Blame it on the Tequila by Fiona Cole (the reading strategies book txt) 📕

“We want to watch the movie, too. I love Jennifer Aniston,” he proclaimed.

They stumbled in and made themselves comfortable on the couch, completely ruining the moment. I don’t know what would have happened in that moment, but I felt the shift. I felt it in the way she kept watching me out of the corner of her eye, almost like she saw me differently and needed to study me.

Something shifted, and I planned to stick my foot in the door and burst it open.

Seventeen

Nova

“What if we played this?”

Ash braced his feet under his captain’s chair and rested his fingers along the neck of the bass, strumming the same chords we’d played so many times I’d lost track.

“The wind erodes, exposing fissures in this rock.”

I leaned forward, holding my breath, hoping that this time the words would come. He played the chord again with no words, and still, I waited. Parker looked just as on edge as me from his place in the other captain’s chair next to Ash. We just needed a break. One small tip over the edge, and I knew we’d get it.

Statistically, after so many tries, we were bound to get something. Right?

“And…”

Come on. Come on.

Another chord, his brows furrowed in concentration like he could see the words but not make them out.

“And to be honest, right now, I’d rather be coming in my sock,” Oren screeched, belting his own lyrics from his spot on the floor.

“Bro,” Brogan grumbled, stretching his long legs out to kick Oren’s thigh.

“Fuuuuck.” Parker banged his head back against the seat.

“Like a frock or a dock or a cock,” Oren kept going. “Or anything else that rhymes with rock.”

“Fucking stop,” Brogan demanded, kicking him harder.

When Oren balled up and latched on to his foot, Brogan sat his guitar to the side, and I had to uncurl from my position on the long couch to stop the expensive equipment from tumbling to the floor.

It’d been almost a month on the bus together—minus a few nights when I flew home to see the girls while the guys did publicity.

In that time, despite the odds, we fell into a routine. I continued to come up with ideas to help us feed off each other. It helped, but only so much. We built a foundation of friendship, but it only served as a cover, loosely built over the fragile tension and lust we tried to ignore. It simmered like magma under the earth’s surface, waiting to erupt at any moment. Just like when he stroked my tattoo, we continued to find ourselves in situations that put pressure on my determination to hold off.

Anytime we got too close, I just managed to pull back and direct us toward the job.

Which was going pretty bad. In this time, we’d written all of two songs, and I didn’t even love them. Maybe the tension lingered a bit too much to find the natural rhythm we used to have. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it because the bottom line was that this was my job and my chance to build my businesses into one.

“How long have we been working on this song?” Ash groaned.

“Just today or including last week?” Parker asked.

“Three hours and thirty-seven minutes today,” I answered. “At least four-hundred-and-ninety-nine last week.”

“Sounds about right.” Oren nodded, getting up off the floor. “You know what we need?” he asked, turning to the iPad on the wall.

We watched him expectantly, all muttering different variations of doubt when he turned the main lights off and left the accessory lights along the ceiling’s edge on. Before the music even started, Oren’s hips rocked side to side, only increasing our groans, tossing scraps of paper from our failed writing attempts at him.

It didn’t faze him. When Billie Eilish came over the speakers, he danced to the kitchen, digging in the cabinet to come out with a bottle of tequila.

“Oh, no,” I objected before he could get glasses.

“Oh, yes,” he responded with a smile. “It’s time to dance this funk out and drink tequila. We’re bound to say something poetic with tequila.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever said anything poetic with tequila.”

“Come on, Supernova,” he coaxed, dancing toward the group.

I looked around, and the guys were already accepting their shots. I looked to Parker to gauge his reaction about stopping writing but was met with an amused smile and shrug before he downed the shot.

“At this point, I’m willing to try anything,” he explained.

Three weeks and two mediocre songs sat next to me in my notebook. In less than a month, we needed to have at least five, and it wasn’t looking good at this rate. Shaking my head, I agreed with Parker. I was willing to try anything, and while our adventures were helping, they weren’t helping fast enough. “Fuck it,” I muttered, taking the glass from Oren and shooting the liquor back. It burned down my throat, and I barely felt it settle in my stomach before I held my glass out for another.

“That’s my girl,” Oren crowed, filling my glass.

This time, when I looked over, Parker was the one assessing me, and I copied his shrug. “Why the fuck not.”

The liquor hit my veins, and I rolled my neck to the beat, loosening my tense muscles. The chords sank into my muscles, easing them more. I closed my eyes and moved my shoulders first, working down to my hips, limited by my position on the couch.

Next thing I knew, hands wrapped around mine, jerking me up into Oren’s arms. He narrowed his eyes in a sultry stare, pouting his lips, and held me as he swayed our hips to the music blasting through the speakers.

Laughing, I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave in to the rhythm. We all danced around each other, shouting lyrics, and letting loose. After those two shots, I decided to stick with water, but the rest of the guys finished off the bottle. More than once, Parker and I