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They're a synchronized dynamo, and I wish I had thought three minutes earlier to record this scene on my phone.
"Your brother is fantastic," Emily whispers in the soundproof room, mesmerized. She's sitting at the control board, having crashed our session. "I thought all that talk was just false bravado. Your brother talks a good game. But he's really, really damn good."
I nod. "Yeah, I know." I hear pride in my voice. I pleaded with him early this morning to join our session. He's shared with me some of what he's going through. Betty has called him out on his actions, his lifestyle, and his choices. She's not the first woman to do to this but for the first time, he seems to listen. I don't know what it means, but he's focused, serious, and hasn't made an inappropriate comment to another woman in over a day.
The song completes, and I catch the look of joy on Ariel's face. The shared brief nod musicians give one another when they're impressed.
"You have your work cut out for you now," Emily says, gaze locked on Laredo and a glow on her face.
"Now? What do you mean?"
I'm not sure she's heard me as a smile pulls on her face as I follow her sight line. Ariel and Laredo high-five and quickly become engaged in an animated discussion. He plucks down at his strings, and she tosses her head back in laughter.
"After that performance, even you must agree he's leading you in the competition to replace Manuel. You have your work cut out for you."
"Manuel?" I know who Manuel is. He's the lead guitarist in Devil May Care.
The smile falls from Emily's face, and my chest tightens. A misspoken secret spilled. She turns to me with wide eyes and a look I've seen too often—regret. "I thought after the workshop… You had mentioned the Sunday performance… I thought you… She told you."
Emily rises from the swivel chair; it rolls behind her, not stopping until it bangs against the wall. I take two steps toward her. "What's going on? Tell me."
She glances into the studio before facing me. "You need to talk to Ariel."
My hands squeeze tight, and I want to scream at her, but she's right. Ariel is the holder of the secrets. I step to the control board and press the button to activate the microphone and speakers just as she's turning in my direction with a smile on her face.
"Adam, come on in and swap places with your brother. Hope you ate your Wheaties. Your turn." Her smile drops as she reads my face.
"We may be twins, but we're not interchangeable," I grunt and release the button. Her lips part, and her eyes go wide with shock. Her retort is silent, locked in the soundproof studio room right next to her secrets.
I step past a stone-silent Emily, shove the swivel chair from my path, and march right toward the exit.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Adam
The scorching, blazing sun punishes me the second I step outside. In my haste to escape the studio, I left my sunglasses, my water bottle, and the little bit of ego I once possessed. What the hell is going on?
A dozen conflicting thoughts hit me at the same time. My insecurities feeding each of the theories no matter how ridiculous they may sound.
"Adam!" I turn with the sound of my name on her lips. Ariel. Breathless and sweaty, she must've raced down the steps after me. Even in this condition, even after what just happened, I sense her panic and want to console her. "Wait up. I can explain."
I should walk away. I should run in the other direction. But I don't. I need to know. My heart needs to know. Because this week has been real for me. All of it.
With every step she takes toward me, another bit of my anger fades. Her sincere eyes fill with regret. A sight that allows me to breathe.
"Is it true?" I wave my hand up toward the studio. My anger shifts into shame. I'm always someone's second choice. "Has this entire week been sort of a messed--up audition?"
She freezes in place. When she drops my gaze, I know it's all true.
"Against my brother?" The anger returns. This time blazing hot. "My damn brother, Ariel? You know the issues we've had. What would make you think, any of this would be a good idea?"
Water pools behind her dark eyes, and my instinct is to pull back. I'm not a bully. I bite my lower lip—but I'm not a doormat either.
"I was thinking of the band. I'm sorry." She swipes the heel of her hand against her eye, pushing back the tears. "I didn't mean… I wasn't…"
"When were you going to tell us? Five minutes before the show on Sunday?" I don't give her a reprieve. She's yet to answer my questions, and I have a million more.
"It wasn't supposed to be this way."
