Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96712 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 322(@300wpm)
“Well, you do need a kick up the ass about that too, but that’s not the real reason I’m in here.”
“Okay, here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ll go with you to your gig if you promise not to mention your brother again for an entire month.”
He narrows his eyes. “A week.”
“Two weeks.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it and then I dress so we can get our asses out the door for Jet to make it to the club in time for setup.
Club Soho is the type of club that has gone through a million transformations since its early days in the nineties. There’s been a wide scale from grunge to hipster and everything in between. It’s unfortunately still in its hipster infancy, but I assume that will change again in a few years.
With black walls, wooden tables, and bartenders with beards long enough to braid, the whole place makes me antsy, but I don’t know why. Maybe this is the new me. Ever since Matt left, I’ve found any type of socializing daunting.
Jet drags me to the bar. “Hey, Scott, this is my brother Noah. Give him whatever he wants.”
Scott’s eyes flitter between us. “Brother?”
“Yeah. My brother. What’s your point?” Jet tries to hold in his smirk.
I lift my chin to the bartender. “He’s being a dick. I’m with his brother. As in … all domesticated and shit.”
I die a little at the lie, which is weird for me. Lying comes as second nature to a politician’s son. I learned from the best. But pretending to be happy with someone who moved away and I haven’t spoken to since he left … it stings.
I order a scotch and find a table along the back wall, tucked behind a load-bearing pole. I think I’ll sit here all night and hibernate.
After a soundcheck, the club starts to fill, and Jet disappears backstage. My phone burns a hole in my pocket, but I know all I’ll do is read that damn message again, so I refrain from taking it out.
Four drinks later, the band comes out to a deafening roar of applause, but Jet doesn’t take to the stage. I bet he’s sweating bullets waiting to be introduced as the new guy. My leg bounces nervously for him.
The bassist takes to the mic. He’s got more tatts than Jet—a full two sleeves. Ear gauges, mohawk … he’s the stereotypical rocker, unlike Jet who looks arty and soulful.
“Hey, Club Soho!”
The crowd cheers once again, and they get a chant going. “Benji, Benji, Benji.”
“I know, I know,” the guy says. His Australian accent is thicker than Jet’s Southern one. Interesting mix. “It’s been a while since we’ve been back, but anyone following us on Twitter will know we’ve been abandoned by he who shall be furthermore known as Voldemort, and we’ve been searching for someone to replace him since. So, here he is, the bloke who has saved our asses. Fallout welcomes Jet Jackson!”
Pride swells in my chest as Jet makes his way front and center of the stage and gives the audience an arrogant smile. “Promise to go easy on me,” he says into the mic.
Before anyone has a chance to heckle the new guy, the band breaks out into a cover of Train’s “Drive By” and the crowd goes nuts.
Jet is … amazing. I mean, I’ve heard him singing from his room and fiddling with his guitar when he’s writing music, but with the atmospheric crowd and his incredible presence, he comes alive as he bounces across the stage with Jet-like energy.
It sucks Matt’s missing this.
Without much thought to my self-imposed talking ban, I take out my phone and FaceTime the guy I wish I could get out of my head.
He answers with a sleepy yawn, his brown hair sticking up at all angles and looks sexy as fuck. An I hate you is on the tip of my tongue, but with the loud background, he wouldn’t hear it anyway.
I hold up my finger, because I have no idea what he’s saying when his mouth moves and then flip the phone the other way so he can see the stage instead.
Jet kills the song, but maybe I’m biased. Then again, if the group of girls standing near my table are anything to go by, I’d say he’s won them over too.
Good luck, ladies.
During the second song—one of the band’s originals—my phone vibrates in my hand. I don’t know when Matt ended the call, but there’s a text message.
Matt: Go outside and call me. Please.
I want to tell him no, but even eight hundred miles away, he has a hold over me that I can’t shake. My eyes go back to the stage. Jet’s in his element, and I’m sure he won’t even notice if I duck out for a second, but I still use it as an excuse.