To say I’m on edge would be an understatement.

I’m sweating like a damn football player during two-a-days, and my stomach feels like I ate week-old Chinese food. If I feel all this by sitting in the waiting area for a pre-meeting, I have no idea what I’m going to feel like if I start signing papers.

I’m sitting at a fucking record label, about to have a meeting with an actual representative. Holy. Shit.

I take in the swanky lobby. It’s large and made up of nothing but windows on one wall. The furniture is modern and sleek, and there are trendy-looking canvases strategically nailed to the wall. And there’s the obligatory overly cheerful receptionist who’s now offered us something to drink three times.

Maura reaches her small hand over and presses down on my jiggling leg. “Stop it,” she says softly in that sweet voice of hers. “You’re starting to make me nervous.”

“You can’t be nervous,” I whine. “You’re my manager. Managers don’t get nervous.”

“You ready to start paying me yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well then I guess I don’t have to act like a manager yet,” she declares.

I sit forward and pull my wallet out. Grabbing the first bill I can find, I toss it onto her lap. “There’s your first payment. Now stop being nervous. Managers don’t get nervous.”

The beautiful blonde girl next to me lets out a happy, boisterous laugh, causing the receptionist to jump at the sudden sound.

“You’re something else,” she mumbles under her breath.

She may claim she’s nervous, but she doesn’t look it in the least. She’s wearing tight white pants, a white top, and one of those blazer things you always see the girls in fashion magazines wearing these days. Other than them, she’s the only one I know who can pull off the outfit she’s got going on. Maura’s classy and sexy and smart. All in one.

It’s been three days since Maura and Tanner broke up. It’s been three days since we had our come-to-Jesus talk and decided that we’re in limbo with our relationship, and that’s where we’re going to stay until we can both do something for ourselves for once. As far as I know, Maura hasn’t talked with Tanner. And I know that I sure as hell haven’t. Not that we talked much before, but still, not a single peep out of him.

From what I can tell, she’s taking the break-up fairly well. And since lying isn’t my thing, I have to admit that it makes me damn happy she isn’t wallowing around. I feel like this gives me a chance a lot faster than I expected one. We’ve spent the last three days playing it cool. We’ve talked and texted and hung out.

And we’ve kissed. Oh God have we kissed. And I’ve loved every moment of it.

I know this seems silly and juvenile, but as much as I love kissing Maura, I want more. Not only physically—I’m not a jackass—but emotionally. I want to know she’s mine, and I want her to know I’m hers. Because let’s be honest here; while I do think we both need to do something for ourselves for a change, I don’t think a relationship between us should depend on it. At least not for me. But maybe it does for her, so we’re gonna do it.

No, not do it. Shit. Now I’m thinking it. And Maura. Doing it with Maura. Fuck! Stop it, Fucker!

“Mr. Bentley, Ms. Doughers, Mr. Darren will see you now,” the red-haired receptionist says, coming around her desk and saving me from getting a woody before my meeting. “This way.”

I give Maura an apprehensive glance as we stand up. She reaches over and gives my hand a gentle squeeze. Her simple act does wonders to alleviate the weight pressing down on my chest.

Happy Receptionist Lady, whose name I can’t remember, walks us about four feet to the ginormous wooden doors. We go through another set of doors and then come to a stop in front of yet another large pair of doors. Our guide taps lightly on the door three times, and we hear a faint answer.

I steal one last glance at Maura as the doors are pushed open. She’s watching me, telling me with her eyes it’s all going to be okay.

With her by my side, I believe it will be.

Darren’s office is huge. Like way too fucking big for what he does. Much like the waiting area, it’s filled with windows, but this time they take up three walls instead of one. And everything seems expensive. The leather chairs, the desk, the gigantic bookcases. All of it. As nice as it all is, none of it matches. It makes the place appear cheap.

“Thanks, Heather.” Ah, Heather. That was it.

