Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78163 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“I have to go on alone.”
“Wait. What?” Tegan asked, narrowing his eyes in confusion.
“You heard me. This isn’t a chance for us, T. We’re the sideshow. Let’s be honest, we need Johnny. There’s no reason for both of us to look like idiots.”
“…and a few members of the funky but now sadly defunct Gypsy Coma. Give it up for Justin, Tegan, and Johnny!”
The spotlight searched the room like a spaceship landing in the desert. The second it found me, I grabbed Tegan’s arm and slammed my mouth over his. I cupped the back of his neck, making it difficult to for him to escape, but then softened the connection so I didn’t accidentally bite him. See? I’m not a total asshole.
Catcalls and wolf whistles broke through the thundering applause. I caught my brother’s confused look when I finally stepped away.
“What the fuck?” Tegan whispered.
“We just gave ’em something to talk about. I’ll wing the rest.” I held his gaze, wordlessly begging him to trust me; then I pasted a smile on my face and headed for the stage with my acoustic guitar.
Sound came at me through a vacuum. My mind whirled at full speed, stumbling over every injustice I couldn’t seem to shake and every stupid thing I’d done over the past six months. I had an unfortunate habit of taking a bad situation and making it ten times worse than it had to be. I overreacted, under-communicated, and tended to piss off anyone who tried to help. Words failed me unless I weaved them into a song.
I mentally blocked out the excess noise and did my best to ignore the eerie sensation that my past was literally closing in on me. I looked down at the strings for a beat and checked my fingers on the fretboard before I began.
“Walking into a quiet room, thinking I still can’t hear
Thinking I still don’t know the sound of my voice…”
It didn’t take long for me to hit my stride. My guitar-playing skills might be suspect, but I didn’t need precise notes to guide me. As long as the rhythm was there, I could get into my zone. I sang about lost innocence and disappointment, hopelessness and dreams of redemption. The music had a folksy vibe, but with additional instrumentation, it could fit any genre—rock, blues, country, pop. I’d been told my deep timbre and lilting arrangement sometimes sounded like early Springsteen. It was a nice compliment, but I didn’t aspire to copy anyone. I just wanted to write meaningful songs. And I knew this was a good one.
“You can go. You can go. I’m gonna do this my way.…”
I sang three songs back-to-back before pausing to thank the audience.
“Um, thanks for listening. You can find me at justincuevas-dot-com. I’m on Instagram and Twitter…when I remember to post. I’ll share some info about my new band soon, so um…check it out. I have one more song.” I strummed my guitar and gave a somewhat-feral smile. “But this one is from my last band. We used to do it as a head-bangin’ rock anthem, but when you sing it acoustically, you can hear the words better. It’s called ‘Karma.’ I’ll just leave it at that.”
I winked in Xena and Declan’s general direction before belting out the lyrics to one of the best songs I’d ever written—in my humble opinion. I swayed as the tempo built and looked for a face in the crowd to focus on, so I didn’t lose myself entirely. I avoided the corners and the bar and looked toward the back of the club where Carmine stood under a bar light with two good-looking men. One was tall and lean. The other was…hot, and he seemed vaguely familiar. I didn’t think I knew him, but I had a feeling I was supposed to. And at the risk of sounding completely bonkers, it was lust at first sight.
He looked older than me, maybe in his late thirties. Of course, I could have been wrong. But he had the aura of someone who’d been around the block more than once and could tell a few stories of his own. That alone fascinated me. I noted his sharp features: his heavy brow, straight nose, and square, lightly-bearded jaw. He was tall, dark, muscular, and hot as hell in a well-cut suit coat and jeans. A cross between a businessman and a badass motorcycle man. Sweet Jesus.
I fought the sudden urge to stop midnumber, hop off the stage, and strike up a conversation with him. I was in the middle of a gig here. Sure, it was a crappy one meant to exploit my fledgling band and publicize my ex’s new one, but I wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of losing control of my emotions and blowing it. As long as the stranger stayed right there, I had someone to sing to who didn’t want more than I could give. He seemed interested, and that was enough.