Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“So what now?” I ask.
“We set a trap,” Uncle Bryce says. “And we bring these fuckers to justice once and for all.”
My uncle’s words make me want to shudder, but oddly, a feeling of calm settles over me.
Set a trap.
Bring the fuckers to justice.
Yes, please.
Because once that happens, I’ll be free of this.
Free to marry Rory Pike.
Free to just be…me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
RORY
I haven’t heard from Brock since he left this morning, and now the band and I are getting ready for our next performance. After this one, we head back to Colorado and Grand Junction for a few gigs there.
Tonight is our last chance to catch the eye of an agent—the Grand Junction venues, while they’re great little gigs and we play there a lot, don’t attract agents at all.
Selena Campbell from Rossi turned out to be a bust. She was only interested in getting laid by a rocker—which Cage and Jake were happy to help her with.
Jesse gathers us for a moment of silence before the performance.
“There are supposed to be a few agents in the audience tonight,” he says, “but of course the manager can’t guarantee anything.”
“Of course not,” I say dryly.
“But we’ll do what we always do,” Jesse says. “We’ll give it our all because we’re not playing for an agent or anyone specific. We’re playing for the audience, and we’re playing for ourselves.”
“That’s right,” I agree. “We’re here to entertain. Not solicit.”
“Agreed,” Cage says.
Dragon and Jake murmur their agreement as well, and then we have a moment of silence.
Jesse started the moment of silence when the band first got together all those years ago. I have no idea what the other members of the band do during this moment. It’s a private moment that we never speak about. I’m pretty sure Jesse says a quick prayer. We weren’t brought up to be overly religious, but we were taught to believe in a higher power and to be grateful for our food, clothing, shelter. For our intelligence, talents, and most of all, our family.
I say a quick prayer too.
But it’s not a prayer for success.
It’s simply a prayer for the strength and power to do our best.
Back when I was auditioning in New York, I used to plead with God, or the universe, or whatever—my religious views changed weekly—for success. I begged to become an operatic superstar.
Those prayers were never answered.
I finally came to peace with it, so now? I simply ask whatever powers are out there to be with me so that I can do my best.
Once our moment of silence is over, we take the stage.
We’re on fire tonight. Really on fire.
We leave last night’s concert in the dust.
If there are any agents in the audience? They’d be foolish not to sign this band.
Jesse and I—our voices harmonize perfectly. The rest of the band is on it as well. I have two degrees in music, and I did not hear one missed note all night. That’s almost unheard of. For any performer.
After our two encores, we leave the stage.
This particular venue has a crew to help us pack up—a nice perk. Even if we don’t have an agent who sees us and signs us, we were a hit, and we’ll be asked back.
I’m sweating profusely, so I tell the guys I’m going to head to the bar for some water.
“You guys rocked,” a handsome bartender says. “How have we never booked you before now?”
“We don’t play Utah very often,” I tell him. “Mostly Colorado and California when we can.”
“We need to have you back. The house was packed. Standing room only. Didn’t you see?”
“Honestly? I love the audience. I’m singing for them, but I’m kind of inside my own head. Not worrying about who’s watching. Sometimes I can’t see them anyway because of the lighting.”
“Really? That’s surprising. You totally played the audience. You’re sex personified up there.”
I open my mouth to say… I don’t know what, when—
“I agree. Sex personified.”
I turn to the man sitting next to me. He wasn’t there when I sat down.
Talk about sex personified…
Of course he’s nothing compared to Brock Steel, but he’s hot. He’s wearing a suit, which is odd, for a rock concert, and his blond hair is cut short. His face is chiseled and handsome.
“I’m Sequoia McAllister.” He holds out his hand. “With the Lane Agency out of LA.”
An agent? Named Sequoia? Interesting.
“That’s a very unique name,” I say.
“I come from a long line of hippies,” he says. “My mother’s name is Rainbow. She doesn’t know what to do with a clean-cut guy like me.”
I laugh. “Interesting. I’m Rory Pike.”
“Oh, I know who you are.”
“Which agency did you say you’re from?”
“The Lane Agency.” He pulls a card out of his wallet and hands it to me.
I take a look at it, run my fingers over the raised lettering. Sequoia McAllister. Junior Agent.