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I smile at her, stroll over, open the door, and hop in.
She leans in for a quick hug and drives off down the road.
“There’s a quiet café just a couple of blocks away. We can grab a coffee and catch up until Storm’s done with his appointment,” she says, taking a quick glance at me before focusing back on the road. “You’re looking good. Your knuckles aren’t raw. I take it the Sonic boys are behaving themselves.”
I chuckle, and she grins with amusement.
“Don’t call them Sonic; they won’t appreciate it. They’re looking for a new band name, considering they want to start fresh. The name was the first to go.”
“Are they serious about it, or is this some whimsical bullshit?”
“I think they believe it’s serious. But the reality is, it’s been ten years, we’re closer to thirty than twenty, and even if we release an album, it’s not like any of our old fans would be interested. We were a pretty pop rock band, and that sweet shit is now gone. It’s been replaced with an older, tougher, grittier version playing alternative and hard rock.”
“I’ve only seen Jagger and Callum, so I’m basing my opinion on them, but they still look pretty, maybe older. Actually, they still look hot as fuck,” she pauses and gives me a side glance. “You, on the other hand, transformed into another human. You’re darker in all levels of character and style. Even your skin is like ten shades darker, embodying the look and lifestyle of this sexy, sultry rocker chick who wears tight, ripped denims and leathers and moves with a confident swagger that every man would love to fuck but is too afraid you might eat them alive. I’m surprised those Brits haven’t made a move on you yet.”
I huff a long laugh.
“I don’t think they see me that way. I’m just someone they need for whatever publicity stunt they plan for their comeback.”
She raises a brow.
“You really think that?”
“They didn’t want me then. What could I offer them now?”
Brittney glances at me, disapproving.
“Your talent. Your lyrics. Your fucking voice! No one matches your phenomenal vocal range, even though I do consider myself pretty close,” she chuckles. “But you have the ability to effortlessly transition from sultry, whiskey-soaked lows to electrifying, glass-shattering highs. People literally cry when you sing soulful ballads because the emotion you are able to emit is that freaking powerful. So don’t you dare put yourself in some worthless position.”
I take in her words, but I still remain unsure about the band’s intention with me.
“Jagger has some powerful vocals, too,” she adds as an afterthought. “But when you both sing, it’s nothing short of extraordinary.”
“Jagger has an amazing voice,” I admit, and just thinking of it gets my panties wet. Although I can only imagine how many teenage girls had the same reaction back in the day. Callum and Haze have strong voices, too, and sometimes lend that additional vocal, but Jagger could hold his own as lead vocals in the band.
We park and walk across the street towards the small café Brittney recommended.
“Inside or out?” she asks as we observe some of the tables already occupied.
“It’s up to you,” I say, pulling on my shades. “You’re the famous one here.”
Then again, I have a second thought, thinking about that text message from last night.
“Inside,” I quickly add, suspiciously looking around the area like a cautious bodyguard would.
“I’d think you suggested that for my benefit, but the way your head has turned towards both ends of the street, I’ll take it at face value for now and ask questions later.”
Not waiting for my reply, she walks ahead and pushes the door to the restaurant open. The soft chime of the door signals a waitress to greet us as soon as we step into the warm and inviting space as the cozy aroma of freshly ground coffee beans envelops my senses.
More customers are sitting outside than in here, but there’s still that hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of cups to confirm the place isn’t completely void of people inside. We make our way to a corner table, the sunlight streaming through the window casting a golden glow on the wooden surface.
I sit opposite my friend, and we both remove our sunglasses. She removes her cap, allowing her shoulder-length hair to cascade down. Already knowing what we want, we give our order to the waitress, handing her back the menus.
“When was the last time you were in LA?” Brittney asks, dropping her sunglasses case into her bag and setting it down.
I shrug my shoulders. “Around eight years, maybe?” I say, not really missing this city in the slightest.
“Damn,” she says, drawing out the word. “And you still thinkhe’s here.”
