Our Secret Song: A sweet brother's best friend, rockstar romance (For Love and Rock Book 1) Read online

  Our Secret Song

  Emily C. Childs

  Copyright © 2021 by Emily C. Childs

  All rights reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  Edited by Sara Sorenson

  Cover by Wynter Designs

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Fullpage Image

  Prologue

  1. Alexis

  2. Bridger

  3. Alexis

  4. Bridger

  5. Alexis

  6. Bridger

  7. Alexis

  8. Alexis

  9. Bridger

  10. Alexis

  11. Alexis

  12. Bridger

  13. Bridger

  14. Alexis

  15. Alexis

  16. Bridger

  17. Bridger

  18. Alexis

  19. Alexis

  20. Bridger

  21. Bridger

  22. Alexis

  23. Alexis

  24. Bridger

  25. Alexis

  26. Alexis

  27. Bridger

  28. Alexis

  29. Bridger

  30. Bridger

  31. Alexis

  32. Alexis

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Alexis

  The first time I was sent to the principal’s office was because I hit a boy in the head with the hardback version of Charlotte’s Web. He told me Wilbur the pig was a wimp and ruined the ending by spoiling Charlotte’s fate.

  The second time was for hoarding Miss Christie’s books and rehoming them in my bookshelf. She called it stealing, but that’s such a strong word. I appreciated them so much better than the other first graders.

  But the most memorable of all my grade school office visits hit a little closer to home. It involved the guy who slept over in the room across the hall, whose mom invited us over for pancakes on Saturdays.

  The guy who was my friend and nemesis rolled into one skinny, nine-year-old body.

  When he made fun of me for crying over Little Women in the school library—in front of both the second and fourth grade classes—he became more enemy than boy next door.

  Don’t worry. He wasn’t laughing so hard when I stole his stupid notebook where he wrote down poems that never rhymed and read them out loud in front of his friends.

  I didn’t mean to scream when he tugged on my pigtails and called me a snitch and a crybaby. I didn’t mean to smack him in the mouth, either. But I’d never forget sitting side by side outside Mr. Henson’s office, him with an ice pack to his cheek, me clutching Little Women (the sweet librarian told me I could keep it if I loved it so much) to my chest.

  He glared at me. I glared at him.

  “Fine, Al,” he shouted with his swollen lip. “Fine. It’s sorta sad when Beth dies. Sorta.”

  “You know her name?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He turned away from me and paled when his dad walked into the office, eyes narrowed at both of us.

  I shrunk a little in my chair, but secretly liked the way his dad glared harder at him than me. Mr. Cole would probably give me a fist bump when no one was watching.

  Two days later a triple-folded piece of lined paper was taped to my bedroom window. One of those weird poems written in his sloppy handwriting. At the bottom it said:

  They aren’t poems dummy. It’s a song.

  B

  P.S: I have tons of stupid books I don’t read. I’ll give them to Parker to give you since that’s all you do.

  P.P.S: Do you think it’s a good song?

  Chapter 1

  Alexis

  “What do you mean it’s gone?” My cheeks prickle in heat. This isn’t happening. Cue the blabber in three, two, one. “How can it be gone when it was supposed to be mine? I mean, I know it wasn’t only mine, it was more a we thing, you know? A threshold to cross, a life to build. The after-honeymoon refuge. Us. We. Together. I know there’s been a mistake, let me call my fiancé.”

  The woman at the desk flicks her eyes to me as I whip out my phone. She holds a worn magazine, cover rolled back. Her cat-eye glasses perch on the tip of her nose, the eyeglass chain is made of colorful beads. Shades of purple, blue, of sun yellow, and strawberry red. For a moment she drags her eyes—rife with disinterest—over my scarecrow figure. Joints and bony points is how my tumbling coach once described me.

  The sort of body image issue every girl wants.

  I flash a grin at her, wishing she’d stop looking at me like I’m insane. I’m not. I’m fidgety, and rightfully so. My apartment is gone!

