Blame it on the Tequila Page 3

  “It’s weird,” I said.

  “That it is,” he agreed. “At least you have your normal school.”

  “Yeah.” I dug deep for normalcy to fill the small talk while we waited for our parents to join us at the table. “Are you bummed to leave your old school your senior year?”

  He shrugged. “A little. But it’s a cool adventure. New York is bigger than Chicago, and I’m always up for exploring.”

  “I have no doubt you’ll fit in perfectly.”

  “I hope you don’t mind breakfast for dinner,” my mom said, walking in with a platter of pancakes for an army. Brad followed behind, his hands equally as full as my mom’s.

  “Breakfast is good at any time of day,” Parker answered.

  “Nova loves breakfast, too.”

  Parker nodded with approval, and my heart jumped for joy like I’d been admitted into a club. Although, when Parker squirted grape jelly over his scrambled eggs, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in the club anymore.

  He looked up and laughed. “Don’t judge me, it’s good. Have you ever had it?”

  I tried to pull the look of disgust off my face and failed. “No. Because it’s grape jelly and eggs. I don’t need to try it to know those don’t go together.”

  “You’re missing out,” he explained around the huge bite he took.

  “So, Parker,” my mom started. “I see you’re fitting into New York well. You’ve definitely been busy.”

  That was putting it lightly. In less than a month of moving to New York, Parker came and went like he had the social calendar of the queen.

  “Yeah, I met Ash almost as soon as we moved in.”

  “Ash?” I asked.

  “The guy who lives three floors down. He said he goes to school with you.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I played it off like I knew who it was the whole time when in reality, I only recalled dark hair and a tall body. I kind of kept my head down for the most part at school, preferring to sit back and observe and lose myself in art.

  “Ash plays bass, right?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah, he’s going to introduce me to his buddy, Oren, who plays drums. With me on guitar, we were thinking of seeing if we could get a band together.”

  My mom stiffened, her fork freezing over her egg whites. She’d been married once before, to my dad, who’d been an aspiring musician. One who’d been blindly ambitious to anything but his own dreams, leaving us behind in the process—but not before he tried to use us to get ahead. I watched my mom carefully school her reaction with a smile.

  “That’s right, you were part of a band in Chicago.” I had to give her props for at least sounding interested and not letting her existing experience shut him down.

  “Yeah, kind of. We really just jammed. I was the only one serious enough to want more.”

  “You’ll get there,” Brad encouraged.

  “I know,” Parker answered, not a drop of doubt lingering behind his words.

  “You know, Nova’s pretty artistic,” Brad said, turning the spotlight to me. “You should check out some of her art.”

  “Oh, no.” I waved the suggestion away. “I’m sure he’s busy.” I imagined watching Parker take in my work and cringed internally. I loved my artwork—wanted to share it with the world. I just didn’t want to stand there and watch them study it…in my room. Which was where I kept everything.

  It felt too…personal, and all I could imagine was him forcing interest in something he thought was lame.

  “Nah, I’d love to see it.” He pushed past my objections, and I forced a smile, desperately trying to hide my discomfort. I’d probably need to practice that face when he laughed at some of my drawings.

  “You two should hang out more,” my mom said. “Nova always wanted a brother.”

  And just like that, my cringe was back. I dropped my gaze to my plate, not wanting anyone else to see my reaction to calling Parker my brother. The last thing I thought of when looking at him was brotherly. When I braved a look up at him, he watched me in a way that didn’t remind me of a brother either. But as soon as I met his blue eyes, he looked away, making me wonder if I made it up.

  By the end of dinner, I hoped he’d forgotten about the suggestion, but no such luck. We dropped our dishes off at the sink, and before I could make a break for it, he stopped me.

  “Ready to show me your art?”

  “Oh. Umm…”

  My eyes shot wide, bringing a full laugh from his parted lips. I could imagine then that he sang as well as played the guitar I heard through the walls occasionally. There was no way a guy could have a laugh that melodic and not sing. The deep timber filled the room and sank into my chest, making me feel more at home than I had since we moved here.

