The Sound of Summer (The House on Harrison Blvd #1)

Chapter 1

EVERETT

Every musician has a list of demands in their rider. From temperature-controlled spaces to private jets, Evian-branded water bottles to all-white roses, the sky is the limit. Weird Al once requested a new Hawaiian shirt for every venue he performed at. But me? I only asked for one.

“Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…” I whisper to four empty walls.

My eyes are closed, shoulders pressed against the back of an overstuffed leather chair.

Tight black cotton stretches over my biceps.

I should feel the draft against my bare forearms as it twists around my dressing room, but I don’t feel anything. I don’t hear anything either.

“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…”

There’s no more Check, one, two, or Let’s go over the look for tonight.

Not a tick, tick, tick from a clock on the wall, or the scuff of a hundred pairs of crew boots against amphitheater floors.

Far into the recesses of my mind, I escape reality and float through time in a never-ending sea of my only request: Silence.

“Eighteen, nineteen, tw—”

A fist pounds, rattling the doorframe, and my eyes pop open. The bottom of the door grates against the cement floor as Todd barges in.

“Five-minute warning, man,” he says, checking off something on his clipboard and pressing the pad of his finger over the microphone in his ear. He doesn’t even look up at me.

I release a breath and forgive him for not delivering his warning like we agreed upon—a soft tap on a closed door.

“I’ll be right there.”

My manager nods and slips from the room. I close my eyes, sink back against the seat, and continue counting.

“Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…”

My mind conjures up a performer—charismatic, talented, entertaining—everything a country music artist should be.

The definition of what the world expects me to be.

When I walk into a room, I’m praised for three top hits stacking several billboard charts on a forty-two-week streak.

Recognized for my talent. Known for a strong voice and Southern charm, even if I come from the West Coast. In the streets of Nashville, on every stage I’ve ever performed, I’ve made a name for myself.

I know what I need to do to keep it that way, and I won’t let anything jeopardize it.

“Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty—”

Bzz.

My eyes jolt open from the jarring vibration.

I lunge forward, barely catching my phone before it sails off the counter.

Every ounce of my carefully curated ritual dissipates as a bucket of ping-pong balls takes over my abdomen.

I tumble out of the chair and stabilize my feet, preparing myself for the worst-case scenario.

There’s only one person who could be calling me right now.

“Caroline? What is it? What happened?”

“Everett,” she states in her calm, calculated tone—one of the few people in my life who still calls me by that name. “I need your insurance information.”

I bolt across the room. It’s more than five hundred square feet and not nearly big enough. I need double the number of strides to calm my erratic heart. A whirring sound funnels through my ears, and I clutch the phone tighter, attempting to eradicate it.

“What the hell is going on?” I press. She’s being way too cryptic.

“It’s not a big deal. Quinn tripped and bonked her head on the coffee table. Wade and I are taking her to urgent care.”

Not a big deal? I picture a giant gaping wound lancing my toddler’s forehead, blood dripping in a steady stream toward her eyes. Sure as hell sounds like a big deal to me. The kind that any kid would want their parent there for. To comfort them through. The thought rips my chest wide open.

I snatch the suede jacket from the sofa. “I’m on my way.”

“No,” she barks. “She’s fine.”

“She’s my daughter,” I snarl back.

I’m sure Quinn would rather have her mom there than me.

I wasn’t around much for the first couple years of her life, but I couldn’t help it.

I’m the property of Jonas Records, and they own my schedule.

But I’m getting tired of my mother-in-law insinuating that I don’t want to be there for my daughter when I’m doing the best I can.

“You know you can’t do that,” she adds, as if she can hear my internal debate.

“That’s ironic, coming from you.” The woman who hasn’t supported my profession a day in her life.

But she knows it would be career suicide if I left the stadium right now.

She has the upper hand, and she’s using it to her advantage, but I’ll be damned if I don’t bring attention to the fact that her sole purpose for pointing it out is to have more time with Quinn.

With zero inflection in her tone, she says, “Twenty-thousand people.”

Yes, I’m aware of the number of fans who paid to hear me sing tonight. Does she think I don’t know that?

No matter how much I want to go, unless it’s an emergency I’m contractually obligated to stay. I may be the only parent Quinn has left, but that’s exactly why I need this job.

“There’s no bleeding or signs of concussion. We’re just getting her checked out to be safe. She’ll be fine,” she reassures me.

I scrub a hand down my face. I wish this woman wasn’t always right. Even more than that, I wish I wasn’t backed into a corner with no other option.

“I’ll text you a picture of the card,” I tell her. “Keep me updated.”

I don’t know why I added that last part—it won’t matter. Once I leave this room, there will be no checking my messages for at least three hours.

She hangs up before I can say anything else and suddenly, I feel it. The thrumming of opening chords that signals my stage entrance. My five minutes are up.

A knot the size of a grapefruit tightens in my stomach.

There’s no more counting. No more silence.

I’m out of time, and I’ve never been this unprepared before.

I ditch my phone and jacket on the god-awful green velvet sofa across the room.

Despite my distaste for the woman, Quinn is in capable hands with Caroline until I’m done here.

I press my palms into the countertop in front of me, challenging my own reflection in the mirror.

My cowboy hat tips forward, just enough to cover my forehead but not hide the glow around my dark irises.

In a blunt exhale, I remind myself of the one fact I choose to never lose sight of: “You’re Rhett fucking Dawson. That’s all they need to know.”

I blow through my dressing door, leaving it gaping open.

A dimly lit hall leads to a flight of stairs where Rex, a member of the sound crew, is waiting for me.

He holds out a pair of IEMs in his hand.

I loop the cables over my ears one at a time and wedge the custom-molded monitors into place, effectively sealing out the noise around me.

He secures a cable clip to my undershirt and pins the wire against my body.

Todd is waiting next. I duck my head, and he fits my guitar strap across my shoulder.

When we finally make eye contact, his voice blares through the ear monitor. “Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be,” is the last thing I say to him before I take the stage, greeting an arena full of fans with a fake smile and a wave as they scream my name.