Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 168(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone, Clover.” The other woman won’t stop staring at me. The back of my neck starts to itch.
“It’s new,” Irish admits. “We met recently.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you look like—"
“Marco Asensio? Occasionally, but once they see me trying to play soccer, the comparison dies a quick ugly death,” I joke.
“I have no idea who that is,” Amy replies. “Actually, I was thinking of a singer, but I’m blanking on his name. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
If I threw Irish over my shoulder and ran out of the hardware store, would anyone notice?
“Here’s the lock. It’s an easy install. You should be able to do it if you follow the instructions.” Brian appears like a big, burly savior.
“No worries.” I take the lock.
“You’re handy around the house?” Irish raises her eyebrows. “But can’t cook?”
“Those are two different skill sets.” In my early days, I built and broke down my own sets. I might not know how to scramble eggs, but I’m good with a power drill.
“Hey, Brian, who’s the act having the big concert at Allegiant in Las Vegas this weekend?” Amy queries.
I nudge Irish toward the door. Hopefully we can exit before my name comes out of someone’s mouth.
“Coldplay.”
“No, the guy who sings—” Amy hums a few notes of my most popular single.
“Dylan Sign.” Brian replies with my stage name. Never have I been more grateful that when Clover asked for my ID, that I showed her the one with my real name. I wanted her to know the real me.
“Right.” She snaps her fingers and then points toward me. “You both have the same first name.”
“Who?”
Brian casts me a speculative gaze. “Rock guy. Has had multiple big hits. Was supposed to win a Grammy a couple years ago but lost to some new girl who was the daughter of a big industry dude.”
“Exactly. He’s so hot.” Amy can’t stop looking at me. I hug Irish closer.
“What’s hot about him?” Brian demands. “Just because he’s a singer and has some money doesn’t make him a decent guy.”
“Who cares if he’s decent? I just want a chance with him.” Amy runs her tongue across her teeth.
“He’d cheat on you, break your heart, and make you miserable, Amy dear.” Brian has nothing nice to say about me. “And you’re just attracted to him because he’s a star. The Beatles had one decent set of teeth between the four of them and still made good girls lose their minds.” This time, he shifts his glare toward Irish.
Irish laughs and pats her chest. “Y’all worried about me? You know I’m the last person to get involved with a musician.”
“That’s true.” Amy gives a slow nod. But even as she’s paying for her purchases, I can tell her attention is fixed on me.
Meanwhile, Brian is hell-bent on dragging every bad rumor about me to the table.
“Heard he does drugs, is dating three women at one time, and treats his staff like shit.”
The last one hurt. I treat my staff well. I only hire union workers, pay well, give good benefits, and try to be punctual. The last one is a rarity in the music industry. Most concerts never start on time because the talent doesn’t show up until hours later, and when they do, they’re often stoned or drunk or both. That makes it hard on the staff, but if I speak up in my own defense, it’s only going to create a target I don’t want.
“Who knows how many kids he’s left behind?”
“Kids?” I burst out.
Irish tilts her head up and looks at me in confusion. “You sound surprised. People abandon their kids all the time, especially musicians.”
“Sure. Sure.” Belatedly, I realize this is a sore point for Irish. Her mom, a singer with an angelic voice, left her to be raised by her dad. Irish probably thinks most singers sacrifice goats to Satan in their dressing rooms before concerts. I’m going to have to do some reprogramming of her belief system.
I wave my hand with the lock in it. “Thanks for the goods, Brian. I’ll take good care of Irish. We don’t want her to get hurt.”
“That’s for damned sure,” he replies ominously.
Outside I say to Irish, “I don’t think that this rock star is that bad of a guy.”
“Why are you sticking up for him?”
“Because he can’t defend himself.”
“People like that don’t need you and me. They are surrounded by legions of staff that kiss their feet and affirm everything they do is perfect. It’s weird how you have the same name and were both in Vegas.”
Is she fishing for a particular answer? I search her face but see nothing but innocence.
“Yeah, it is weird, but Vegas is a big place. There’s bound to be more than one Dylan around. There’s a Dylan North who plays football for the Vegas team. I wouldn’t mind being him for a half a day.”