Contents
Overtones
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Dear Reader
Acknowledgements
Book Club
About Jerica MacMillan
Other Titles on Amazon
Overtones
Songs and Sonatas Book 6
Jerica MacMillan
Copyright © 2019 by Jerica MacMillan
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Brendan
“I need your help,” a familiar voice says in my ear as a small hand with short, unpolished fingernails slides over my shoulder.
I turn to see Lauren sitting down next to me at the head table at my older brother’s wedding reception in the fancy Montecito resort they rented out. Wisps of her auburn hair escape her elaborate updo, making her look more approachable in her strapless light green bridesmaid dress. Gabby had two bridesmaids, her sister and Lauren, and I escorted Lauren back down the aisle. She was chatty and a little flirty when we met at the rehearsal last night, but we haven’t talked much otherwise, so I’m not sure why she’s running to me for help. Since she’s friends with Gabby, I doubt she’s the usual type who fawns over me because of my famous brother, but you never know. I didn’t encourage the flirting, because I’m already sick of getting banged just for the story.
I raise my eyebrows. “Help with what?”
“I need you to pretend we’re here together.”
I consider this for a beat as I take a sip of my drink. “And why would I do that?”
“You see that guy over there?” She gives a subtle tilt of her head to indicate the guy in question. He leans against the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish serving the celebrities large and small here to rub elbows with my brother—one of the hottest pop stars around—and his new wife. “He seems to think that I’m far more interested than I am. I need to convince him otherwise.”
“You’ve been flirting with him for the last half hour.”
She gasps, her mouth open wide in outrage. “I have not!”
I nod, my mouth twitching, but I suppress the smile that wants to break out. “So you’re one of those?”
Her eyes narrow. “One of those what?”
“One of those girls who flirts without even realizing it. You probably leave a trail of broken hearts in your wake everywhere you go. You flirted with me yesterday, I saw you flirting with my little brother this morning, and I’m sure you’ve gone around the room flirting with every single guy here.”
She splutters for a minute, looking around the room. Then she seems to center herself, her focus returning to me. “Look, whatever. That’s not important. He’s coming this way. Will you help me or not?”
“Will you admit I’m right?”
The set of her mouth is mutinous.
“Tell me something. Do you enjoy stringing these guys along? Keeping them in the friend-zone, pining for you?”
Her nostrils flare as she regards me, dark eyes still narrowed, temper snapping almost visibly around her. I guess she lives up to the redhead stereotype.
“You know the difference between guys and girls?” she asks, and I’m a little surprised by the sweetness in her voice.
When she picks up the glass of water on the table in front of her, I brace myself to have it thrown in my face, reaching slowly for my napkin, trying not to be obvious. “What’s that?”
She sips her water, her face relaxing. “When a guy likes a girl, and she doesn’t like him back, he calls it being friend-zoned. Like she owes him something in return for his misplaced affections. When a girl likes a guy and he doesn’t like her back, she just considers it part of life. Not an affront to her fragile ego.”
I run my tongue over my teeth, taking another sip of my drink while deciding how to respond to that. “Fragile ego, huh?”
She shrugs, her eyes on her water glass.
Leaning toward her, I set my glass down on the table, but the friend-zoned dude in question arrives before I have the chance to make an observation about men with fragile egos.
She cringes when his hand lands on her bare shoulder, and I don’t really blame her. I wouldn’t want some dude with sweaty hands from too much alcohol and an obvious inability to read social cues—to wit, running away to sit with another guy and visibly cringing at physical contact—touching me either. I crumple the napkin in my hand in an effort to restrain myself from forcibly removing his hand from her shoulder.
Yeah, I was giving her shit before. But if this is what she was running from, it’s no wonder she asked for help from the first familiar single guy she came across.
I clear my throat in an attempt to draw his attention. No dice.
“Hey.” I pitch my voice to be sharp and cut through the sounds of conversation and music surrounding us so there’s no doubt I’m talking to him. A few people nearby turn to look our way.
He slowly raises his eyes to me, his hand still on Lauren’s shoulder.
Making a show of looking him over—he’s got a few inches on me, but I probably have at least forty pounds of muscle on him, skinny-fat dude in his shiny skinny suit—I stop when I meet his eyes, sitting back in my chair, legs spread like a cocky asshole. I pick up my glass and take a sip, then point at him with one finger. “I don’t think the lady likes you touching her.”
I’m aware of Lauren staring at me now, but don’t take my attention away from her skinny admirer. I take back my friend-zone comment. This guy isn’t anywhere near the friend-zone. She wouldn’t want him to touch her friend-zone with a ten foot pole.