Darren gets up and extends his hand toward us. I shake it. “Tucker, great to see you again. Ah, and Ms. Doughers, a pleasure,” he says, his eyes bouncing from Maura’s face to her chest.

I suddenly want to punch this asshole.

But my girl can take care of herself, because as she shakes Darren’s hand, she presses her fingernail into his wrist hard enough for him to wince. “Hi,” she says curtly.

Darren gets the message and steps away, focusing all his attention on me.

“Please, have a seat.” He waves toward the leather chairs as he walks back around his desk. “I’m gonna be straight with you here, Tucker. We want you. We think you have tremendous promise and want to work with you. Your sound is raw and unique, and I think we could sell your whole image. You’ve got the tortured singer-songwriter thing going on, and the ladies are going to eat it up.”

I catch Maura shift around out of the corner of my eye at the mention of other women. I automatically want to turn toward her and reassure her, but for now she’s supposed to be my manager, not my…whatever she is.

“Here’s the thing, Mr. Darren,” I start.

“Just Daren,” he interrupts.

I exchange a humor-filled glance with Maura because I’m not one hundred percent sure if he wants me to call him “Daren” as in his first name or “Darren” as in his last name. I guess it doesn’t matter since they both sound the same.

“Daren,” I amend. “I want to record. I want to play music for a living. It’s been my dream for as long as I can remember. But what I don’t want is the ‘hot guy’ routine. I want to sell the music, not myself.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” he backpedals. “That’s what we want. We want to focus on the music. I mean photoshoots, music videos, interviews and meeting with fans are all inevitable…”

I press my lips into a firm line. “Sure,” I say tersely.

It’s not that I didn’t know those were all part of the music industry, but Daren’s making it seem like they are the music industry. I’m starting to get this icky feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Ms. Doughers, you’re his manager. How does this all sound so far?”

Maura peeks over at me and then back at Daren. “Music is the focus. That’s what we want. That’s all we want.”

“Great. Glad we agree there,” Daren says in a voice that rings with false cheer. “How about we take a tour, huh? You can see what the building has to offer, maybe get a feel for the place.”

We follow him back toward the main office. We step into the elevator, and Daren starts giving the spiel. Maura, doing a damn fine job of acting like my manager, starts asking all kinds of questions. I honestly only listen to part of it—something about in-house studios and shit—because I don’t like this. I thought it would feel different, but so far it all feels…fake. I was hoping I’d have this big moment like in the movies. You know, that one where the lonely street musician walks into the fancy record label, falls in love with everything and everyone, and then becomes a giant rock star.

But I guess I always forget about the scene toward the end where he realizes he’s not doing the right thing, where it dawns on him that he’s too good for those record label people.

I have a feeling that this may be a case of the latter.

The elevator dings, and I shuffle my feet along to follow Daren down a darkened hallway. There are several rooms with multi-colored doors, where I assume all the magic happens. I want to peer inside them, see for my own eyes what style of music is being made, but I refrain.

Daren turns toward us when we stop at a door near the end of the hallway. “I’m going to make sure we won’t be interrupting anything. One moment.”

And then he disappears.

“Well?” Maura asks when the door shuts.

I lean up against the wall, and she does the same across from me. I stare at my feet, unsure how to answer her without sounding like a complete dumbass.

“Tuck?” she prods when I don’t answer.

Shrugging, I look back up and stare at the wall next to her beautiful, blonde head, so I don’t have to stare her in the eyes when I admit defeat. “It’s not feeling good.”

She lets out a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” she mutters. Pushing off the wall, she walks the few steps over to me and lowers her voice. “I thought I was the only one not feeling it. I don’t think you fit in here.”

“I’ve been trying to wrack my brain and figure out what exactly it was that wasn’t feeling right, but that’s it. It doesn’t feel like me or my style. It feels…”

“Fake,” she supplies.

The door clicks, and we straighten up as Daren pops his head back out. “You ready?”

