“At least,” she says.
“That seems high.”
“For a reason. You’ll have to sign an NDA.”
“A non-disclosure agreement?” I scratch my head, then realization hits me. “Oh my god. It’s for Bren, isn’t it?” I say excitedly, my pulse racing.
Sofia’s partner is the lead singer of my absolute favorite metal band of all time,Industrial November. I was heartbroken when I learned he was off the market, but I forgave them both because I love Sofia. I still can’t act cool around him. I blame the curse.
And if that weren’t proof enough of my curse, the day I met Brenner Reindhart for the first time, the first love of my life even before Ethan, I was elbow deep in Sofia’s toilet—cleaning it. There he was, the millionaire rock god from Germany, and I couldn’t shake his hand; I was wearing rubber cleaning gloves—bright yellow ones. I went home and sobbed that day at my bad luck.
“It’s not for Bren,” Sofia says.
“Oh,” I mumble with disappointment.
“It’s for Karl.”
No words. I’m capable of exactly zero words, and my hand drifts slowly to cover my gaping mouth. Karl Sommer is the new guitarist inIndustrial November—one of the best guitarists alive today, if notthebest.
Not to mention drop-dead-gorgeous. Blond, perfect pearly-white teeth, blue eyes, and a square jaw sharp enough to cut diamonds. Let’s just say I’ve masturbated to thoughts of him on more than one occasion—and climaxing to his guitar solos, watching those fast fingers expertly strumming the strings, have been some of my best orgasmic experiences.
“Lo? Are you there?”
“Um,” I stammer, “yes. I’m here.”
“Can I take the silence as a ‘yes, Sofia, thank you. I’d love the job’?”
“Yes! Oh my god, yes!”
I’m so canceling Mr. Sanders’s scheduled home cleaning tomorrow. I’m going to meet Karl Sommer!
I get off the bridge’s ledge so I can hop-dance in excitement.
Oh, my fuck! What am I going to wear?
“Don’t get too excited,” Sofia says. “He won’t be there.”
2
KARL
Afurious Brenner Reinhart would be more intimidating if this weren’t about the hundredth speech of his. It’s always the same spiel;you need to get your head out of your ass. When are you going to get it together? Do we need to replace our guitarist again?
And on and on it goes, like a merry-go-round of Bren’s wrath. I’m immune to it most days, but today is the wrong fucking day. I sit on the couch, elbows to thighs, hands rubbing temples. I have a massive headache—and yes, it’s hangover-induced. But that’s beside the point.
Today, I’m not in the mood for Bren’s tangent.
I lift my gaze to look at any of my fellow bandmates for support. Fritz, our bass player, leans on the back of a couch, legs crossed at the ankles, looking at his shoes. Adrian, our drummer, rests his head on the sofa’s backrest next to me, looking at the ceiling. Useless.
Even Roger, our manager, refuses to meet my eyes. What the fuck? This is all his doing. I don’t even want this party lifestyle he’s imposed on me since I joined the band, replacing their old guitarist.
Finally, Roger speaks up. “Calm down, Bren. This isn’t helping any.”
“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down,” Bren roars. “You didn’t see what a pigsty his house was when we picked him up. He’s not showing up to work when we need him; he’s not writing new music, he’s not contributing. Apart from looking pretty and playing music Milowrote, what is he good for?”
That stung. I will forever be in Milo’s shadow. He was their guitarist before me until he got kicked out of the band three years ago when he refused rehab for drug abuse. Bren loves threatening me with Milo’s fate.
But I’m not an addict. Or an alcoholic.