he heads for the door. “Let’s have a great show tonight, fellas. Never know who could be in the audience.”
I don’t need to ask what that means. There might be an important A&R rep at the show.
Over the years, we’ve had dozens of leads fall through. Reps who loved Wayward Sons only to blow smoke up our asses when it came down to doing something with our music. Managers who told us if we ditched Frank, we could go far. People in the industry who wanted us to change our sound, who said we were too country or too rock.
No, we do it this way or it’s over. We’re true to ourselves. We don’t fuck over our friends, and we don’t sell out.
And we make it this summer because there’s no other option.
My only focus tonight is singing my fucking heart out on stage and praying that makes a difference.
Because if it doesn’t, I’m not sure what I have left.
2
RORY
Delighted cherub faces stareat me as I peek over the edge of the book. When I reach the last page, I lower my voice to a hush. “And that night, as she listened to rustling leaves in the great oak above her, she realized there’s no better place than home. The end.”
Everyone claps, and my grin grows. I can admit I suck at talking with adults, but reading to kids? That’s my happy place.
Children scramble up from the plush, colorful rug of the kids’ section of the library, scattering to find their parents. Mothers help their little ones into jackets and usher them out the door and into the rain, their parade of umbrellas whizzing by the giant bay window. Paige and her daughter Ella are the last ones here as I put the chairs back where they belong.
“Do you guys need a ride home? I need to tidy up the library for a few minutes, but I’m happy to drive you.”
Paige tucks a red strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks, but Rhett will be here soon.” She glances out the window. “I can’t believe this hasn’t let up. I swear it’s been almost two weeks of this crazy weather.”
“Will you be able to make it tonight?” I brace myself for rejection, but her response surprises me.
“Wouldn’t miss it. In fact, I need to get home so I can make my dish. Did you come up with the idea for a soup swap? Because I am in desperate need of some new recipes.”
“I can’t take credit for it. I saw it on Pinterest and thought it looked fun.”
When her husband arrives, I lock the door behind them and return to my desk to shut off the computer.
Despite the foul weather, I’m in a good mood as I drive home. It’s only a few blocks, but I’d be soaked if I attempted to walk it. Generally, though, I don’t mind the rain. It gives me a reason to stay home, make a cup of tea, and read.
Who am I kidding? I don’t need a reason to do that.
The library is located on Main Street in downtown Wild Heart, next to the Honeybee Hideaway where the coffee is terrible but the pie is to die for. Here, quaint shops, boutiques, and restaurants nestle in historic buildings that line both sides of the street. A block down the road is the courthouse and the town square park, which features a lovely gazebo.
It’s quiet today, the rain keeping most people home, but that gives me the chance to appreciate the charm of this town. As I turn into my neighborhood, I smile at the beautiful Victorians with wraparound porches.
But when I pull into the parking lot, my smile drops off my face when I see that douche’s silver BMW parked in front of my apartment building.
Shortly after Baylee’s wedding, I put it together. I’d been complaining to Baylee about my landlady’s son, the one who’d been ignoring maintenance requests and collecting rent while she recovered from a surgery. Baylee went quiet for a second before saying, “Wait. Silver BMW? Vance Kozlov? He crashed my wedding.”
She pulled up a photo on her phone, and there he was. The same guy I’d overheard talking to Jace in the next-door suite. The one who’d called me a dog while Jace said nothing.
I used to think of him as Bruh or Douchebag, but I now know his name is Vance.
After I park, I squint past my wiper blades that are losing the fight against the rain. I don’t see him in the foyer. Now’s my chance.
I don’t bother opening my umbrella, just throw my bag over my shoulder and race across the lot, praying I can make it to my apartment before Vance makes an appearance. I’m halfway to the door when I remember he still hasn’t given me my new lease. Dang it. Maybe I should track him down.