Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 160(@200wpm)___ 128(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
We don’t exactly dispel the rumors, but that’s a marketing ploy more than anything else.
If it were true, we’re the worst boyfriends ever. We cheat on each other. A lot.
When the song finishes, all four of us are breathing heavy.
We say thank you and wish the crowd a great festival, and only when we leave the stage do I let myself think of Sherlock again.
I glance out at the crowd, at all the faces lining the barricades trying to get our attention.
I wave but don’t see who I’m looking for.
“Great set,” Thorne says.
“Did he—”
“I was too busy watching you guys rock it. Who would’ve thought your biggest song of the night would be a Katy Perry song?”
“I feel like we should be offended at that,” Seb says.
Jasper throws his arm around me as we head away from the stage and walk toward our tour bus. “Who fucking cares. They loved it, that’s the main thing. We’re gonna go get a drink. You in?”
I glance at Thorne.
He knows what I want. “I’ll go check the ticket booth again.”
“I’ll be in the bus. You guys go have fun.”
We break off in three different directions, and I’m thankful the guys are leaving me to my own devices.
I trudge through the desert to the backstage area where all the tour busses are parked and climb the steps of ours.
My first stop is the mini fridge.
Ignoring all the Dr. Pepper I ordered for him, I grab a beer and go sit at the little table to wait for the bad news.
Because it has to be bad news.
If he was here, I would’ve seen him by now, right?
The text comes through a few minutes later.
Thorne: Tickets are still at will call. Sorry, Cash. I know you really wanted it.
I didn’t know it was possible, but it’s as if my heart is breaking all over again. Eighteen-year-old me is sitting under the surface of my now harder features, threatening to bubble to the surface. Just like the night he walked away from me, the night he stood me up from a decade-long promise will mark itself in my chest as the second time Sherlock Emerson broke my heart.
I hold up my beer. “Cheers to heartbreak.”
The very mature plan is to get as hammered as everyone out in that desert, but on my second beer, there’s a loud rapping on the tour bus door.
It’s fucking open, shitheads.
They couldn’t have gotten so wasted in the short time since I left them they don’t realize the door is open, right?
There’s another knock and a deep voice I don’t know. “Mr. Kingsley?”
With a furrowed brow, I climb out from behind the table and stumble toward the door.
A huge security guard blocks the entrance. “There’s a guy here saying you’re expecting him, but he doesn’t have a backstage pass. Your manager said it’s okay, but I wanted to be sure.”
My heart stops dead.
Literally dead.
I’m dead, aren’t I?
I wasn’t on beer number two like I thought but beer number two hundred. I’m collapsed in my own pile of spew and dying slowly of liver failure or something.
Yet, when the security guy steps aside and a face I haven’t seen in forever fills the space, I know with certainty that I’m not fantasizing or dying or any of that.
No alcohol-induced dreaming could conjure someone so goddamn hot.
He still has his red hair, but it’s lighter and shiny like a strawberry blond. It’s swept back with product and looks silky smooth. He’s wearing a crisp light gray three-piece suit with a royal blue tie.
He’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life, and my mouth dries.
“You’re here,” I croak.
His smile is so much more grown-up.
All of him looks the same but more distinguished.
“May I come up?”
How is it possible his voice got even deeper?
Fuck. My cock strains against my tight pleather pants.
I nod.
He turns to the security guard and thanks him, but as he climbs the three steps, I have to force myself to step back. Because if he comes anywhere near me, the only catching up we’ll be doing is of the naked kind.
Only, he doesn’t stop. He follows me farther into the bus with a predatory look in his eye.
“Sherlock?” I rasp.
“Cashton Rosaline Kingsley.” I’m engulfed in his surprisingly toned arms. He used to be all skin and bones. Now he’s got some meat on him. “I’m home, baby.”
Holy. Shit.
Chapter Four
Locke
I couldn’t not come. I had to at least see him perform.
I’ve seen countless songs and concert clips on YouTube, but nothing—nothing—beats the real thing.
The plan was to watch him, maybe catch his eye and see if there’s any spark of recognition, but I couldn’t get remotely close to the stage.
Then it was too hot, so I moved to where pop-up tents were set up to get out of the sun.
Fucking ginger gene.