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On today’s agenda, I will be accompanying Emerson to the studios. To be honest, I’m rather excited. I don’t consider myself a star-struck fan-type person, but something about this place brings it out of me. That, and Phoebe is relentless, texting me a thousand times a day with celebrity sightings. It’s the reason I haven’t mentioned that my boss is Emerson Chase.
“Grrr…”
The groan interrupts my thought process. Flynn sits up on the sofa, rubbing his eyes and coughing out what sounds like a furball. I feel terrible that I have been so busy with work the past week, never getting a proper chance to spend time with him and see what he’s up to.
“Big night with a bag of potato chips?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes closed, half asleep. “What time is it?”
I pick up my phone to see the time. “A little after six.”
“In the morning?”
“Uh, yeah.” Pointing out the obvious, I notice his eyes are red and very tired looking.
People say that Flynn looks nothing like me. His features are similar to my grandpapa. His light eyes bordering on green and mousy-brown hair with honey highlights, make him look more Russian. He wears it long, the strands falling past his eyes and almost touching his chin. For a growing young man who eats absolute rubbish all the time, his skin is as flawless as a baby’s bottom. Though of late, he appears to be growing a slight beard, which makes him look more mature.
It’s often asked if we are a couple because we don’t appear related. Stupid people with narrow-minded opinions that completely gross us both out. Mama always finds it amusing how two children can be so different. You only have to look at me to see I’m of mixed race. My almond-shaped eyes are a dead giveaway.
“What time did you get home last night?”
“Don’t know.”
“Okay, so what are your plans for today?”
“Don’t know.”
My frustration comes out quickly. “Flynn, I get it. I really do. You don’t want to be here. But making it impossible to live won’t make it easier.”
I pour a cup of coffee and bring it to him, setting it on the coffee table that I bought from a cheap second-hand store a block from the apartment. It’s shaped like an old trunk, made from a combination of hardwood and leather. Flynn hates it.
“If we both work hard, the quicker we can—”
“Yeah, I get it, all right?” He jumps to his feet, almost crashing into me. “I need a shower.”
“Flynn,” I call his name, trying to reign in my frustration. He stops just shy of the bathroom door. “How about we go out for dinner tonight? Your pick.”
“Can’t. Got a gig.”
“A gig? As in you’re playing in a band?”
“Kinda, sorta.”
“Okay, well, either you are or you aren’t.”
Exhaling, he turns around to explain himself. “There’s a group of guys I met. We just play at this local joint. Pays peanuts, but you know, whatever.”
“Wow.” I’m proud of him for finding a band but equally worried about who these people are. “Well, how about I drop by tonight?”
He shrugs his shoulders, which I take to mean whatever, disappearing into the bathroom before saying another word.
***
“Hi, Emerson!” I wave, quick to rush over to her as she carries her daughter, a diaper bag, and juggling a folder with papers inside it.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathes out, worried and anxious about something. Emerson normally dresses impeccably, but her messy bun and crinkled shirt say otherwise.
“Hey, pass me that.” I grab the folder and diaper bag, cooing at baby Lola. I’m not much of a baby person, but Lola is awfully cute. She’s one of those chubby babies with thunder thighs. Completely acceptable as a baby, not so much when you’re twenty-six and trying to shimmy your way into a pair of skinny jeans.
