Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (reader novel txt) 📗

staccato of beats masked the rain. I hummed the possible guitar opening, and Parker picked it up almost instantly, strumming the sound I imagined. Brogan added rhythm, and Ash found the middle between guitars and drums.

It’s good.

Peeking down at the notebook on the table, I found my moment and added the lyrics—at least the two lines we had.

Meeting Parker’s gaze, I sang the first line. Then the second. When I reach the third, nothing came. I waited for Parker to pick up where I left off like we’d done so many times before. When I was stuck, he came in and vice versa. So far, I’d been the only one contributing.

Frustration bubbled up, and I glared with pursed lips. “Are you going to try, or are you just going to be a lump on a log?”

The music screeched to a halt, and Parker’s lip curled into a scowl. “I am trying.”

“Really? Because we’ve been at this for over an hour, and we have two lines that I came up with.”

“Because it’s your job.”

“Well, we can’t all be as good at doing our job as you are, Parker,” I sneered.

His nostrils flared at my double meaning, and he looked on the verge of snapping. Instead of shouting like I half expected, he stared me down while he put his guitar aside and stood up. His chest heaved, and he looked down on me. I tipped my head back, meeting his intimidation with my own frustration.

The muscle in his jaw ticked, and I held my breath, waiting for him to say anything. Instead, he broke the stare first and stomped to the back of the bus, where he slammed the door behind him.

Oren’s whistle brought me back to reality. I’d almost forgotten anyone else was there with us, it’d been so quiet.

“Well, while Parker pouts, I’m going to nap. I’m exhausted from the show last night and slept like shit,” Ash said, making a much less dramatic exit.

All the fight seeped out of me, and I rested my forehead in my hands and my elbows on the table. The two lines on the page mocked me. They weren’t even that good, and I considered lighting them on fire just to release some tension.

Why was this so hard?

I almost laughed at the stupid question. Parker and I had a million issues between us, and it kept us from finding that sync we’d had as teens.

“Sorry, guys,” I apologized. “I’ve never worked so closely with a band on writing lyrics. For the most part, I just sell them.”

“Well, we do like to push people past their norm,” Oren said.

“Remember when we made Aspen drink the worm tequila,” Brogan recalled, laughing.

“Gross,” I cringed.

“Add in everything else, and I think we all knew we’d hit some speed bumps.” Oren shrugged before pushing his electric drum table aside. When he looked back up, something in his light blue eyes had me holding my breath.

“You know, I’ve wanted to apologize for a long time,” he started.

“It’s okay, Oren.”

“It’s not. You were part of us, and I don’t know…I guess I never stopped to consider you wouldn’t come with us. And when you turned it down, I got it, but I was too excited to think past myself.”

“We all were.”

A lump worked its way up my throat, and between my frustration with Parker, constantly being on edge, and Oren’s rare sincerity, I almost choked on it.

Somehow, I managed to swallow it down. “Seriously. It’s okay. It’s over.”

“We just never got a chance to apologize, and it kind of weighs on us,” Brogan added.

I had so much bitterness that hid inside me, and it popped out when I least expected it. Before meeting Parker again, I would have said I’d dealt with my past and moved on. Now, I realized it lingered in the dark corners I refused to look into.

So, when Brogan’s words held the slightest tinge of an edge to them, I easily recognized he had his own resentment. Because they hadn’t just left me. I left them too.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

And in typical guy fashion, he shrugged like it was nothing.

“Okay. Good. Got that out of the way,” Oren said, clapping his hands together, back to his goofy self. “Now, you and Parker need to make up, and all will be fabulous. Let them lyrics flow.”

“I think that’s about half of Parker’s issues,” Brogan muttered.

“Oh, yeah,” Oren said, wincing.

“What?” I asked. “What else does he have going on?”

Alarm bells rang, and my mind went rampant with the most improbable issues. Cancer? Dying? Wanted for a crime?

“His mom sent him an invite to his stepbrother’s graduation. She gushed about how proud she was that he’d already been accepted into the top ivy league schools.”

Brogan snorted. “Yeah, and when Parker reminded her he was on tour, she mentioned something about priorities and how his silly band could take a day off for family.”

“Oh, shit,” I drawled out. “When did he get that?”

“Last night, after the show.”

“Fuck,” I breathed, the anger from earlier draining out of me.

We’d struggled yesterday to get started but mostly worked our way through it. Today, it was like pulling teeth, but at least I understood why. Parker’s mom was his Achilles heel. Shoving the paper aside, I pushed up from the booth and headed to the back of the bus.

I turned the knob, half expecting it to be locked. When it gave, I entered cautiously, not sure of my welcome. I popped my head in to find him stretched out on the u-shaped couch, his arm thrown over his eyes. I tapped on the door in case he didn’t hear me, but he still didn’t move. Deciding to take no answer as an okay to come in, I shut the door behind me and sat on the other side of the couch, facing him.

Well, shit. What now? I probably should have come in with a plan and contingencies, like if he laid on the couch and stayed silent, ignoring my presence. My heart dropped at