Smitten - Lauren Rowe Page 0,3

if we’re going to be in Seattle for that spot, anyway, I’ll stay the whole weekend and take Mom out to dinner on her big day.” I look at Dax. “Can I come to Baby Claire’s birthday barbecue on Sunday?”

“Of course,” Dax says. “My whole family will be there. They’ll be stoked to see you.” He turns to Colin. “You should come, too, man. It’s been forever since all three of us have hung out with my entire family.”

Colin asks, “Is the entire ‘LA Branch’ of the family flying up to Seattle for the weekend?” It’s a reference to Dax and Violet, of course, plus, Dax’s older brother, Keane, and his wife, and Keane’s lifelong best friend, Zander, who’s an honorary Morgan, every bit as much as Colin and me.

“I’m not sure about everyone’s plans,” Dax admits. “But when they find out all three of us will be at the party, I’m sure they’ll get their asses up to Seattle, too.”

“Okay, last thing, guys,” Clive interjects, leaning his forearms onto his large desk. “I’ve received an interesting individual offer for Colin—something I wanted to tell him about when all three of you were present.”

Dax, Colin, and I look at each other, intrigued. Clive always has individual offers for Daxy, almost all of which he declines. But Clive never has anything specifically for Colin or me. Plus, he rarely tells Daxy about his individual offers when Colin and I are present.

Clive steeples his fingers. “Remember that interview you guys did on German TV at the end of the last tour?” He looks at Dax and me. “The one where you two told that funny story about Colin’s latest nickname?”

Of course, we remember. Yes, we were stoned during that interview, admittedly, but it wasn’t all that long ago, and it was highly memorable. A particularly funny interview, like Clive mentioned.

Basically, the story Dax and I told that day on German TV, in tag-team fashion, was this: Before 22 Goats left on tour, I threw a Halloween party at my small beach bungalow. I dressed as Shaggy from Scooby Doo—a nod to one of my lifelong nicknames. Dax and Violet dressed as Napoleon Dynamite and Pedro. And Colin, our resident gym rat, came dressed as Tom Cruise in Risky Business, wearing nothing but a button-down shirt, tighty-whities, and tube socks. But, of course, Colin being Colin, he wound up ditching his shirt after a few shots of tequila, and thereafter spent the remainder of the party showing off his ripped abs in nothing but his underwear and socks . . . Which quickly gave rise to a new nickname for our chiseled drummer—Underwear Model—a nickname that followed him around throughout the entirety of our tour.

Clive chuckles. “It seems someone at Calvin Klein saw that German interview, Colin. And now . . . ” He smiles. “They want to make you an actual underwear model.”

“No,” Colin says on a breath, his dark eyes wide.

Clive laughs and nods. “They’re offering you a major ad campaign! Print, digital, and a huge billboard in Times Square!”

“Holy shit.”

“And you want to know the pay?” Clive pauses for effect, his dark eyes sparkling, before saying, “A half-million bucks.”

Well, that’s it. We all lose it. We’re pounding on Clive’s desk. Grabbing Colin’s arm and shaking him. Losing our minds, basically. Because, as much as we razz Colin for this or that, we know this is a huge thing for him, personally. Colin has worked harder than anyone I know to transform his body over the past several years—to tighten and sculpt his middle school pudge into a goddamned work of art.

“We did this,” I shout at Dax. “You and me! We cast some sort of ‘Underwear Model Spell’ on our boy on German TV!”

Dax is dying of laughter. “We’re warlocks, dude! We’re magical beings, Fish Taco!”

“Quick!” I reply. “Let’s go back to Berlin for another interview and, this time, say Colin’s new nickname is ‘Smart Guy.’ God knows he could use some help in the brains department!”

Colin quips, “Yeah, and while you’re at it, you should probably say your new nickname is ‘Big Dick.’ God knows you could use help in that department.”

I laugh with glee, along with everyone else. It’s a reference to yet another inside joke among the three of us. I’m not small, I don’t think. But I’m not packing a donkey dick like Colin, either. I’m just an average dude with an average dick. And, through a series of events one night in our teens—events involving