Maura and I exchange a glance. She tips her head forward, letting me be the first to make the move. I hesitate, not sure if I want to continue. Finally, I take a step toward the open door because my curiosity doesn’t know when to quit.

No one acknowledges us as we step into a small dark space filled with soundboards, desk chairs, guitars, and people. Through the huge glass (or is that plastic?) window is Jackson Jones, the singer-songwriter who’s currently topping the charts and making girls lose their panties all over the world. I look over at Maura to gauge her reaction to him. She’s watching him like he’s a normal guy and not a huge rock star. Thank God. Then again, he is dressed similarly to me in an unbuttoned black dress shirt, jeans, and boots. I know for a fact his stage appearance is a lot different.

He’s hunched over an acoustic guitar, appearing to be into the song, but when he slowly leans back up, opening up his eyes, I can see it. They’re empty. He doesn’t feel the lyrics. He’s not pouring his heart and soul into it. It’s not something that can be easily spotted by fans or people outside the music, but to me it’s so obvious. And all it does is raise my already too-high red flags.

The only thing that feels positive so far is this room. Not the people in it, just the room. Being in this small box, surrounded by the boards and instruments, a producer behind the scenes, it all screams you belong here to me.

But I’m not so sure I believe it. At least not here.

A guy sitting at the soundboard leans forward and says, “Good, Jackson. It feels real.” Bullshit. “Let’s take five.”

Jackson sets his guitar down and walks out into the small booth.

“Hey,” he says, sticking his hand out to me. “Jackson Jones. I’ve heard what you can do. You’re wicked awesome, man.”

Taken aback, I clear my throat and shake his hand. “Thanks. I love ‘Take It All Back.’ Great hook, and the simplicity of it is staggering.”

I say this partly because there’s no doubt in my mind that song was written by him and is one that he’s proud of. It’s something I think he needs to hear. I also say it because it’s true.

I must be right, because he perks up at the mention of it.

But his excitement is very short lived. He hunches his shoulders as he’s ushered out of the room by the person I assume is his assistant, if the two cell phones and clipped tone are any indication.

“What are you thinking, Tucker?” Daren asks hopefully.

“It’s nice,” I tell him, referring to the booth when he’s referring to the whole situation.

He claps me on the back. “Glad to hear it. How about we head back to my office to discuss some more details? We’ll get you signed on that dotted line in no time.”

As we head out of the room and back down the hall to elevators, Maura reaches over and wraps her pointer finger around my pinky in a small, simple act of encouragement.

“Scotch?” Daren asks when we enter his office.

“We’re fine,” Maura answers. “Those were nice studios you have. Do you produce a lot of albums here?”

“Dozens a year. Jackson and a band called Reckoning to name a few.”

Chart toppers. Both of them are chart toppers. Something I want but am also terrified of.

“Hmm,” is all she responds.

Daren takes a seat and places his amber-filled glass in front of him. He steeples his hands together and squints at me. I think he’s trying to look cool, but he’s failing miserably.

“You seem lost, Tucker. Not one hundred percent ready to commit yet? We can certainly take more time if you’d like. Of course, that time will create more and more musicians and raise the competition bar higher, but I’m sure that’s something you’d be able to handle.”

And I guess this is his way of trying to scare me into a contract. Again, failing.

“I’m sure I could. For now, I’m weighing my options and approaching this career shift with much-warranted caution, taking in all the offers I’ve received over the years. But I’m sure you can handle that competition,” I respond smugly.

Daren sits back at the bite in my voice and gives me a tight nod. “Sure.” He suddenly leans forward and grabs an overly stuffed file, presenting it to me. “Take a look at these songs. I know we can pick something from these that would be recordable and suit your tastes.”

I grab the folder and start thumbing through it when his words settle on my heavily. Pick something? For me to sing? Am I not writing my own music?

Looking up from the folder with a raised brow, I ask, “Wait. You mean I won’t write my own music?”

Daren barks out a mocking laugh. “That’s what we have songwriters for. You’re the singer part of the singer-songwriter duo.”

