Rocked (The Everyday Heroes World) - Julia Wolf Page 0,1
was and who I was. I didn’t particularly want to be the guy who snorted blow off groupies’ asses anymore. But I didn’t know who I wanted to be.
Megan approached with my food, sliding a heavy plate in front of me. I picked up my fork to dig in, but she didn’t move. Instead, she cocked a hip and gave me a long once-over.
I raised my brows. “Yeah?”
She chomped her gum. “Has anyone ever told you you look like that guy? The old guy?”
My nostrils flared. “What old guy?” I had a feeling I was the old guy. Goddamn did that sting.
She flicked her wrist and rolled her eyes, searching for a name. “You know...he’s got a real stupid name.” Fingers snapped. “That’s it. Devon Chambers. You look like him, but less douchey.”
“Just old then?”
Her giggle was sardonic. “You could be his slightly younger, less douchey brother. How’s that?”
I scraped the tines of my fork along my plate, and we both winced at the grating sound. “Guess I’ll take it. Glad I’m not quite old yet.”
Megan cracked her gum. “I mean, you could be dead. There are worse things than being old, I suppose.” She straightened, like she just remembered I was the customer and she worked here. “Well, I hope you enjoy your food. I’ll be back around in a bit.”
I rapped my knuckles on the table. “Keep the coffee flowing.”
She winked, pouring sarcasm into the gesture. “Sure thing.”
I bit back a groan at how damn young she was—and how old that made me feel—as I spread out the arts section of the newspaper, reading as I ate. Didn’t know if it was strange, but before embarking on this trip, I’d never read a newspaper before. I’d gone thirty-five years without ever smudging newsprint on my fingers or starting an article on the front page and searching for the ending on another. I’d discovered pretty early in my journey people left newspapers everywhere. It was kinda like the “take a penny, leave a penny” container at cash registers. One guy would leave his newspaper behind for the next person to read, and when that guy reached his next destination, he’d inevitably find a newspaper waiting for him.
An article about Dylan McCoy caught my eye. She made magic happen for Jett Kroger—now, if Megan called anyone douchey, it should be him—by writing most of his songs for several albums. A couple years ago, she disappeared for a while, then came back in a big way, putting out her own album. Voice of an angel with lyrics that’d strip you raw. Her star started rising at the same time mine began falling—plummeting, really. I gave her props. She deserved all the accolades and attention.
The part of the article that had me putting my fork down and paying close attention was where Dylan talked about her new home, not in LA or New York, but in Sunnyville, California, a small town surrounded by vineyards and national forests. No recording studios, no paparazzi, no pressure. She’d moved there to concentrate on writing music and had decided to stay.
“No one in town cares that I’m famous—does that sound pretentious? They’ve adopted me as one of their own. It helps that my husband is a hometown hero. Who doesn’t love a sexy fireman who’d literally walk through flames to save a stranger?” Ms. McCoy smiled at her husband, firefighter Grady Malone, as he listened in on the interview. “I’m part of something here, bigger than music or my career, which makes it easier to create.”
Easier to create? Well…damn, I’d like some of that.
Megan stopped by the table, holding a pot of scalding coffee over my head as she peered at the article. “Dylan McCoy is the shit,” she declared. “Devon Chambers should watch what she’s doing if he ever wants to make a comeback.”
Ignoring her jab— ’cause let’s face it, the kid wasn’t wrong—I pointed to the picture of Dylan strolling along an idyllic-looking main street.
“You ever heard of Sunnyville, California?”
She plopped the coffee carafe down on the table, the fiery-hot glass skimming my knuckles. While I sucked on the singed skin, Megan whipped out her phone.
“Never heard of it. Looks like it’s about eight hours from here, so no wonder.” She put her phone away and cocked her hip again. “If I was driving that far, I’d want to wind up in San Francisco or something, not some podunk town with nothing to do but pick grapes and drink wine.”