Brighter Than the Sun (San Francisco Sex Gods #2)
Prologue
“Mama! Mama, come watch!”
Twelve-year old Blake Larsen vibrated with anticipation, bouncing on his heels and clutching his mom’s compact, black umbrella.
His mother came into the living room from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. “Watch what, dear?”
Blake patted one of the threadbare cushions on their ancient couch. “Sit down.” A picture of his father was propped on the other cushion. He straightened it, then rushed back to the center of the room.
After tossing the dish towel onto the kitchen counter, his mother perched on the couch and smoothed her apron over her thighs. Used to her son’s impromptu performances, she smiled and nodded once, her sign that he had her undivided attention.
Blake beamed. “Okay,” he said excitedly, running over to his mom’s desk and pressing play on the video he’d cued up.
Rihanna’s “Umbrella” blared from the laptop, at the start of the first chorus. Blake turned his back to his mother, bowed his head dramatically, and gripped the umbrella’s handle with both hands. Even fully extended, the handle barely reached his waist.
He listened to the music carefully, tapping his heel in time with the song’s “Umbrella, ’ella, ’ella” hook. As his moment approached, a pleasant fizzy sensation bubbled in his stomach, making him feel like a shaken bottle of pop that was ready to explode. Just a few more seconds…
He took a deep breath and spun around in perfect time with the start of the second verse.
Singing along to the video, he mirrored Rihanna’s dancing move for move, nailing every hip-sway and each sultry stroke of the umbrella’s length.
His mom’s umbrella wasn’t fancy like the one in the video.
It didn’t taper to a graceful point, and the handle was chunky plastic instead of curved wood.
In Blake’s imagination, though, it was an exact replica, and he was dancing in a white-paneled hallway with an orange filter tinting his face.
He belted out the chorus, effortlessly hitting the high notes with his boyish voice. When he sang the line, “Come into me,” his mother recoiled in surprise, a nervous laugh escaping.
“Oh my, Blakey. This is a sexy song. Should you be listening to this?”
Blake glared at his mom, hands on his hips. “Shh, Mama! You’re going to miss the big finish.”
He recovered quickly, launching into the climactic dance number.
In his mind’s eye, the living room dissolved around him and he was on a dark stage, orange sparks falling like rain, each of his spirited dance moves kicking up a spray of water.
He wished he could dance all afternoon, singing the same verse over and over, as if it were a magic spell that could transport him to an arena full of screaming fans, far away from the tiny bungalow he shared with his mother.
As a final flourish, he opened the umbrella, knocking a stack of papers off the desk. He dropped to his knees, panting, his left arm extended and his right arm holding the umbrella proudly aloft.
His mom leapt to her feet, applauding, a smile lighting up her face. “Blakey, that was incredible! My talented boy. Maybe someday you can be one of her backup dancers.”
Blake closed the umbrella, shaking his head. “No, Mama.” He stood, looking to his mother with bright, hopeful eyes. “I’m going to be like Rihanna. I’m going to be a star!”