I toss the heavy folder back onto his desk.

“I write my own music,” I say flatly.

Daren smirks at me, a look disbelief gracing his face. “Look, Tucker, we all sit around and pen the ‘next big thing’ in our dark, lonely bedrooms. But let’s face it, you either have a pretty voice and face and you can’t write, or you can write and you have no voice and are ugly as sin. It’s one or the other. I’ll bank on you being the first one.”

What in the actual fuck? Is this asshole for real? I was complimented and insulted and called a liar within a few sentences. And I’m pissed.

I’m pissed because I can sing and I do write. I write lyrics that I really fucking like, music I think is good.

And that stupid voice in my head starts spouting off long-buried insecurities.

But what if he’s right? What if I’m too partial to my lyrics because they’re my lyrics? What if it’s all shit? What if all I am is a pretty face or decent voice?

Fuck.

“I write my own music,” I say again.

Daren sighs. “We can discuss your songs when we sign the contracts, yeah? For now, why don’t you take time to think about this and go over those other options you have.”

He says all this like he doesn’t believe me about the songs or options.

What a dick.

We stand and shake hands, promises of calling exchanged on both ends. Maura and I make our exit, staying quiet the during elevator ride and out the front doors.

Not until we’re standing defeated at the bottom of the steps, watching as a parking officer sticks a ticket under my windshield, do we speak.

“That was kind of…”

“Bullshit,” I finish for her. “Yeah, I agree.”

Maura lets out a frustrated huff directed toward Daren Darren. “How’d it feel? Honestly?”

“That’s a hard one to answer. I immediately want to say wrong, but there was also a moment in the studio where it felt honest. But that was short lived.”

She moves closer to me and links her fingers with mine. “I’m sorry, Tuck. I know how badly you wanted it all to feel like this epic homecoming, and it didn’t, but maybe Daren’s not the guy for you. We can keep looking.”

I nod. “Yeah, maybe not.”

She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the car. “Come on. Let’s go get a few greasy burgers and sulk together.”

* * *

“Who’s next on your list?”

I take a long, noise-filled pull of my practically empty chocolate shake. I peer down into my glass and suck up the last of it and then immediately pout because it’s all gone.

“I don’t know,” I answer Maura. “What about that Clover guy?”

She taps her chin with her pale blue nail a few times. “Hmm. Maybe. Think he’d let you write your own music?”

I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. But what if Daren had a point? What if you can only be one or the other? A singer or a songwriter. What if my music is shit?”

Maura scrunches her brows and shakes her head, her smooth, pink-tipped blonde hair swinging with the movement. “You can’t believe that, Tuck. There’s no way that’s true. There are plenty of musicians out there who do both.”

I fold my arms across my chest in an aggravated gesture and stare out the window of the small diner she dragged me to.

“But,” she says, “what if that were the case—which I’m not saying it is at all. Which would you choose?”

Well, that’s a damn hard question to answer. Daren was correct about one thing: writing music and playing music are two different things. Writing is so personal. Playing is a bit more detached. I can, and do, play other people’s songs all day long because I have no real attachment to them. But what I can’t do is play my own stuff. There’s too much baggage attached to them, too many memories. Although I can’t perform my music yet, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to one day. A day when I’m a lot braver than I am currently.

I realize that I can’t decide between the two. They’re too different yet so essential to one another for me. Writing is my outlet for my emotions, and playing is how I survive them all.

“Both,” I admit in a low voice. “I’d pick both.”

Out of my peripheral, I can see Maura’s smile. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

I turn back to her. “Yeah? Why is that?”

“Because it means we need to keep looking. Daren obviously isn’t a good fit for you if you can’t live without writing. You need it. We need to find a company that lets you do both.”

She’s one hundred percent correct. I need to keep searching for someone who’s going to let me craft my own music from scratch. I’m not going to let this shitty experience sway or deter me from pursuing a label to sign with.

“I love it when you say ‘we.’ Gets me all warm and fuzzy inside.” I smirk at her.

