We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee (moboreader .TXT) 📕

South… Nothing fit better than an ode to the musicians I’d grown up idolizing, starting with B.B. King.

For the next couple minutes, Nicky and I unclenched and let go of the setlist. One solo set off another. Our guitars spoke to each other, and we moved closer to each other and got lost in the rhythm.

Luiz and Chris improvised alongside us.

Nicky made his guitar wail for a beat, and I responded by taking us from bluesy notes to a funk-like tempo that got Luiz going.

I grinned, filled with passion and peace.

Have mercy.

Platform two consisted of a large wooden deck that would, according to the sign nailed to the entrance, host dancing, live music, and entertainment for children throughout the festival. And right now, a cooking class by “August King of MAT,” whatever that meant. I mean, I knew MAT was the name of his restaurants, but I hadn’t asked what it stood for.

The whole setup reminded me of the cooking shows I’d watched at home. Six workstations, two by two, facing a slightly elevated podium where August’s own workstation was situated. We’d all have our own stove, sink, work surface, and the equipment we’d need. Crates filled with ingredients waited for us.

August would be closest to the audience that would stand in the wide, grassy walkway off the deck, and though he’d have his back to them, they’d be able to see everything going on anyway. Several cameras and big screens were attached to tall stands around the deck, and they were already showing the live feed of all the workstations.

In other words, one camera would constantly be directed at my station. People would see me fuck up royally.

Fantastic.

As if that weren’t enough, before I could let anyone know I was here, a buzzing, take-charge woman jogged over to me and started speaking rapidly about the rules for the event. Mainly, watch the language. Kids would be in the audience, and we’d all wear mics. So they would not only see me fuck up royally, they’d hear it too.

“You must be Clara,” I said to the blonde. She was short, maybe a decade younger than me, blue-eyed, and seemingly possessive of her headset and clipboard. She had the latter in a tight grip, and she wouldn’t stop adjusting the headset. “Are introductions out of fashion?”

“My name tag is my introduction, and for as long as August is my boss, I won’t have time for chitchat because I’m busy handling his whole fucking life,” she responded coolly. Then she snapped her fingers—legit snapped her fingers—at a guy who quickly ran over to us. “Fender needs a mic. So do Galen and Washington, who just arrived.” She peered up at me and pushed up her glasses. “You’re at workstation number four—and a reminder. Don’t fucking curse.”

I grinned.

I liked her already.

“How do you even know who I am?” I didn’t think August would have described me or anything. I didn’t even know where he was right now. Maybe in the tent behind the deck slash dance floor?

“Oh,” Clara responded with a frown. “Because I’m an adult who can put two and two together? I met all the other participants last night—you know, when you were hiding out upstairs with Cam—and you’re wearing a tee that has your last name on it.”

Fuck me. She laughed at my no-doubt stunned expression and walked away, leaving me standing there having nothing to say while a guy attached a small mic to my T-shirt and stuck the bodypack to my belt behind my back.

Okay, so Clara knew…

It seemed private, though. I was supposedly the first man August and Camden had opened their relationship to since they became serious, and even if Clara was employed by August to run his public life, I didn’t understand how she’d already know about me. Unless someone had told her.

“Is the sound on?” I asked the sound guy.

“Not until Mr. King has started the class,” he replied.

Good to know.

On my way over to my workstation, I got to meet the other participants. A cheerful woman introduced herself as Bethany and asked if I was also hoping that we were going to make August King’s famous hot chicken.

I…I was just hoping I wouldn’t make a complete idiot of myself, to be honest.

Another woman introduced herself as Clarke, and she was visibly nervous. I estimated she was the youngest in the bunch of four women and two men. Most appeared to be my age, but Clarke didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

Four of us were out-of-towners, I learned. Mitch, the only other guy, had come all the way from Fairbanks, Alaska. He was also very happy to reassure Clarke that everything would be fine.

I scratched my eyebrow and looked around us, not really interested in making new friends. I was hungry and wanted to eat. I hoped we’d get to eat what we cooked today. Unless I set my meal on fire somehow.

Was August gonna stay hidden until we started?

Bethany had walked over to her own station and was currently trying to look at all the ingredients in the wooden crate without actually touching anything. We hadn’t been told we couldn’t go through it, though.

I folded my arms over my chest and peered down into my own crate. The first thing I saw was a clear container that someone had used a Sharpie to write “Lard” on. Welcome to the fucking South. They didn’t mess around.

Very few vegetables. Some crisp-looking lettuce, two pickles in their own plastic container, a big yellow onion, and garlic. The crate was heavy on carbs and fat, and nobody would find me complaining. A bottle of oil, butter, pasta, cheese… Some other shit too. A lot of spices.

By now, Bethany was certain we were going to make hot chicken.

I was certain I was gonna die if I didn’t get to eat soon.

If I was really quick, I could run over to the Midwest Way and try cheese curds from Wisconsin.

At this point, I’d even buy a shitty