Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
“Exactly,” I say. “I told you—the dude could keep a severed head in his fridge and I’d totally reach behind it to get myself a Diet Coke while giggling at something he just said.”
Dax laughs and looks at his phone again. “Yeah, both of ’em are just stupid-good-looking. It’s like God fell asleep at the ‘good looking’ switch and didn’t move on to the next guy on the conveyor belt like he was supposed to.”
“And I just spent a week with him in freaking Las Vegas of all places—and all expenses paid, too. No wonder I can’t distinguish fantasy from reality. The whole thing was like a fairytale.”
“Snow White and the Seven Sybians.”
“How the hell do you even know what a Sybian is, by the way?”
He scoffs. “Dude, I’m twenty and I’m a guy,” he says, as if this answers my question.
I shrug.
“Every twenty-something-year-old male in America knows what a Sybian is—it’s a porn staple. Howard Stern even has one in his studio for female guests to ride. It’s, like, Porn 101.”
“Really? I had no idea. I’d never even heard of one ’til last week.”
“Well, are you a twenty-something-year-old male?”
“Not the last time I checked.”
“And do you watch a shit-ton of porn?”
“Never.”
“Well, there you go. Now you know why you discovered the Sybian for the first time while watching porn with Sir J.W. Faraday.”
I bite my lip. Dax has obviously misunderstood the circumstances under which Josh first acquainted me with my new toy—and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s a very good thing. No one ever needs to know I rode that thing for Josh’s pleasure—least of all my brother. “So, hey, that concludes the ‘What Happens In Vegas Stays In Vegas’ portion of our program,” I say. “There’s something that happened in Vegas I actually want to tell you about.” I take a deep breath, a huge smile bursting across my face. “Guess who I partied with one crazy night while I was there?”
“Who?”
“All four members of Red Card Riot.” I can barely keep from squealing.
“What?” he bellows, his face the picture of pure astonishment. “How the fuck did that happen?”
I tell him about that night at Reed’s party, omitting certain key elements such as Jen’s attendance at the party and my near-naked tantrum in the hallway (because I’m a big believer that editing one’s life stories in the retelling is a girl’s prerogative).
“Damn, I wish I could have been there,” Dax says wistfully, shaking his head. “I would have loved to hang with those guys. Can you imagine what it would feel like to play for an entire arena of people, all of them singing along to a song you wrote?”
I shake my head, awed by the thought. “When I met them, they’d just performed on Saturday Night Live the prior week, and the lead-singer guy, Dean, started talking about it with this rapper guy and all I could think was, ‘God, I wish Dax could hear this.’”
The look on Dax’s face is so cute right now, I wanna throw him into a papoose and wear him on my back.
“You lucky bitch,” he mumbles.
“It ain’t no luck, son. I make my luck.”
He laughs. “Yes, you do. Always.”
“If RCR comes to Seattle, I’ll totally ask Josh if his friend Reed might get us backstage—well, if Josh and I are still doing our ‘temporarily-exclusive’ thing by then, that is.”
“Who’s Reed? And why would he be able to get us backstage at a Red Card Riot concert?”
I smile. This is exactly the piece of the story I’ve been dying to tell Dax for days. “Reed’s the guy who threw the party in Vegas where I met Red Card Riot.”
“How does he know them?”
It’s as if we choreographed this conversation in advance. “Well, let me see if I remember how he knows them,” I say. “Hmm.” I look up at the ceiling like I’m deep in thought. “I think Reed knows Red Card Riot because... they’re signed to his record label!”
Dax tilts his head like he’s not sure he heard me correctly.
I giggle. “Reed owns a record label, Dax. Like, he literally owns it—and RCR is one of his bands.”
Dax is looking at me like I’ve just proved time travel is real. “And you partied with him?” he asks, incredulous. “You partied with the owner of a record label?”
I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Twice.” I hold up two fingers for emphasis.
Dax’s thoughts are clearly racing. “So... oh my God. Does this Reed guy know your name or did you just sort of, you know, shake hands in a crowded bar?”
“No, we totally hung out. Had real conversations. He called me Stubborn Kat.”
Dax makes a face of total confusion.
“They were all joking that Stubborn Kat is like some kind of Garfield rip-off. ‘Oh no, Stubborn Kat ate all the curly fries and now she won’t get off the couch!’” I say by way of explanation, but he still looks nonplussed. “Never mind. I just mean we totally hung out and became friends. I went to his party the first night and then out to dinner with him and his friends a second night.”