Page 1 of Accidental Baby For My Brother’s Best Friend

Locke

“Atour, Locke, did you hear me?”

Jackson Arden shakes my shoulder as if I were deaf instead of just staring at him blankly.

“Who the hell would give us a tour?” I ask, gratefully taking the tequila shot when the bartender slides it to me.

Jackson's proud grin tells me the answer before he speaks. "My baby sister. She raised the money."

"Gemma?” I try to keep the disbelief out of my voice, but Jackson rolls his eyes.

"Don't act surprised. She's been managing Jack and the Spades since she turned eighteen. She's like a prodigy or something."

I hum in response. It isn't as if I don’t know Gemma has done a lot to market our band and get us the best gigs. Hell, she had somehow gotten our social media up to twenty thousand followers while we were still playing in dive bars. Gemma is capable, that’s for sure, but she is also a whopping twenty-one years old. They say age is just a number, but come on. This number shows she is even barely allowed to drink, how can she be responsible for our future as a band?

“Don’t be a jerk, Kincaid. It’s exciting! We’re even booked in Vegas!” Jackson chugs from his big bottle of water, never one to drink before shows. I can’t relate - big crowds make me nervous. Fame has never been my main goal - I live to make music. I never had big aspirations to be a famous musician - that’s more Jackson’s style. I’m a drummer, I’d be happy enough just to playing at dive bars if nothing else. What's really important to me is doing what I love. It's nice to have fans, don't get me wrong, but the possibility of failure when there's thousands of fans rather than hundreds…that scares me.

At my age, hitting it big didn’t seem like much of a possibility - at least until Jackson came along with his little sister in tow, about half my size but twice the personality.

A tour means that Gemma's big personality is getting us somewhere, and while I'm still nervous, I have to admit it's also exciting.

As if she knows I’m thinking about her, Gemma swings open the back door of the bar, like she owns the place, with the most serious look on her face, her button nose scrunched up.

“Locke,” she greets icily.

I look away when she meets my eyes, signaling the bartender for a beer that I’ll take on stage, and Gemma lets out a breath in a huff. It almost makes me want to smile, but I force it back down.

Gemma Arden is cute and all—okay, fine, more than cute–but at a little more than ten years younger than me, I am not about to let myself look too long - especially since she is Jackson’s sister and Jackson is family to me. Also, those two come from a superior gene pool when it comes to looks. Deep brown with hints of auburn, Gemma’s hair has begun to grow out since the last time I saw her a few months ago. Past her shoulders, it bounces when she walks, and the hints of red often catch my eye underneath the lowlights of the bars we always play in. Not that I look at her that closely, of course. Not much, anyway.

She and Jackson both share wide eyes with long lashes, a pale green that seems striking on stage for Jackson and a little intimidating from Gemma. She never did like me much.

At barely nineteen., and me closing in on the dreaded three oh, she thought she knew best. And maybe she did. I mean, she did get us a tour, right? But she never even tried listening to what my experience could teach her. I get it. They were used to having to fend for themselves since she and Jackson had a rough go of it after their parents died when they were teens.

I can relate, but it was more that I got kicked out at sixteen because my parents weren’t nearly as supportive as Jackson’s had been. Nevertheless, with Jackson, our similar backgrounds of growing up too quickly made us fast friends…it just isn’t the same with Gemma. I’d already been drumming for various bands and in my own garage for years before I tried out for Jack and the Spades, so I have my own ideas about the gigs we should book. Gemma, however, had already taken on the role of manager by the time we met, so we tend to butt heads a lot. I won’t even mention how we were in the beginning.

Still, I’d like to think we have a tenuous truce, but Gemma still mostly ignores meandmy advice.

I see her in my peripheral vision, leaning over the bar and ordering her signature drink: a filthy vodka martini, no vermouth, just olive juice, well shaken.

The first time I’d heard her order it on her twenty-first birthday, I’d made a face.

“Filthy? That’s a hell of a drink for an innocent,” I cracked, and she smirked at me.

“Who's innocent?” she shot back.

I have to admit that her answer had intrigued me, just a little. Hell, maybe Gemma Arden intrigues me a little in general, despite my best interests.

The forbidden fruit and all that, right?

My particular weakness isn’t girls who fawn all over me just because I know how to flip a set of drumsticks. I enjoy the chase. And Gemma can most definitely provide that kind of excitement. The fact that she’s my best friend’s little sister should be a deterrent, and kind of is, but what can I say?

I’m a musician, with all that pertains, after all, and Gemma is sassy and easy on the eyes - just my type, unfortunately. Especially since if Jackson figures out I have less than innocent thoughts about his baby sister, he’ll probably break my fingers. Or my arms and legs. Or buries me somewhere off path.

So I keep my mouth shut, and my eyes down, and she runs the show. She’s run it well for the two years that she’s managed with me in the band, even if we do have our differences.

Jackson bounces off to talk to the bar owner. He is such a social butterfly, a true lead singer. His voice has a particularly rough quality that fits well with the indie rock music we produce. He’s a hell of a songwriter too, so it’s no wonder that we are doing well. And as exciting as it is, like I said, our success makes me a bit nervous. Because there is more risk that something can go wrong, and there is no way to imagine my life without music.

Music is the only thing that I’ve ever beengoodat, and even if it wasn’t, it’s the only thing I do that really feels likemeand not just some projection of what other people want to see. Like my parents did. Like my ex did…No, not going there. Besides, it doesn’t matter anymore, because this is who I really am. And right now, there’s a certain pretty distraction leaning over the bar and I couldn’t be prouder of myself for not glancing down at the scoop neck of her dress. See? I’m agentleman, not just a drummer.

---