She pins me with a glare. “Don’t tease me, Tucker Bentley. I will throw things at you.”

“Pfft. Like I’m scared of you. You’re tiny.”

“Just because I’m tiny doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

Her words make my heart momentarily stop beating. Hurt me. I know she means physically, but I’m more worried about my heart in this situation, not my balls. I mean, I am kind of worried about my balls since that’s probably as high as her short legs can kick, but I’d be a fool not to be worried about my heart.

“Oh, I have no doubt you can, Maura,” I say a bit too seriously.

She gulps loudly enough for me to hear. “But I’ll do my best not to.”

I know she’s talking about the same thing I am, so I nod my head once, letting her know I’ll do my best too.

I go back to staring out the window as she goes back to sipping on her shake. We’re quiet and it’s nice. I don’t feel like we need to force conversation between us, that we can sit here and enjoy each other’s company for a while.

The waiter, who seems to have a permanent scowl, comes by and drops off our check without a word. Maura grabs her purse, and I race to pull out my wallet, tossing down enough to cover the bill and a decent tip.

She puffs out a breath. “I can pay for my half, Tuck. It’s not a date.”

I bring my hand to my chest. “Damn, girl. You sure do know how to bust a guy’s heart. I thought for sure this was and that I was wooing you with the excellent cheeseburgers and angry customer service.”

Maura lifts her hand and pinches her fingers together. “Close.”

“Obviously. Come on,” I say as we scoot out of the booth. “Want me to drop you off anywhere?”

Her shoulders fall as we head toward the door. “Oh. I, uh, I thought we were gonna hang out.”

“Geez, Maura. I didn’t know you were so attached to me.” I glance over to find her mouth hanging open and her beautiful ice-blue eyes wide. “Joke. It was a joke.” She swats me on the arm for it. “Of course I want you to come hang out with me. But there’s this thing I have to do first if that’s okay?”

Something I’m very, very nervous to do with her. Something that only Hudson knows about. But I know that if I ever want to have a relationship with Maura, she needs to know everything about me. No matter how scared I am to share it with her.

She nods, slipping her hand into mine as we cross the parking lot. “Of course.”

* * *

“Why didn’t you say we were coming to Mic’s?” Maura asks as I park the car.

I don’t say anything as I exit the car and run around to her side to open the door.

(Dudes, if you’re reading this, do that shit every once in a while. Chicks dig it.)

She doesn’t press the issues as we walk across the parking lot and into the building. There’s still about an hour before it opens, and she either doesn’t notice or she doesn’t say anything. Either way, I appreciate it all the same.

I turn to Maura as the door slaps shut behind us. “This isn’t public knowledge, so what you’re about to witness stays between us. Okay?” My request is met with a nod. “No, I need you to promise me. Say it out loud.”

Her eyebrows slant instantly. “You’re starting to scare me, Tuck.”

“Trust me. Please? This is part two.”

She considers me for a moment, staring at me with a heavily confused expression on her face. It takes a moment or so for her to relax and agree. “Fine. I promise I won’t say anything. But if you’re a damn drug dealer or doing anything illegal, I’m out. Of all of this.”

I bristle instantly at her accusations and offensive words. Illegal? I mean, a small part of me gets where she’s coming from, because I’ve given her zero information and asked her to trust me. But still. She should trust me. We’ve been friends for too long and been…whatever long enough for us to build trust. Or at least that’s what I thought.

“Yes, Maura, please assume that the musician with two full sleeves of tattoos is into drugs because that’s what all rock stars do. Thank you for that stereotype. I’m glad you think so highly of me. Oh, wait. You don’t. You assume that because I ask you to keep quiet about something, it’s automatically illegal.” I shake my head in disgust. “Wow. I honestly thought you were better than them. You know, maybe you aren’t ready for this.”

I brush past her, heading for the door because this is too important to waste on a person who doesn’t view me as their equal.

