Wright that Got Away (Wright)

I was used to people being obsessed and throwing themselves at me. Maybe I wasn’t good at nuance when it came to women. I hadn’t messaged Blaire all week, giving her the space she so clearly wanted. But…had I been wrong?

“I should probably talk to her.”

Hollin laughed. “Yeah, probably.”

“Just come to our soccer game this weekend,” Julian said.

“Good idea.”

I nodded. Right. The soccer team. Blaire loved the game. Hollin and Julian both played on the team, too. I hadn’t gone to see them, but maybe it was the perfect opportunity. A way to fix this.

That was the moment that the barn doors burst open, and in walked the rest of Cosmere. I shot my brother and cousin a look that said this conversation was over. Hopefully, they were smart enough not to bring it up in front of anyone else.

I hopped off my barstool and strode toward them. “You made it!”

Santi threw his arms around me. “Brother!”

I laughed as he picked me up and spun me around. Santi was Cosmere’s drummer. He was always talking and smiling and flirting with everything that walked. He was six feet tall with light-brown skin from his Colombian heritage and short black curls.

He set me on my feet, and our bass player, Viv, was standing there next. She tipped her head to the side, spilling recently dyed bubblegum-pink hair across her face. She flipped me off. “Thanks for abandoning us, shithead.”

I chuckled and pulled her reluctantly into a hug. “I missed you, too, Viv.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Kris is less than pleased.”

“Give her my apologies. I didn’t choose this,” I told her.

Viv laughed as she brushed past me toward the bar. “When you say, Jump, the record label says, How high?”

Our lead guitar, Yorke, nodded at me once. “Yep.”

“Good to see you, brother.”

We slapped hands. He didn’t smile, but he wasn’t really one for smiling or talking. He was our quiet, taciturn member. He usually went along with whatever crazy thing Santi suggested. They’d been friends since they met at a local LA talent competition as kids. Yorke had his own devoted group of fans. They called themselves the Peppermint Patties. I figured it wasn’t any worse than Campbell Soup girls. We had both been reduced to food.

They’d met Michael shortly after that. Michael currently looked like he’d rather be anywhere other than Lubbock, Texas.

“Hey, Michael.”

He gritted his teeth. “This sucks, Campbell. Virginia and Maisie are still in LA, and I just got back. Maisie’s birthday is in a couple weeks. I promised I’d be there.”

“We already said that you could fly back for the birthday,” Santi reminded me.

Michael shot him a look of fury. “It’s not the same and you know it.”

“Fuck, man, I’m sorry. Bobby said that y’all were fine with coming out here.”

“Bobby didn’t ask,” he ground out. “Bobby ordered.”

I hadn’t considered that Bobby would lie to me. Of course, he’d just been mollifying me. Shit.

“We’ll get this all worked out quick,” I insisted. “I already have three or four really good songs.”

“Ten more to go.” He pushed past me to the bar and sank into a seat next to Viv, who immediately tried to cheer him up.

Michael had always been like that. I wasn’t sure anything could actually satisfy him. He was the quintessential money can’t buy happiness. Because he had millions now, and he was just as grumpy as he’d ever been.

Once Santi, Yorke, and Michael had been brought on by the label, they’d added Viv as a bassist. Santi was singing vocals and playing drums. And they were getting nowhere. I’d seen them perform at a club I was bartending at in a shit part of Hollywood.

I remembered it like it was yesterday. The band was good. Santi’s sound was so crisp and clear. It was almost too perfect really. He needed something gruffer to go with it.

“Hey, I’m going to take my break,” I said, throwing down the rag as my manager yelled at me not to leave. The club was packed. Bartenders weren’t supposed to take breaks in the middle of the rush. Oh well.

I headed backstage, nodding at the bouncer. The band was standing there. They called themselves Scandal Campaign. It was an absurd name. I had no idea who had come up with it, but it didn’t fit their sound at all.

“Hey,” I said, working up the nerve to approach them.

Viv turned to face me. She sank into her hip, and her look was pure sex appeal. “Can we help you?”

“I liked your music,” I told her. I nodded at Santi. “You slay on the drums.”

“Thanks, man,” Santi said, puffing up.

“But I think you need new songs.”

Michael scoffed at me. “What the fuck do you know?”

Santi just cackled. “Oh, we have a music critic, do we?”

“No. Just a musician. I write my own lyrics.” I felt ridiculous, saying those words out loud.