Wicked (Somerset University #2) - Ruby Vincent Page 0,8
check Landon’s schedule, but I’m sure we can fit something in.”
He has a schedule?
“Michael, sweetie,” Mrs. Reed called. “Time to go.”
Soon the boys were gone and it was just me and Adam. I brought him upstairs, bathed him, and then turned on his cartoons as we curled up in bed. He was out in twenty minutes.
Quietly, I tiptoed out of the room and went down to the kitchen.
I’ll cook Jaxson’s favorite to make up for our missed date. Roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and whatever he wants to drizzle on me for dessert.
It’ll be perfect.
JAXSON
“Look it up on your phone. Mine’s about to die.”
“I know the way,” said Gwen. “I go there all the time.” She held out her hand, a grin stealing over her face. “This means I drive.”
“Sure.” I tossed the keys over the hood. “It’s Ezra’s car. No loss for me if you ding it up.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why would I do that? I’m a great driver.”
I glanced around. “Who are you lying for?”
“Shut up.”
Howling, I slid into the passenger’s side. Gwen made herself at home pulling up the seat, adjusting the mirrors, and then messing with the radio.
“I miss your old car,” she said. “What happened to it?”
“Mama, I know you heard the rumors.”
“Been waiting for you to confirm them.”
“I sold it to pay off a cartel and Papa Van Zandt was so pissed he refused to buy me another.” I reclined the seat back and folded my hands behind my head. “Until he gives in, I’m riding around in this Porsche. It’s too bad. The speakers are shit.”
“Man, I wish I had your problems.” She cut me a look. “Except for the cartel part. How did you get mixed up with them?”
“That’s a story for later. Crank the volume up.”
“Ima let you get away with that because this is a seriously good song.”
She turned The Script up as high as it could go. We belted out the lyrics, tearing through town for the bar. Out of nowhere she turned it off.
“What the hell, they were getting into the chorus,” I protested.
“You can sing,” she stated. “Why don’t people know?”
“My girlfriend and the imaginary audience in my shower knows. Who else do I need to tell?”
She whacked my arm. “I’m serious. Why aren’t you in a band?”
“My boys don’t play. Except for Ryder but he only does classical.”
“You are allowed to form a group with people other than your boyfriends.”
“They’re my boys. Notice the lack of a compound word.”
Gwen smirked. “In my imagination, you’re getting naked with those hotties.”
I hummed. “But if I’m your kid brother, do those fantasies count as incest or pedophilia?”
She whacked me again. Thanks to Gwen, I went home bruised most days.
“You should start a band,” she said.
“Look, it’s like this. I like eating, not cooking. Driving cars, not building them. And listening to music, not making it. Dad gave me the real growing up. Being crammed in a van zipping all over the country to sing the same songs over and over again isn’t as fun as it sounds. And the whole time you’re sweating that if you stop for one second, you’ll become a has-been.”
“You’re too young to be this cynical.” Gwen pulled the Porsche up to the curb and killed the engine. “Sing because you love it. Don’t worry about anything else.”
“I just told you I love confining it to the shower. Is that good enough?”
She groaned like I was the most irritating person she ever met. “We’re here. The Taproom. The bands don’t go on for another couple of hours. You can watch me knock back a few beers until then.”
“It’s my lucky night,” I deadpanned.
The Taproom was the kind of smoky, shadowed dive you saw on television. Cheap upholstered booths lined the walls, and the middle was clear for the crowd to dance before the stage. I sat while Gwen ordered us drinks.
What a day this will be for Beyond Berlin. They woke up this morning thinking this place would be the highlight of their career. They’ll end the night looking at a deal with Interstellar Records.
Gwen slid into the booth and handed over my soda. “You’ll love Beyond Berlin. They match your style exactly. Something you can dance to but with a nice message.”
“Way to simplify my complex tastes.”
She grinned. “You’re not that complicated, Jaxson Van Zandt. Sorry to be the one to tell you.”
We passed the time talking music and inhaling greasy bar food. As the clock ticked closer to nine, the bar filled up.