Maura quickly follows behind me and grabs on to my arm. “Tucker, wait. No, no. Please, don’t leave. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

Seriously? I spin around, and she steps backwards. “Then how did you mean it? How is there any other way to mean it?”

“I-I,” she stumbles in that cute way of hers. Which is annoying because even when I’m pissed at her, she’s still fucking adorable as hell. “I only meant that this whole thing is…ominous. You’re acting secretive, and my mind went directly to something illegal.” She wrings her hands together in front of her. “It’s nothing to do with you and everything to do with how this all looks.”

I stare her down as I consider what she said. She may have a point, but it still doesn’t alleviate my irritation over how little faith she has in me.

“It’s the fact that you obviously don’t trust me, Maura. If you did, your mind wouldn’t have gone there.”

She winces. “Fair enough. I’m sorry. I wish I had an excuse as to why I don’t, but there isn’t one.”

“Maybe it’s all the other shitty people in your life?” I try. I must admit that her honesty about that is much appreciated in the moment.

She shrugs. “Probably. Can…can we stay?”

I clench my jaw and stare off above her head. Giving her the benefit of the doubt, but still pissed, I nod. “Yeah, we can stay.”

“Good. Now, where is everyone? I notice we’re here early.”

We walk toward the bar, and I yell, “Yo, Gary!”

“In the back!”

“Come on,” I say.

We make our way back down a narrow hallway, passing the restrooms and stopping at a bright red door at the end.

I knock once on the frame and step into the small office, Maura on my heels.

“Hey, kid,” he beams at me. “Who’s your friend?”

I glare over at the old man because he knows damn well who Maura is. Well, not officially, but he’s heard me talk about her enough.

“Hi. I’m Maura, Tucker’s…” She trails off, glancing to me for help.

“Friend,” I say awkwardly.

“Friend,” Maura repeats.

Gary gives a hearty chuckle.

“Maura, this is Gary. He owns Mic’s. He’s, uh, he’s my father.”

I watch as her jaw flies open. “F-f-father?”

“Surprise?”

Her eyes are wide and confused, unsure of how to take this news. “I-I had no idea.” Then they fall to slits, and she hisses out, “And you said for me to trust you. Surprise my ass, Tucker.”

“It’s not common knowledge,” I shrug.

“Tanner?”

I shake my head. “Nope. He has no idea. We’re only half-brothers.”

“Wow,” she says quietly. “Wow.”

“Yep. See why what I said earlier about this being kept on the DL is important?”

I watch her anger fade away, and she nods.

“What brings you by?” Gary asks.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watch the older man sitting behind the desk. At first glance, he appears to be any other old bartender. But upon further inspection, he looks like an aged version of me. Only thinner. Much thinner.

“Wanted to check in on you. How you feelin’?”

Gary arches a brow at me. “Tucker,” he draws out. “Come on, kid. You can’t keep coming in here to check on me.”

“Of course I can. I got that right when you came into my life. I’ve got a lot of years to make up for. Suck it up, old man.”

He lets out a huff. “Fine, fine. I’m doin’ all right. No flare-ups.” I give him a disbelieving look. “Kid, you’re killing me. Had one headache yesterday, but it’s the first I’ve had in months. It’s nothing to worry about.”

I stand up straighter and brace my legs for a fight of the verbal variety. “Call your doctor. You’re going this week. I’ll take you.”

Gary doesn’t argue. “Okay. I’ll call now.”

Huh. Not what I was expecting.

“Good,” I say. “We’ll be out front. Come find us when you’re done.”

I usher Maura out of the office as Gary picks up the ancient corded phone on his desk to make the phone call.

Maura doesn’t say anything as we walk back down the blackened hallway and into the brightly lit area. Seeing it all lit up like this is still something I try to get used to since it’s typically fairly dark in here. With the lights all kicked on, you can see how much junk is plastered across the walls. Hundreds of photos, framed tickets and set lists, posters, a couple instruments, all kinds of music paraphernalia. I asked Gary one time how he acquired it all, and he said it was all from the road and people who have come through Mic’s since he reopened it after he had his surgery, which is saying something since that was only a few years ago.

