The Girl's Got Secrets (Forbidden Men #7)(37)

Before I could explain all that to Jodi, though, Asher grabbed my arm. “Holy shit, Sticks, you will not believe this.” Excitement radiated from his voice as he continued to shake my shoulder vigorously. “That was some casino owner from Chicago. He was here tonight and saw our show. And he wants us to play at one of his clubs. Next Saturday. He offered us two grand for one night. Can you f*cking believe that?”

My mouth dropped open in shock as Asher threw back his head and let out a relieved, happy, excited laugh. “I’ve been working for over a year to get us an opportunity like this. Then you’re with us one night—one f*cking night—and boom, we’ve got an offer from f*cking Chicago. You’re some kind of good luck piece, you know that?”

“I...” No words came. I shook my head, feeling some of the same awe as him, but also gaining a load of nerves.

For real, though... Fuck! I couldn’t tell him what I was now. What if it pissed the guys off enough that they kicked me out of the band? Then, where would they be? They needed a drummer for next weekend. I couldn’t let them down. I couldn’t let Asher down. He looked so freaking adorable when he was excited like this.

And yes, damn it, I really wanted to play at that bar in Chicago, too.

So, yeah, I guess this meant Sticks, the dude drummer, was going to have to hang around just a little bit longer.





That call. That wonderful, amazing, life-changing phone call.

Ever since I’d gotten it, I’d been a bundle of anticipation and nerves. The whole thing reeked of Pick, however. I mean, seriously. Why would some big-time casino owner from Chicago be down here in Ellamore and inside the Forbidden Nightclub, of all places, to even hear us play? I had a feeling my new brother had pulled a few strings to get the guy into the building. And yep, when I’d straight up asked Pick about it, he’d suddenly turned too vague and busy to talk.

I wasn’t sure what to do about that. Just appreciate it and move on? Somehow try to repay him? Tell him to stop because I knew someday he’d regret helping me? I wasn’t sure, so I decided to not even think about it for now.

I concentrated on the positives...like the fact Non-Castrato had just been given the opportunity of a lifetime. Good things were about to happen, I could feel it, like some kind of adrenaline rush surging through my veins. It had my muse running wild with ideas for songs, and my chronic insomnia hitting a new high.

The afternoon after the call, I sat on the seat of an old exercise bike, scribbling lyrics in my notebook, and jiggling my knee to expend some of the extra energy still tweaking though me. I paused every few seconds to sing the words in my head, then I marked out a phrase here, or sometimes a whole line there that didn’t work, and I wrote in something new above or below it.

I’d just come up with a stanza that made my blood pump eagerly when someone called, “Knock, knock.”

Glancing up, I grinned at the new drummer. “Hey, man. You’re early again. That’s going to be a thing with you, isn’t it?”

Sticks shrugged as he strolled into the garage, carrying a restaurant’s takeout bag, which shit...smelled really good. “And here, I’ve yet to be earlier than you,” he noted.

“Touché,” I murmured, watching him plant himself on his drum set stool and open the bag, only to pull out a fried burrito-looking thing that made my mouth water, and reminded me it’d been too long since I’d last eaten.

I never remembered to eat or sleep when I was binge writing.

But when Sticks sank his teeth into the fried breading, I couldn’t handle it. “What the hell is that?” I demanded. “It smells amazing.”

Pausing mid-bite, Sticks lifted his eyebrows and glanced my way. Then he bit down, chewed a second and finally covered his hand over his mouth before saying, “Sorry. I had to come straight from work and was starving.”

“No.” I waved my hand. “I don’t care if you have to eat. Whatever. That’s totally fine. I meant, specifically what is that you’re eating?”

“Oh. It’s a chimichanga.” When I licked my lips, he arched an eyebrow and held it higher in my direction. “You want one? I have more in the bag.”

“Really?” I instantly came to my feet. “Fuck, yes, I want one.”

Smirking, Sticks pulled another chimichanga free and handed it over. I unwrapped it and took my first bite, barely thanking him before diving in, and that was that; I was a goner. We spent the next few minutes in silence, quietly inhaling our food before I could form a coherent word. Finally, I pointed at my mostly eaten chimichanga and announced with a full cheek, “This is good.”

“I know.” Sticks wiped his mouth with a napkin. “My family owns the restaurant. I grew up on this shit.”

“Lucky bastard.” I made a small whimper and closed my eyes as I downed the last little bite I had. Taking note of the name of the restaurant on the side of the bag, I decided I needed to go to Casta?eda’s for a full meal someday soon.

“Seriously, I didn’t mean to interrupt whatever you were doing.” Sticks motioned to my abandoned notepad across the room.

I shrugged. “No worries. I’d just written down what I needed to. You got any other extra food in there you don’t want?”

With a chuckle, Sticks reached into the bag. “I have a couple empanadas.”