She’s obviously a habitual flirt. But I can tell she sees it as being friendly. And just as obviously, she isn’t used to being around douchebags like this one who believe that their money and connections entitle them to all the free pussy in the world. I’ve had to deal with these assholes since I was a teenager. They’re the slimy hangers-on at any celebrity affair. Human barnacles. And they’re happy to take the cast-off groupies from their famous friends. The problem here is that Lauren isn’t a groupie or a cast-off.
S
he’s a bridesmaid.
And she’s mine.
I blink at the sudden possessiveness rearing up, but push it away. It doesn’t matter. She’s not mine. Not really. But for tonight, I walked her back down the aisle and danced with her earlier after Jonathan and Gabby’s first dance. Close enough.
Skinny dude tries to stare me down, but he’s shit at being intimidating. With a sigh, I set my glass on the table and stand, crossing my arms over my chest, making sure to flex a little so he sees that I’m far more intimidating than he is in my bespoke tux. No off-the-rack stuff for my brother’s wedding.
He shifts his feet like he’s considering backing up.
I lean toward him, pressing my advantage. “Lauren here is my date tonight. Remove your hand before I remove it for you.”
He lifts his chin as though to tell me I don’t scare him. But the way his eyes dart around says otherwise. “Everyone knows that whoever you’re paired with in the wedding party doesn’t count. Lauren and I have been having a nice chat, and we were about to take it back to my room. Your interference isn’t necessary.”
If anything, Lauren seems to shrink further, and it pisses me off more than it has a right to. But the chick who was spitting mad two seconds ago, dishing it back as good as I gave it, reduced to this? No. Not happening. Not on my watch.
I step closer, edging him back, replacing his hand with mine. Her skin is soft, warm, and her shoulder relaxes under my touch. “Look, dude.” I give him a pitying look, adding all the condescending sympathy I can muster to my voice. “I know she’s flirty and fun, and I’m sure you thought she was hitting on you, but that’s really just her way of being friendly. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but …” I lean closer, pitch my voice low like I’m telling a secret. “She’s not really all … there, if you know what I mean. In the head.”
Lauren’s shoulder stiffens again under my hand, but I give it a squeeze, urging her to stay out of it. Scrawny guy is looking confused and taking a step back.
I nod. “I know, I know. I’ve been trying to keep her close all night. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. She’s a sweet girl. She just doesn’t realize what she’s doing. It’s okay. We’ve all been there, amiright?”
He nods back, his forehead still creased with confusion. “Right. Yeah. Totally.”
I tilt my head toward Selena Isely, who’s on her fourth or fifth drink and fawning all over some guy who’s way too old for her. “Now Selena over there, she’s probably more your speed. Known for her follow-through, if you know what I mean.” I’d feel bad about sending him to a drunk girl, but I know she’ll end up in someone else’s hotel room anyway. Better a skinny young douche than that rich old fart with dangly balls. They’ll both thank me later. Well, except for the old guy.
Once he’s gone, Lauren jerks her shoulder from under my hand, and I clench it to preserve the imprint of her skin as I resume my seat, pretending to be unaffected.
She’s glaring at me, seething with fury.
“You’re welcome,” I say before she can start screaming at me.
If anything, that makes her eyes narrow further, little more than slits in her pretty face. “You made me sound like a complete idiot.”
I shrug. “Got him to go away. I helped you like you asked. Now, what are you going to do for me?”
She starts laughing. A sarcastic laugh, but still a laugh. Which is what I was going for.
When she calms down enough to speak, she looks me over again. “You’re lucky I don’t throw my drink in your face.”
“Honestly? I thought you were going to earlier anyway. That’s why I went for my napkin.”
This time her laugh is more genuine, less angry, but when she stops, she just looks sad. “I guess I should say thank you. You did get him to leave me alone, after all. All I asked you to do was pretend we were together, not talk me up so I’d sound like a genius. And you did that, despite your initial protests. So … thanks.”
She says it like it’s painful to get the word out, but I decide to accept it at face value. “You’re welcome.”
Chapter Two
Lauren
“What made you change your mind?” I flicker a glance at Brendan then return my eyes to my fingers sliding up and down the water glass.
I’m not sure what to make of him, how to feel about him. He’s cute, but that’s no surprise. All of the Brasher boys are attractive. Jonathan—the former lead guitarist of Brash—is the confident and serious one. Colt—the lead singer—is cute like a puppy that you want to pat on the head and take home.
But Brendan … he was the drummer. Hanging out at the back behind the drum set, watching everything and everyone, rarely speaking up in interviews. He’s still got that broody, quiet thing going. He responded to my questions when we were paired up at the rehearsal dinner and while dancing. But only direct questions. He made no effort to keep the conversation going, simply studying me with those unsettling hazel eyes.