The place used to belong to a guy name Mic, an old friend of Gary’s that passed away as Gary was coming into town. He thought it’d be fun to name the place after himself since he pronounced his name like “Mike” but the spelling resembled the shortened form of “microphone.” I think most people thought it was a grammatical error. And Gary loved to stir up shit and confusion, so he never changed the name. Plus, it fits the place.

“Explain,” Maura finally says when we take a seat on the edge of the stage that I frequently perform on.

Knew this was coming.

I let out a soft sigh and begin explaining my best-kept secret.

“Well, twenty-four years ago my mom had an affair with Gary. She had a bit of a wild streak back in her prime. Anyway, it didn’t last long, and they ended it before my mother found out she was pregnant. Gary toured as a guitarist for a ton of different bands back then, so she never told him about me, pretended I belonged to Aaron, my other dad. I always had a suspicion that Aaron wasn’t my father. I’m not sure if it was the way my mother glared at me—like I was her biggest regret—or the fact that we look nothing alike. Either way, I didn’t get it confirmed until I was twenty.”

I peek over to find Maura watching me with curious eyes.

“My mother,” I continue, “is a drunk, Maura. It’s not something anyone talks about, because how can you?” I swallow a lump in my throat and go on. “So, anyway, my parents were arguing one night over it, and I happened to stop by for a visit when I walked in on their…conversation. I demanded to know who my real father was, and my mom happily provided me with the info. It took me almost a year to work up the courage to call him,” I admit quietly. “When I finally did, Gary was shocked but happy to hear from me. We never had to take a test, because it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that I’m his son. We’re the spitting image of one another.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Maura mumbles. “I thought for sure my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw you two together. No wonder you always just wave at him from the stage. It would have been a dead giveaway.”

I grin because she’s right. “Yeah, we try and keep it hush-hush around the club. We obviously connected with music and everything else sort of fell into place, but…”

“There’s always a but,” she interrupts sadly.

“Then I found out he was sick,” I press on in a grim tone. “Brain tumor. He had the surgery to remove it, and I convinced him to move to Wakefield to help keep an eye on him while he recovered. That’s what that was about back there. Headaches are a sign, and I don’t let him ignore a single one.”

“Good. You shouldn’t.”

I snort. “Ha. Tell his ass that. So, yeah, that’s where we’re at. We’re building a relationship and working through twenty-one missed years.”

Maura’s quiet for a moment. I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She seems sad, confused maybe.

“Feel free to ask questions, Maura. You can,” I tell her, standing up to stretch. I start pacing the length of the stage while she’s contemplating all this. Since this is my first time telling this all to someone else, I’m feeling anxious.

“How does Tanner not know all of this?”

“Easy. We don’t tell him.”

“We?” she questions, swinging her feet, bouncing them off the side of the platform, ready to listen.

“My mother, Joanne, and Aaron keep it very hush-hush. Ma is on and off the wagon all the time, but Tanner doesn’t know that either. We pretend everything is all hunky-dory when he comes home.”

“But…why?”

“Remember how he said I was the golden child? Well, he is,” I say with a frown. “Like I said, I always knew I was different. Aaron always treated me like I didn’t matter and always seemed to focus all his attention on Tanner—which didn’t bother me, because I honestly never liked Aaron. We didn’t do that whole bonding thing from the start, making things fairly strained between us. Because of this, Tanner always thought his father rode his ass for everything and let me get by doing whatever the hell I wanted. In truth, he wanted what was best for his son and to forget about my existence. This caused Tanner to resent me, and by the time I found out about Gary, Tanner was out of the house, so it didn’t matter anymore.”

“And Tanner doesn’t know about your mother’s drinking problem?”

I give a dry, pitiful laugh. “No. She’s been clean for the most part while he’s been gone.”

