The Sooner I Go

Chapter 1. Brynn

brYNN

Elmsford, New York

I pull up “the girls” again, staring down the steakhouse-pub patrons while breathing through my mouth. Tonight’s special: wild boar burgers. Not exactly Radio City, is it?

Someone hooks a sweaty arm around me.

I jump back.

Cody extends his phone in his other hand. “You good?” Without waiting for my response, he grips my shoulder and starts filming. “Hello, CB Drunken Waters fans and future Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominating committee.”

I cringe. He sounds like a game show host.

“Really?” I swat his well-shaped pecs, pumped up from all of his pre-performance pushups. “Next one, be serious.”

“I am.” He bugs out his eyes and the corners of his mouth curl up. “This evening . . .” He raises his voice, surveying the room.

A few heads turn.

“We embark on the first night of our North American . . . uh, East Coast tour . . . wait, I messed up.” He sweeps his sandy-blond tresses from his face, ready for his closeup.

I can see the movie playing in his head. Tonight, he’s Mark Wahlberg in Rock Star.

He lengthens his neck, gooselike, buzzes his lips like the over-the-top thespians at our performing arts high school, winks a mischievous eye at me, and repositions his phone.

“I’m here with my girl Brynn, kicking off the first night of our tour in Elmsford, New York, at the infamous Pete’s Saloon, where many unknown artists have gone on to achieve greatness.

CB Drunken Waters will be no different, no doubt. Care to add anything, gorgeous?”

I check his screen. The beachy waves I worked so hard to perfect in my long Lake Placid hair have fallen, much like my boobs have in this old bra.

I press back my shoulders with a sigh. “Tonight . . . they won’t know what hit them.”

The skin between his brows pinches.

“Hey, no time for nerves now.” I smile big enough for the two of us. “We’re going to blow this showcase away. One more thing.” I give him a soft hip check. “I love you.”

He puffs out his chest. A rogue tendril falls over his bottle-green eyes, giving me a glimpse of what he must have looked like as a little boy.

My insides melt.

“You heard her. Tonight, great music and love are in the air.” He bends down and reaches around my thighs.

I fly off the ground, the room becomes a brown blur. I slide down the front of him. The tips of my pointy boots touch down.

His lips part mine, flavoring my mouth with his cinnamon Ice Breakers tongue. He cracks open an eye and readjusts his phone.

“Lovebirds, let’s go.” Adrian, the band’s drummer, throws an imaginary football toward the stage. “We need to be ready to impress tonight’s VIP guests.” He winks at me.

Cody winces, his fingertips drum his forehead. “I may have . . . um . . . mentioned your parents coming to the show.”

I grit my teeth. I’m already freaking out about them coming tonight without the band making a big deal about it.

My parents aren’t exactly fans of Cody’s—or mine, at the moment.

I didn’t invite them, Cody did. They have a way of ruining everything.

“So much for keeping a secret. Don’t worry, I’ll drill Adrian later to learn all of yours.

” I bite the inside of my cheek, throw him a look, and step away.

He reels me back in by my hand and plants a kiss on my head.

I close my eyes for a second. The sound of clacking dishes and conversations fades.

The high-back stools at the long wooden bar near the entrance sit vacant; half of the wagon-wheel tables in the rear are still filled with families finishing their meals.

Cody said he invited everyone in town he knows, but besides those diners and us, all I see are a couple guys with sunken cheeks and pocket chains tuning their guitars by a speaker and their bored-looking girlfriends, all of whom seem to be glaring at me.

I turn to comment about the weak turnout and catch Cody frowning over his phone.

Our eyes meet.

He slips his cell into his pocket.

I nibble on my half-chewed thumbnail. “What’s up?”

He squeezes my hand and signals to Adrian.

I sigh and head in the opposite direction of the stage.

The ladies’ room muffles the din of Pete’s. I yank the zipper on my bag a few times, unable to budge it. I try again.

Cody says he’s got this. Trust, he said. I do trust him. He’ll come through and we’ll have an amazing opening night . . . with no distractions.

I take a beat, blow out a long breath. The zipper opens.

I blend some kohl liner into my upper and lower lashes to make my deep-set eyes pop.

I dab on more blush and lip gloss and lift my lashes to the shiny-eyed girl staring back, the one who snagged the talented and oh-so-handsome singer-guitar player before those little groupies got to him. I see the way they gape.

I head back out into the main room to find that more bands have arrived, including an all-girl trio in cropped leather jackets and short skirts, their hair slicked back.

I stop by the side of the stage—a rectangular riser with brass railings, very 1980s.

Cody fiddles with a snapped guitar string. “Guys, I need a sec.” He exits the platform. His brows pull together when he sees me. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t bring any extras.”

“What about the other guitarists or another band?” I tilt my head, unable to snag his gaze.

“I got this. I’ll have someone run me down to the music store in Dobbs Ferry. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Cody . . .” I bite my lip.

His head jerks up, mouth sprung open.

My pulse thuds in my ears. I lower my gaze and stuff my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. A feeling wells up inside me, like I’m waiting for the floor to drop.

We’re so close now. Trust. Cody’s got this.

I kick the scuffed wood floor. “Never mind.”

He lifts my chin and cocks his head until I muster a smile. When I do, his lips graze the side of my head.

I close my eyes, lean into his warmth, and breathe in the sweet musk of his sweat.

Our foreheads rest on one another’s like the first night we kissed. The night his fluttering flock of admirers at school fell away because he’d chosen me.

I exhale.

“The sooner I go . . .” His voice is low, soothing.

My throat goes dry as I swallow. “The sooner you’ll be back.”

My chin drops to my chest; something tugs at me inside.

Wait.

My breath gets stuck in my throat when I see him already halfway across the restaurant. “Cody!” I call, but the soundcheck onstage drowns me out.

I rush after him. My right heel slips, kicking my leg up like it belongs to a Rockette.

The wood beams on the ceiling slide into view.

Somehow, my butt doesn’t hit the floor. I twist around in time to catch a glimpse of his blond hair flowing over the back of his hoodie before the door to the street clanks shut.

My feet don’t move.

He’ll be back. He said he will.

Twenty minutes, tops.