  “Don’t worry. You don’t have to show me.”

  “I just don’t usually show anyone, and you were kind of cornered into it, so no pressure to turn back. I know you’ve got plans.”

  “I’ve got time. Besides, I’m interested. And we’re family now, right?” he joked.

  That was not the reminder I needed right then as I wondered what his laugh would sound like with my ear pressed to his chest.

  I hesitated, a million possibilities playing out in my mind. What if he laughed and hated it? What if he made fun of me? What if he tried to placate me and pretend he liked it when he thought it sucked, and then he made fun of me behind my back?

  But then he smiled and closed the gap, his height more intense with each step closer. The doubts passed, and I clung to the warmth of home he ignited. Before I could question it anymore, I murmured a quick, “Sure.”

  “Sweet.”

  I laughed, shaking my head at his excitement.

  Trying to brush off the nerves and act as cool as him, I turned toward my room. By the time we walked through the bedroom door, my legs shook like jello, and my lungs worked overtime.

  Be cool. Be cool.

  “Man, I think you got the better deal on the room,” he said, looking around.

  I remembered the first time I saw the apartment and requested this room. My mom hadn’t understood when it was more of an oversized office with no closet. But she never did. She never saw the natural light streaming in the windows from all sides. She didn’t see the space to have my bed and a large enough area to keep my oversized workbench.

  But Parker did.

  “I bet you have a hard time leaving in the morning.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The morning light through these windows has to be inspiring.”

  A slow smile stretched my lips. That sensation of home grew almost too big. “Yeah, it is,” I agreed softly. “I get my best work done then.”

  He turned away from the art tacked to the wall and smiled. In that moment, I realized maybe Parker and I weren’t so different after all. He may be outgoing while I hung back, but I think we both searched for a little understanding. Not many people understood the unique traits of an artist.

  “What are those?” he asked, nodding behind me.

  I whipped around, fully prepared to find a stack of my bras or something.

  Worse.

  My stack of journals piled as high as my nightstand. If I thought my drawings hinted too much to my inner soul, it was nothing compared to the nakedness that overwhelmed me at the thought of him reading my scribbled notes and poetry.

  “Oh, um, just some writing stuff.” I waved my hand, trying to play it off.

  “Cool,” he said, walking past me to the pile.

  It took all I had not to slap my hand over the pile when he brushed his finger over the top one.

  “Can I?”

  No. Hell no.

  “Um, sure.”

  Wait. What?

  All air ceased in my lungs, and blood rushed to my ears as he flipped through the pages. Maybe if I stood super still, I’d disappear, and I wouldn’t have to face the outcome of him looking over my words.

  “You look at me, but you don’t see. You hear me, but you’re not listeni
ng. Why exist at all when the real me is a ghost haunting the person you really wanted?”

  Hearing my words in his masculine voice turned my body into one live, vibrating pulse. This was it. This was the moment I’d pass out and make it a million times worse.

  He flipped a few more pages, and I stood frozen like a statue.

  “You should write music,” he finally said.

  “What?” I squeaked out.

  “Yeah. Your words are amazing. I could totally put this to a beat. I can already hear some of it in my head.” He bobbed his head to a tune only he could hear.

  “Oh. I’ve never thought of that. They’re just random things. Nothing, really.”

  “No.” He shook his head and looked up from the pages, meeting my eyes, and unlike the poem accused, he definitely saw me. “These are great.”

  Fluttering fire burned its way up my chest and into my throat. My cheek twitched, but I stood in too much shock and awe of his compliment to even form a smile.

  He obviously didn’t have the same struggle I did. He smiled enough for both of us, and it washed over me until finally, I found enough strength to smile back.

  “Thank you.”

  He opened his mouth, but the shrill ring of his phone shattered the moment. He closed the book and carefully placed it back as he tugged his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Ash. I was waiting for him to call.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll see you around.”

