Page 99 of Forbidden Lyrics

Fender snorts while Gibson lifts up his fingers and gives me the scout sign. “Scout’s honor, babe.”

“Fine. It was…”––I tap my finger against my chin––“a solid seven.”

“Seven?” Gibson shouts. The sound swallows Fender’s booming laughter. “That’s barely a passing grade!”

He rushes over to me, his fingers digging into my sides. The spatula is long forgotten and clatters to the ground as he tortures me. Tickling my ribs until I’m gasping for air and begging for space, but he doesn’t give in. He continues his assault like an evil mastermind.

Squirming on the barstool, seconds from falling off, I screech, “Okay! Okay! It was a ten! Perfect score! Never better! It’s downhill from here––”

Gibson swallows my words with a deep kiss that makes me moan as I wrap my arms around his neck for balance, getting lost in his touch. His smell. The feel of his stubbled cheeks tickling me. And his taste. Like coffee and orange juice and perfection.

“All right enough of that,” Fender orders, his voice crackling through the speaker. “I might be cool with you two bumpin’ uglies, but I don’t need to hear it firsthand.”

Gibson groans but pulls away and presses a quick kiss to the tip of my nose. Then he grabs the spatula from the ground and tosses it in the sink before finding a fresh one in the drawer next to the stove, where the scent of burnt batter wafts through the air.

“The reason I called is because I want to make sure we’re good to go for this weekend,” Fender tells us.

Half the pancakes are overcooked and thrown into the garbage before Gibson gets back to work on our breakfast while I attempt to register what Fen just said. “Wait. This weekend?”

“Yeah. Our first show is on Sunday. We leave Friday morning.”

“Like this Friday morning?”

“Yeah.”

“How is it so soon?” I ask, my panic rising. “I thought the first show was July sixth.”

“No, the first show is June seventh,” Gibson explains as he sets two fully packed plates of deliciousness in front of me, rounding the island and plopping down next to me.

“How is that possible? I could’ve sworn it was 7/6 on the forms Fen sent over.”

“The band we’re traveling with is from the UK,” Fender explains. “Their dates are written differently. In the US, it’s month, then day, then year. In the UK, it’s day, then month, then year.”

Crap.

“It’s such short notice because the original opening band canceled, remember?” Gibson adds. “So, they needed someone who could jump on board quickly. Is that going to be a problem?”

I gulp but shake my head. “Nope. No problem, but I do need to run it by my sister.”

Fen suggests, “She can come if she wants––”

“No, she can’t,” Gibson rushes out.

I tilt my head toward him, and he grimaces. “Sorry. It’s…I don’t think she likes me very much.”

He’s not wrong.

If she knew I was here––that I’d slept with her friend’s ex––she’d kill me. And I already feel guilty enough, thank you very much.

With a frown, I push my food around my plate with my fork. “It’s fine. She wouldn’t want to come anyway. But I’ll be ready.”

“You sure?” Gibson asks, his tone softening.

I nod. “Yes. I’m sure. Except I gotta tell Ashton that I’m taking a leave of absence. And with everything going on with Reese––”

“He’ll be fine. Sammie might pretend she’s a loner, but she’s got plenty of friends in her classes who would kill for a job there. And when we get home, we’ll figure out how to get your hours back.”

“And your hours, too. Right?”

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