“You want to bail, don’t you?” Lang mumbles under his breath.
I nod a second time.
He knows me too well. Lang and I go way back. He was eight when he joined our group of friends. Instead of picking up an instrument, he chose to manage bands. Our band, Too Far from Grace, is his number one priority, but he has others to keep him busy.
“Talking to people is not your thing, but the fans bought tickets to spend time with you. Do it for the children.” The last sentence contains the magic words to drag me to the event. I’d do anything to help.
“What are we waiting for?” I ask. “Let’s get moving.”
“Hey, Cantú,” Matthew Decker calls out. “You did a great job. Whoever taught you to play the drums kicks ass.”
I give him the finger. “You have no shame, Mr. D.”
“Maybe not, but I’m still your hero, aren’t I?”
I laugh. He’s been teaching me to play the drums since I was eight. I’m not as great as him, but who is? Keith Moon, obviously.
“Do you have any idea how much money we raised?” I ask Lang as we make our way to the car, the driver already opening the door for us.
“Almost a million. Are you planning on matching the amount?”
“Yes. Would you mind doing that for me? I have to be in Baker’s Creek tomorrow morning. Life doesn’t stop in the Aldridge mansion.”
“I respect you, man. You can juggle a lot of balls—while doing charitable work.”
“It’s nothing,” I say.
“How’s your grandfather doing?”
Lang is probably expecting that I’ll say they found the cure, and we don’t have to go to Luna Harbor. Since the day I told him we needed to move, he’s been searching for an excuse not to join us.
“He’s going to be fine,” I say, then look at him. “Those are my father’s words. Personally, I don’t know what that means.”
“So, you still have to move to Luna Harbor?”
“We,” I remind him. “If Beacon, Fish, and Sanford are coming with me, you’re coming too.”
He sighs. “I’m not a small-town kind of guy. You know that.”
“You said the same about Baker’s Creek, and you love the place.”
“That’s what you think, but if I could, I’d avoid it like I avoid my parents,” he argues and looks briefly out the window, then focuses back on me. “How about housing? Is there a place where we can stay, or do I have to find a house for all of us?”
I shrug and give him the bad news. “My grandfather’s house is small. It only has two bedrooms. It’s just like Uncle Gary’s home. Plus, Nando and Efren already claimed Uncle Gary’s place. A couple of us can stay at Abuelo’s place, and you could rent a—”
“Stop,” he orders. “I need a big house where everyone will live until we’re ready to come back to Seattle. That’s what we’ve always done since moving to New York for college.”
I shake my head. “You’re not going to find a house big enough to fit all of us.”
His green eyes stare at me and then at his phone. He grins. “Is that a challenge, Manelik Cantú?”
“Sure.”
“Challenge accepted.”
Poor bastard, he’s not going to find anything, but I’ll let him live in a fantasy world for a few weeks. At least, until we move to Luna Harbor.
“Let’s make it a bet,” I say.
He grins. “Let me think about what I want you to do for me.”
Loser. His arrogance is going to make him my bitch for a year. Oh, I’ll have him go all the way to Seattle to fetch me coffee every morning. He’ll regret being such a cocky asshole.
Chapter Three
Manelik
I groan as my phone blares. When did I set up the fucking alarm? There’s a knock on my door. “Time to get up, princess.”
I throw my pillow toward the closed door and cover my head with the comforter. I should’ve stayed in Seattle and sent a text saying, I’m too fucking tired to leave my bed. Call me next year.
Instead, I used the band’s jet to fly to Baker’s Creek. At least we have a landing strip on the mansion’s property grounds. Landing in Portland and driving two hours would’ve killed me—literally.
“Argh.” I groan when there’s another round of knocking on my door. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
“We have work to do. Cock-a-doodle-doo.” That’s when I recognize the voice. Fisher.
“No, we don’t,” I complain, stretching. “I don’t care if the horses starve. They can crack the eggs the chickens laid and eat them.”
The asshole laughs.
“You can do it, princess. Come to papa.”
I remind myself this isn’t about the animals but our best friend, Beacon. He and his family need a hand around the house. It’s because of him that I get out of bed at the crack of dawn three times a week and run to the Aldridge Mansion to feed their farm animals and clean the barn. He’ll repay us when he can walk well and move to Luna Harbor.
“Give me a minute,” I say, reaching for last night’s jeans and a clean T-shirt.
When I come out, Fisher hands me a to-go mug filled with coffee. I take a sip and moan. “This is the best fucking thing in the world.”
“Should I leave you alone with the coffee?”
“If the band ever breaks up, we should open a coffee shop. You’ll be the barista,” I say, ignoring his stupid question.
He laughs. “Two days ago, you told San to open a bar. Do you think we’ll never play again? Are you so bored that you want to start your own business?”
I wish I had an answer for him. I’m not bored, but I’m not doing what I love. First, it was Beacon’s father making him stay in Baker’s Creek. We had to cancel our tours and we couldn’t go on many missions because he was, in a way, grounded.
Then…I sigh.
After one of the best missions, Beac almost died. It’s been more than four months. We were afraid he wouldn’t make it, but he did. Then we were told he might never walk again, but fortunately, he does. He works his ass off every day to recover his mobility. Yet we still don’t know if he’s going to be able to resume his life. One day, we’ll play together again. We just don’t know when.
Then there’s my life.
In a month, I have to move from Baker’s Creek to Luna Harbor because my family needs me. If I halted my life for Beacon Aldridge and his brothers, I should do the same for my father and my siblings.
When do I get to do my thing? I’m close to asking what is my thing?
“It’s just a figure of speech,” I say, moving the conversation along.
As we walk down Main Street, I glance at the small shops that are beginning to open. I wave at Hadley Aldridge as she switches the closed sign to open at My Cookie Jar, the bakery. She smiles and waves back.
Maybe Fisher isn’t wrong when he asks if I’m bored. I don’t think bored is the right word; perhaps it’s unfulfilled. Sure, I have the band, but we haven’t done much in almost eighteen months. It seemed as if the day Beacon’s father died, our band died with him. Well, that’s a little fatalistic but not too far from the truth.