She twists her lips up. “And didn’t you say they almost got divorced one time?”

“Ah, she does pay attention,” I tease as I spin on my heel and continue my back-and-forth walk. “I did say that. It was the closest they ever came, actually. Ma got a DWI and, naturally, Aaron was pissed. In place of getting her help, he sent us away to my grandmother’s for two weeks and then started filing for divorce. In that short time, Tanner signed up for the Army, thinking it would drive them together and not apart. My mother convinced Aaron it would be best for them to be together for Tanner. Things were good for a while. Aaron paid attention to me and my mom stopped drinking.”

“Until Tanner did his tour in Germany. She relapsed,” Maura guesses as she turns around to stare at me.

I stop walking and point at her. “You’re good. That’s exactly it. I find out then about Gary and the rest is…well, it’s now.”

“Is she sober?”

“For now.”

“Huh,” is all she says, turning back around to face the seating area.

All that can be heard is my feet padding across the floor and her ballet flats squeaking against the surface of the stage every time she hits it. I let her sit and take in all she’s heard.

It’s a lot, too. I know that I always give off this easygoing vibe, but it hasn’t always been that way. I was an angry teen growing up with a “father” who looked at me like I was nothing but dirt and a mother who regretted me daily—although I am thankful for both because I managed to channel all my anger and resentment into my music. Truthfully, I wish it hadn’t been that way for me growing up. But in the end, I got Gary out of it, and that’s a damn fine deal to me.

“All right, kid,” Gary says as he comes walking out the back hallway. “Appointment is set for next week. But I’m driving myself.”

I hop down off the stage and turn around to pull Maura down.

“No way in hell. I’m taking you and that’s that.”

Gary places his hands on his hips and flicks his gaze to Maura. “Does this little shit boss you around, too?”

She covers her mouth as a giggle tries to bubble up. “I think he knows better.”

The old man lets out a huff. “Fine. You can drive me. But after this one, I’m driving myself to all my other appointments because last I checked, I was the parent around here.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Bet I can guess who you got your stubbornness from,” Maura mutters.

I glare at her. “Not helping.”

She shrugs. “Who said I was here to help?”

Gary’s lips twitch at her remark. “I like this one, Tucker. Try and hang on to her, huh? Now, you two either need to scram or help out. I’ve got a club to open in less than an hour.”

“Don’t have to tell us twice. Come on, Maura,” I say, grabbing her hand and pulling her toward the door.

“Bye, Gary!” she yells over her shoulder. “It was great to officially meet you!”

“Likewise. And apologies in advance for my jackass son!” he calls back.

“See ya, old man!”

I squint at the sun as we bust through the doors and crunch our way across the gravel.

“You still want to come hang out?” I ask her nervously as we approach my car, no longer mad at her from earlier.

“Of course,” she answers, shaking our joined hands.

I open up her door for her, but she doesn’t get in straight away. Instead, she tilts her head up at me, shielding her eyes against the bright daylight.

I tilt my head at her because, despite the shadows in her eyes, I can tell she wants to comment.

“Thank you,” she says, referring to what just happened.

I opened up to her and let her into a part of my life, my history, which no one knows about. I couldn’t tell you why I picked her or why I picked today. It could be because I’m falling in love with her or because of how she was there for a significant part of my future today.

Wait, back up.

Falling in love? Fuck that. I am in love with her, and I think I have been since I pseudo-stalked her at Perk.

I meet her stare and say, “Of course.”

She smiles, starts to get into the car, and turns around halfway through it.

“Hey, Tuck?”

“Yeah?”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to say. Okay? And no laughing either.”

Despite what happened earlier with her not instantly trusting me, I know I trust her, so I say, “Okay.”

She looks down at the ground in a shameful manner, peeks back up at me, and then drops her eyes again. I bend down to try to meet her stare, but she’s not letting it happen.

“Can…,” she starts shyly. “Can we watch Supernatural tonight?”

Maura punches me in the gut because I so laugh.