  Eyes on my screen, I don’t have a single message from Bryce. He must not know the mishap has happened. He’s going to be livid.

  The woman lets out a long sigh, relieves her magazine to the desktop, and laces her fingers beneath her chin. “Sweets, how else do you want me to put it? It’s taken. We’re full. Contracts are booked for the year. There’s no room at the inn.”

  I take a deep breath in through my nose. A wave of sun-soaked mildew and body odor strikes me like a fist to the throat. This was supposed to be my palace, stinky as it is. Right now, in the heat, simply to have a roof over my head, I could get used to the low-powered AC units. I’d tolerate the slowly-roasting-alive smells.

  “But this was reserved,” I start, a little whimpery for my tastes, but desperate times and all. “I made the deposit months ago. We toured.” I lean closer, as if it might help her see my features better. “Do you recognize me? Thirteen A, the one on the—”

  “Lower floor, corner. Hon, I know. Listen, what do you want me to say? Two nights ago, Mister—”

  Don’t say Hall, don’t say Hall.

  “Hall. A Mister Hall called and canceled his spot on the list.”

  I shake my head. This is a mistake. “But he would’ve told me.”

  She tilts her head, sympathetically. “He’s your guy, is he?”

  “I mean, yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time. All through our undergraduate degrees and now into our graduate. We’ve been together forever, as in two years. We make a good match. Everyone says so. When he asked me to marry him, it made sense.” I pause for a breath, my mind going faster than my tongue, and steal a glance at her nameplate. “Patti—may I call you Patti? We’re getting married this weekend. It’s Thursday, Patti!”

  “Uh, huh. Big wedding?”

  “Not really. We’re in Vegas, so why not? But don’t worry, it’s more planned than some Vegas weddings. People are coming. My friend from Utah, even my brother is flying in from Seattle—he’s playing against the Mariners, you see. He’s a ball player. Cool, right? His coach never allows players time away, but he gave him leave to give me away. Our dad is dead.”

  I let out a groan, cursing myself. No one wants that sort of thing dropped in their laps. But sad as it, I don’t really think of my dad in a mourning way. I never knew him.

  What I’m thinking is how Parker will have to return to his team—his entire team of sexy, professional baseball players—and let them know a wedding didn’t happen.

  I press a hand to my chest because any second my heart is about to burst out.

  Patti kneads her plump chin with her plump fingers. “Lemme ask you this, sweets. Who, uh, who’s the money bags in this whole set up?”

  “What? We’re students. I mean I
paid for the apartment deposit and the first month’s rent, but that’s because I had a little money from my dead dad. I mean, just my dad, sorry I keep saying he’s dead. A little something for when I graduated college.”

  “Like a trust fund?”

  “No, no. Like an inheritance. And not millions, more like thousands. A good chunk of change to help with a down payment on an apartment.” Am I wailing? Kind of. I sniff and clear my throat. “So that’s what I did with it.”

  “And your fella, he, uh, he had access to this inheritance?”

  “Ah, I see those wheels in your head turning, Pat. It’s not like that, okay.” Funny, but my voice starts to tremble. “A lot . . . a lot of couples have joint accounts.”

  “Oh, hon.” Patti pouts her bottom lip.

  Hot, stinging tears brim over my lashes. Am I really so stupid? Have I been duped? No. I maintain this is a misunderstanding.

  Bryce and I get along like peas in a pod. We hardly argue. We’re logical, intelligent human beings with a ten-year plan. My inheritance amounted to ten grand. We spent it on a modest wedding dress, the loan on Bryce’s car, and the down payment on the apartment. I had the money. Why wouldn’t we use it? I can practically hear Bryce’s deep voice rattle in my skull, Joint accounts makes finances so much simpler, Lex.

  I’d believed him. For flipping sakes, he’s getting his MBA with a finance emphasis! I’m here for Library Studies. There’s a difference in spreadsheet and budget know-how.

  “Sweetie?”

  “I thought . . . I thought his ideas on how to use it were smart. Practical, useful, avoid-debt smart.”