  “Yeah.”

  With a head nod from him and an awkward finger wave from me, he left.

  I didn’t know how long I stood there trying to see my small corner of the world from his point of view, but when I finally fell back on my bed, I saw it with more confidence than ever before.

  Parker Callahan had been in my life for a few months, and already he was changing it.

  Three

  Parker

  “You waiting on a booty call?” Brogan asked. “That’s the five-hundredth time you’ve check your phone this week.”

  I expertly dodged the bass pick he flicked my way from where he sat perched on the edge of the stage. However, I missed the guitar pick Ash hit me in the side of the head with. Brogan high-fived Ash when he plopped down next to him, both their feet dangling like kids.

  “I’ve barely looked at my phone.” The guys snorted and gave me matching looks that called bullshit. Rubbing a hand over my face, I glanced down at my phone again, like maybe a return message from Nova would randomly appear.

  Still not there. But my seventeen messages stared back at me.

  “You’ll never guess who I stumbled across.”

  “Angelina Jolie?” Oren guessed, coming up behind the rest of the guys. “Please say Angelina Jolie. And that she’s coming to our show tonight and then back to the hotel to see me because she was just using you to get to me.”

  “Wow, that’s detailed, bro,” Brogan said.

  Oren shrugged. “We’re on tour,” he said like it explained it all. And it kind of did. The days blurred, and the mind struggled to keep up, even only a few days in. So, random ass thoughts and fantasies made sense.

  “Who?” Ash asked, bringing us back to the point of the conversation.

  For a second, I considered lying and avoiding telling them like I had all week, but frankly, I needed to get it off my chest, and no one knew what I’d gone through with Nova better than them.

  “Nova.”

  I wished I had a camera out and ready to snap the various stages of shock marring their faces. It ranged somewhere between the same wonder I felt and a minor flicker of hurt that they carried around with them, too.

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up,” Brogan said first.

  “How?”

  “When?”

  “Dude, how?”

  They pestered me like a crowd of rabid fans rather than my three bandmates.

  “Calm the fuck down,” I shouted.

  “How am I supposed to calm the fuck down when you drop that bombshell,” Oren asked. “It’s fucking Nova.”

  I shook my head, still unable to believe my luck last week. “I was doing my usual Instagram live with some fans, and I randomly picked a person. At first, it was someone else—her friend—and then she flipped the screen, and there she was.”

  “Oh, shit,” Brogan said.

  “Dancing in some bridesmaid dress.”

  “What?” Oren screeched.

  “Remember that one house party we went to, and she danced,” I reminded them.

  “Oh, fuck yeah, I do,” Ash said with his devious trademark smirk.

  “She was dancing like that.”

  “Fuck,” Ash shouted. “You should have come and got us or screen recorded it or something.”

  “How is she?” Brogan asked.

  “Where is she?”

  “Do you have her number?”

  “Did you actually talk to her or just watch like a perv?”

  “Are you talking to her again?”

  “Does she miss us?”

  “Did you ask her why she left us?”

  “Jesus, you guys,” I said, holding my hands up to slow the barrage of questions. “One at a time.”

  “Well, stop pussy-footing and speak,” Ash ordered.

  “She’s…good. And yes, I actually spoke to her. I may have had to threaten to contact her friend for her number if she didn’t give it to me.”

  “Is her friend hot?” Brogan asked.

  “Is she single?” Oren added.

  I pinched my lips and gave them a hard stare. They held their hands up in surrender before motioning to continue.

  “So, I call her, and we talk. It was short, so I didn’t get to ask where she was or anything.”

  “But you have her number?”

  “Yeah.”

  All three of them moved at once and swarmed me. Next thing I knew, Oren held my phone up in victory and entered my password, quickly scrolling for Nova. Before he could hit her name, I snatched it back.

  “I talked to her last week, and she hasn’t picked up when I’ve called or responded to any messages since.”

