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And who the hell was I to tell her she was wrong?
“Would you take these plates over to the table?” she said, grabbing a knife and fork from the drawer. “And turn on the television. I don’t want to miss Entertainment Daily.”
After putting the plates on the table, I snatched up the remote. Why my mom watched these shows was beyond me. I’d told her time and time again that ninety-nine percent of what they reported was gossip or trash, but she insisted. Always reminding me that it was called Entertainment Daily, not Truth Daily.
We took a seat, and as the overly manscaped host gushed all over the latest fashions at a movie premiere that took place this weekend, I tuned out and got stuck into the meal in front of me.
God, I loved my mom’s cooking. I’d eaten my fair share of amazing meals over the past ten years, in the best restaurants, served by the top chefs. But nothing—and I mean nothing—would ever compare to a home-cooked meal made by my mom.
I twirled my fork through the pasta on my plate, and just as I was raising it to my mouth, the image behind the host changed to the next story and caught my eye. My hand froze where it was as my mouth fell open. It was a still shot of a man with blond hair seated behind a piano, and under that image were the words: WHO IS THIS GUY?
No. Fucking. Way.
“Hey, Mom? Can you turn this up?”
Mom hit the volume button until the announcer’s voice was clear, and I sat there with my hand hovering above my plate, my brain trying to catch the fuck up.
“An Instagram post by the Warden has created quite a frenzy of excitement in the social media stratosphere. Not much is known about the origins of the recording that hit last night. In fact, the name of the singer isn’t even known at this time. All that is known is that over five million people have viewed this clip of a blond man singing behind his piano, and have now made this video the most shared, liked, loved, and raved-about clip in years, and it’s only been twenty-four hours. The question everyone, including us tonight, is asking is…who is this guy? Take a look, and see if you know him.”
The show then cut to a shot of Halo—fucking Halo—sitting behind Killian’s piano last Friday in the rehearsal space singing “Invitation.” The recording was focused on him as he concentrated on the keys and opened the song with that fantastic riff I swore I heard in my sleep, and then as the rest of us joined in and Halo launched into the first verse, the camera zoomed in even closer but was careful not to capture any of us on film.
Goddamn Brian. That motherfucker had been recording us without telling us. What had he been thinking? But as Halo glanced across the top of the piano and gave that half smile of his that sent my pulse and cock to throbbing, I knew exactly what Brian had been thinking. He wanted to see the public’s reaction to Halo without the influence of TBD there—and clearly, it had been a winning one, if I was to gauge it on this report alone.
Jesus. Had Killian seen this? Had Halo?
I dug in my pocket for my phone, but before I could call a number, my mom was speaking.
“David? Do you know that young man?”
Shit. I’d completely zoned out there for a minute. I nodded.
“Really? He’s very good.”
“Yeah. He is.” I glanced back at the TV in time to see Halo lick his lip before the segment went to commercial, and before I hit Killian’s number, I said, “That’s our angel.”
Thirty-Five
Viper
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Two hours later, I found myself standing at Halo’s front door with a bottle of whiskey in my hand, as I waited for the man of the hour to open up.
After talking to Killian on the phone, we’d both come to the conclusion that Brian was a scheming little motherfucker. But since the publicity swirling around Halo was unbelievable, we’d decided our manager could live to see another day…for the moment.
Somehow, I’d managed to make it through the rest of my meal and evening with my mom without being a rude asshole and going off somewhere to hide and watch this four-minute video in its entirety. But the second I’d gotten on the train and put my headphones in, I’d opened up that link and let Halo weave his magic, and that’s exactly what he was—pure fucking magic behind that mic and piano.
Just thinking about it had my cock aching, and when the sound of a chain, and then a deadbolt, was undone, I tightened my fingers around the neck of the whiskey in an effort not to grab and attack.