  Patti sighs. “Do you have anyone I can call for you?”

  Why would he do this? I grit my teeth, angry enough I could scream. “It was beyond the cancelation period, though.”

  “Yes, and he paid the fee.” She flicks her eyes to me again. “Honey, do you have anywhere you can stay until you find another place?”

  My chin quivers. “I’m not from Vegas.”

  Not that I grew up far away, but I’m not going home. No way.

  Good ole Patti nods and rifles through an old rolodex with handwritten addresses. “Well, here. I’ve got a few friends. Now, they can be colorful. One runs a nightclub a few blocks from The Strip, but if you don’t mind karaoke at all hours, she’ll let you crash on the couch. Tuesday night is ladies’ night.”

  My brows lift. “A nightclub couch?”

  “Unless you’d prefer my second cousin. She runs a legal brothel up in Ely.”

  I blink through my stun and take the few addresses with a nod. Nightclubs. Brothels. Might as well cozy up at a casino. They’re open at all hours and I doubt the staff would notice as long as I look like I’m busy gambling.

  My throat is dry and I hardly remember staggering outside.

  Ten in the morning and already the Las Vegas sun scorches the earth at a whopping hundred and one degrees. Welcome to August in the desert. The pavement is so hot I don’t even smell the burgers grilling at the restaurant next door. All that’s there is dry burn.

  I sit on a stone bench tucked beneath one of the many date palms lining the lawn of the apartment complex. Even in the shade sweat gathers over my brow. The address cards Patti gave me to my unique potential sleeping arrangements serve as a fan. I slouch against a red sandstone wall, tie back my long, dark hair, tug my capri pants higher on my legs—a little air is needed—and I process.

  How could Bryce do this to me? I take a deep breath and make grand plans to call him, to figure out what’s gone wrong. Maybe he found a better place and wanted to surprise me.

  I jump when my phone buzzes in my hand. A breath of relief escapes my throat and I’m quick to answer. “Parkagon, hey.”

  My brother, Parker, usually laughs at his nickname. He is not laughing today. “Alexis! Where are you? Where is that son of—”

  “Park!” I stop him because when Parker Knight goes on a cussing rant, he goes on a cussing rant. It’ll make the Vegas Strip blush. Then, my brow furrows. “Wait, how did you know something was wrong?”

  “Because your stupid, moron of a fiancé is all over Twitter. With Cami!”

  I stare at the shimmer of heat billowing off the sidewalks. A punch to the gut, one felt deep under my ribs. “Cami? As in—”

  “Our ex-stepsister! Yes!”

  I fumble with my phone, putting Parker on speaker phone, and pull up my app. My fingers tremble when blaring back at me is my horrible recently ex-stepsister. She’s the kind that would give the sisters from Cinderella a run for their money. Her botoxed, glossy lips are slobbering all over my . . .

  I draw in a sharp breath and stare at the words of the tweet, stunned.

  Cam Bam Cam @camiluv4

  Sorry ladies he’s taken! #whathappensinvegas #hubby

  Posted four whole minutes ago. There, staring—bragging, really—right back at my face is Cami smashed against Bryce. She holds up her hand with a stupid not-a-diamond on her middle finger. The middle finger! Is that supposed to mean something? Or is she that idiotic?

  I can’t breathe. Air refuses to enter my lungs. It burns. I’m afraid my heart might burst through my ribs. When did this happen? I was texting Bryce yesterday! Where a moment ago I couldn’t breathe, now sharp puffs of air squeak out of my throat, and I’m looking at the dusty desert peaks, the palms, the flashing lights as through a fog.

  “Lex?” Parker’s voice rattles in my ear. I can’t answer. Not yet. Talking is too much effort.

  My phone dings. A text from, ugh, my mom. This is really happening if I’m being bombarded by text messages from her.

  I ignore them and return to Parker. He always knows what to say, knows what to do.

  “Park . . .”

