Wild Collision (Us 4)

Well, there was no way I’d have gotten Dad’s eyes—he’s technically my adopted dad, but he’s all I’ve ever known as a father, and therefore in my mind, he is my dad.

Noah, on the other hand, is a complete clone of our dad. Same sandy shaggy hair, same shade of blue eyes, and perpetual smirk. It’s uncanny at times and like looking at a teenage version of Josh Hayes.

The only difference is where our dad eats, sleeps, and breathes music, Noah prefers building things—ranging anywhere from Legos to legitimate robots which actually work. Noah’s a borderline genius. Heck, maybe he’s an actual genius for all I know. Point is, the kid is smart.

“Do you need help?” I ask my mom.

She shakes her head. “No, no, I’m fine,” she assures. “I wanted to see you.”

“You saw me yesterday morning,” I remind her.

“Am I not allowed to miss my daughter?” she jokes, blowing a stray piece of red hair from her eyes.

I stick my tongue out. “I guess.”

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks.

I shake my head, my shoulders sagging with tiredness. “No, I wanted to get home first. Save me some, please. I want to shower. I feel icky.” I pull my day old shirt away from my body.

She waves me away. “Go shower then. I’ll save you a plate.” She glances significantly in Noah’s direction because we both know if she doesn’t save me a plate the little shark will eat everything. She spots his feet on the table and glowers. “Feet. Off. The. Table.”

He doesn’t move his feet.

“Do I need to get your father in here?” she warns with her hands on her hips.

He drops his feet immediately, mumbling something we can’t hear under his breath.

Honestly, our dad is a pushover. He hates scolding any of us, but if Mom is mad enough and calls for him … yeah, he gets scary if we don’t listen to her.

I slip from the kitchen making my way upstairs to my bedroom.

It’s my favorite room in the house, mostly because it’s mine.

I push open my bedroom door and smile. Three of the four walls are solid white, with the main wall where my bed sits painted with horizontal black and white stripes. The four-poster bed is accented by a large canopy hanging from the ceiling by ropes. In the corner is my desk with a wire chair and fluffy pillow. The desk is blue, matching the blue quilt on my bed. Blue and yellow are speckled throughout the room along with more items in black and white. Like my black dresser with a large yellow-framed mirror hanging above it. It’s different, but it’s my style.

I kick my shoes off and they land on the fluffy white rug. It was important to me to have a large rug to soften the floors since the whole house is hardwood.

I take off my outer shirt, leaving me in a white tank top and jeans. I press the button on my Bluetooth speaker and music begins to play.

Music is the steady drum that beats my heart. Without it I would die.

I guess that’s why I decided to study music production and composition. Growing up so close to the music industry—my dad is a member of one of the most popular bands in the world, Willow Creek—it was bound to rub off on me.

When I told my dad I wanted to pursue a career in music, but behind the scenes, he told me he was proud but it was on me to make it happen. He wasn’t going to give me a leg up in the industry.

I admire him for it. I didn’t want it handed to me anyway. I want to make a name for myself and not be known as Joshua Hayes’s daughter who only got where she is based on her last name.

He does let me work at the record company he started in our small

town to get hands-on experience, but I’m a coffee bitch, more commonly known as an intern.

The door to my bathroom swings open, steam billowing out and I whirl around, my body sliding effortlessly into a fighting stance.

My jaw drops.

“Who the hell are you?” I stare at the gorgeous guy in front of me. His brown hair is damp and shaggy, hanging into impossibly golden colored eyes. His chest is bare and while he’s on the thinner side it’s obvious he works out a lot. He’s muscular and lean. I swallow thickly, my eyes zeroing in on his bare chest and then sliding down to the towel hanging precariously on his hips.

Mia, stop staring at him! He’s probably homeless and broke into your house. Do something!