  Some of the excitement dimmed, and reality crashed back in. The guys sunk back to lean against the stage, searching the ground like it held the answers about the right way to feel. In reality, we all hurt and didn’t want to see it mirrored back at us when we looked at each other.

  We’d been a family—an immature one that made mistakes. Mistakes I knew clung to each of us in different ways. However, even when you made a mistake, it didn’t make the consequence any less difficult to deal with.

  Like losing part of your family. Or for me, losing everything.

  “I don’t really blame her,” Brogan muttered, digging his toe against the ground.

  “It still would have been nice to see her,” Oren added.

  “How did she look?” Ash asked.

  I smiled softly, remembering those green eyes lowered seductively as she danced toward the camera. “Amazing.” I recalled how many times she’d looked up at me with those same heavy eyes, only this time, they held a wealth of understanding that they hadn’t when we were teens. “But I didn’t get to see much of her. As soon as she realized what her friend had done, she’d looked like a deer in headlights and left the live video.”

  “Oh, man,” Oren laughed, slapping his thigh. “I bet it was epic.”

  “It was pretty funny.”

  “Remind me why you haven’t talked to her again,” Brogan asked.

  “She hasn’t picked up. According to her Instagram, she’s on a trip. But I also think she’s avoiding me.”

  “She has Instagram?” Ash asked, pulling out his phone. “What’s her name?”

  “Psithurism.” His brows shot up, and I spelled it out. “Apparently, it means the sounds of the wind in the trees.”

  The guys crowded around Ash, and I already knew what they’d find since I’d scrolled through each picture a million times.

  “Dude, she’s got a million followers,�
�� Brogan said.

  “Are you sure this is her?” Ash asked. “She doesn’t show her face at all.”

  “Yeah, it’s her.” I had no doubt. I’d know that red hair anywhere. I’d dreamt of those long limbs almost every night. Then there was one of the photos that showed part of her profile, and I noticed the beauty mark just behind her ear that always sent chills down her back when I kissed her there.

  “Daaaaaamn,” Oren crowed. He didn’t have to explain. I knew they stumbled on one of the many that she posted of her naked back as she lounged in a lake or on the edge of a cliff.

  “All right, ladies,” Aspen, our manager, called from the stage. “Equipment is setup, so let’s get going.”

  She stood taller than her five-foot-four frame, her attitude and confidence adding a few more inches—the black stilettos helped too.

  Ash shoved his phone back into his pocket. “If you hear from her, let us know.”

  “Sure.”

  Once upon a time, I’d worried Ash also had a thing for Nova, but in one drunken confession, he admitted he would flirt with her to push my buttons because it’d been the only way to make me take what I so obviously wanted. It’d just been hard to take when that someone was your stepsister.

  “Parker,” Aspen called. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  I headed her way while the guys strapped up. “What’s up?”

  “I know you’re struggling with lyrics,” she started, and I rolled my eyes before she finished. “Don’t give me that. This is your job, and it’s my job to make sure you do your job. If you can’t do your job, then it’s my job to do what I can to make it happen.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I know. And usually, that would be enough, but we’re doing a big push this year. You’re on the cusp of being a great. A Rolling Stones, Foo Fighters, Led Zeppelin. Parker, this is the push to be legendary forever and not just a forgotten band who almost made it.”

  “I know that,” I growled.

  “Good, because I wanted to talk to you about bringing on a songwriter.”

  “No. We write our own music.”

  “And if you were actually writing anything, I’d believe you.” She matched my glare with a dark one of her own. Aspen was the record label owner’s daughter. She had a lot to prove, and because of that, her determination to see us succeed broke through any barrier in her way. “Listen, I get writer’s block,” she said softer. “I’m not saying we just buy some lyrics. I’m saying we find a way to get someone to work with you. Even if that person just comes in and says something absurd that sparks a song for you, then that’s good enough. Even if you don’t use a thing they create, I just need you to create.”