  His voice is softer than before and I’m grateful. Parker knows when to be hot-headed, and when to be a big brother. “Lex, hey, it’s going to be okay. He’s a total . . . he’s an idiot. Let’s focus on getting you somewhere, though. I can be there in six hours if I catch the next flight.”

  “No,” I say, hardly more than a whisper. For a mind that reels too much, my brain is silent now. “No, you already got an earful from your coach about coming on Saturday. Just . . . stay.”

  Parker is two years older and my opposite. Athletic, a new closing pitcher for the Vegas Kings. A hot shot. But my brother has always been my guy. A true friend, despite our polar differences.

  “I’m coming, Lex.”

  I pinch my mouth into a tight line, breathing through my nose until my heartrate slows. “Please, Park. I can figure this out. The lady at the apartments was nice. She gave me some places I can stay.”

  “You could go home.”

  “Did you cringe as much as I did just now?”

  “I did, actually.” He chuckles and something shuffles in the background. I picture him flopping onto his bed in his fancy hotel room. He always does that when he talks. “Okay, where are the places the lady gave you? I want the addresses.”

  Always the protector. I roll my eyes, tears still forming behind them. “She has a few friends willing to give up a couch.”

  “Still going to need to know the where?”

  I can’t lie. As in, I’m terrible at lying. I have maybe two secrets to my name and those are too embarrassing to admit, so they’re easier to keep.

  “Um, one is at Boardwalk Night Life and the other is Cowboy Ranch, then—”

  “Whoa. Back up. Did you say night life?” Computer keys click in the background now. Great, he’s Googling. Parker snorts. “Oh, no. No way. You said Cowboy Ranch, right? Come on, Lex. It’s in Ely.”

  I laugh. “Oh, the brothel thing doesn’t get you. It’s the distance.”

  “Brothels have bodyguards, so no, actually, I’d prefer it over the night club.”

  I let out a long sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. “How could he do this? Why would he do this?”

  “Because he’s a tool, Alexis.”

  “Thank you for keeping it PG.”

 
“You’re welcome. Cami is the worst, we know that, but Bryce—I never liked him. He was sketchy.”

  I must be an idiot because I never got a sketchy vibe. More logical. The next step would be finding a life partner, right? Someone to work with toward mutual goals. We sort of clicked and made sense.

  “You never said anything,” I whisper.

  Parker hesitates. “Because you seemed determined to make this choice, Lex. But he wasn’t good for you. Didn’t show you he loved you, or even cared.”

  Thinking on it now, Parker did pipe up a few times about Bryce’s lack of affection.

  Who doesn’t like to make out with their significant other?

  Apparently, Bryce Hall. At the beginning he told me I was beautiful, smart. He gave me those funny twists in my gut when he kissed me. He wasn’t my first kiss or anything. The first had been passionate, forbidden. Tempting. But it made a bit of sense when we’d dated for about a year and he told me we didn’t need to be as hot and heavy.

  Now, I have to wonder if maybe he said it because he didn’t like kissing me.

  Parker clears his throat, voice soft. “Honestly, Lex, I should’ve said something. I have a letter. I planned to give it to you this weekend.”

  “A letter.”

  “All the reasons not to marry Bryce Hall. Lame, I know, but I’m officially making a sibling declaration—if we’re going to make a super dumb, life altering decision, and it’s totally going to ruin our happiness—we speak up.”

  I wipe at my eyes and sniff. I nod, even though he can’t see. “Deal.”

  “Hey, you’ve got this. What’s the next step? Let’s work this out.”

  I sit a little straighter. I have a brain. Give me a second and I’m certain a solution to my homelessness will present itself. Thirty-three dollars in my wallet, a rumbling stomach, a parched throat, and a suitcase is the extent of what I have going for me.

  The last of my inheritance was swallowed by tuition and fees so—

  “I need to get a job.”

  “Okay, maybe a roof, first, but yeah. A job is good.”

  I fiddle with my braid. “I think I need to get out of the heat. It’s drying my skin like a raisin. I think better in cooler temperatures, honestly, I think most people do. Who wants to mentally exert when they’re burning alive?”