Jonathan’s are green. Colt’s are blue.
Brendan’s are some indeterminate mixture that include green, gray, and brown.
He has those same unsettling eyes on me right now as he considers my question.
Finally, he shrugs. “You might be a habitual flirt, but you were clearly uncomfortable with that guy. I can only imagine that you must’ve been direct about your disinterest in—what did he say? Taking your conversation back to his room? Especially with you running to me before he followed you. Dude’s either too drunk or too stupid to pick up on the fact that you aren’t interested. You asked for my help, you needed it, so I helped.”
I sit back in my chair, one arm across my body, the other hand holding my drink. My posture mostly mimics his, but I keep my legs crossed at the knee, not man-spread like his. Forcing myself to meet his gaze, I take a slow sip of my water. “And you had to make me seem like a half-wit to do that?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I arch my own eyebrow in return. He laughs. Long and hard. Then he sets his drink down and sits forward again. “I like you, Lauren.”
I nod sagely. “Ah. I see. That’s why you told the guy I was too stupid to understand how flirting works.”
His smile never dims. “Well, to be fair, you got mad when I said you’d been flirting with every guy here. It doesn’t seem like you do understand how flirting works.”
I narrow my eyes at him, my nostrils flaring. The dig hitting too close to home. “Why is it,” I ask, my voice dripping with sweetness, “that when a girl is nice and engages a man in conversation, she’s automatically flirting?”
He stares at me for a protracted moment, his eyes never leaving mine. I make a conscious effort to keep the small smile in place, my head cocked just so, never letting him see how deeply his comments sting. I shouldn’t let it get to me, though. Not from some guy I barely know. But for some reason, I can’t help it.
He grunts and straightens. “Here’s the thing, Lauren. I enjoy this back and forth we have going, but I have a feeling I’m really pissing you off, and I don’t want to do that. So we’ll leave it at this—you say you weren’t flirting with Pencil Dick. I believe you. Sound good?”
Without waiting for my answer, he relaxes back, his legs spread wide again as he sips the clear liquid from his highball glass that has a wedge of lime floating in it.
I want to protest, because I can tell he doesn’t really believe me. But I don’t flirt with every guy I come across. I’m just being nice. Bubbly. Outgoing. All those things people expect.
But once again, I can’t win. If I keep to myself, I’m antisocial or bitchy. If I socialize, I’m a flirt trying to sleep with all the guys.
I’m just so sick of it. Being called a flirt. A cocktease. It doesn’t matter how often I try to say I’m just being friendly or polite. Or that if I kneed that drunk asshole in the balls, I’d be on all the gossip sites faster than you can say, “Oh, damn.” He came onto me hard, and I tried to deflect without insulting him to his face, because I don’t want to cause a sce
ne at my best friend’s wedding. And now I’m being accused of flirting with every guy in sight. Again.
Shaking my head, I look away and drain the rest of my water.
“Ah, see? I was right. I was pissing you off.”
My eyes track back to him, unsettled by more than just his eyes now. This guy sees way too much. For all his obtuseness about the flirting thing, he’s more perceptive than most. Or I’m too frustrated to hide it very well right now. I won’t give in and admit to that, though.
“No.” I infuse as much cool disdain into my tone as I can muster. “I’m just worn out from the last few days and don’t feel like arguing the point anymore.”
He gives me an exaggerated nod. “Right. Of course. Too tired to argue. I completely understand.”
“Do you? Do you really?” I stroke my chin. “Because it seems like you like to argue every point.”
That grin again, showing off his straight white teeth and that Brasher dimple. All three of them have it. Jonathan and Brendan on the right cheek, Colt on the left. Colt’s the odd one out in the looks department, light against his brothers’ dark. Though if you ask me, I’m pretty sure he bleaches his hair these days.
“Why are you stroking your chin?” There’s suppressed laughter under his question, and I can’t help but grin back.
“I’m contemplating you while stroking my existential beard. It helps me think.”
Good thing he was already laughing, because if he’d tried to take a drink, he would’ve spit it all over the table. And probably me too. As it is, he splutters and spits all the saliva out of his mouth.
I make a show of dabbing at my dress with a napkin. “This is such a pretty dress. Especially for a bridesmaid. Most bridesmaids dresses are hideous. I don’t want you ruining it. I might wear it again.”
If anything, my statement makes him laugh harder. He almost catches his breath after a minute, pointing a finger at me, his lips trying to form the word “you.” At least I think so. I tilt my head to one side and give him a quizzical smile, which sets him off all over again.
Overtones (Songs and Sonatas Book 6) Page 1