Page 5 of Ordinary Secrets (Secrets Trilogy #1)

5

TREY

I sense it before it comes. From behind, Liz’s bubbly energy fires through my head like little pellets. Her heels clack rapidly across the backstage floor until her front slams against my back. The zense in my chest tingles as I fall forward off my barstool and catch myself right before the guitar in my lap hits the carpet.

Not even for a second does Liz release her arms from my torso. “Hey there, T-Bear!”

“Seriously, Liz? You act like you didn’t just see me all day yesterday.” And every other day. Dramatically, I pry myself out of her grasp, pretending she’s a slimy slug.

With a huff, I plant my ass back onto the barstool. Once Kevin’s guitar is repositioned over my thighs, I go back to changing the strings for him. He’s been saying that he needs new strings, but he hasn’t had the time to do it with all the stuff going on with his mom, so I figured I could help.

I twist the knob for the E string a few times. “You still trying to get that T-Bear thing to stick?”

Liz has been calling me that for the last few weeks. “I’m not trying. It’s already stuck.”

I throw my head back and groan.

“Ya know,” she sings in her soprano voice, “I only call you that because ya hate it.”

“I don’t hate it,” I grumble. “I just don’t prefer it.”

“Whatever.” She narrows her eyes playfully. “You secretly like it.”

“Do not.” I do, not that I’ll admit it out loud.

Liz is the only person I allow to call me silly names. She wears yellow every day of her life while she struts around the Earth spreading joy to everyone in sight. Even the people who don’t deserve it—like me. For that, she can call me any stupid name in the book.

With a swoop, Liz flings her purse onto the sectional couch shoved against the wall, then heads to the mini bar for a bottle of water.

Our backstage area is one big room with our instruments lining the perimeter. In the middle sits a large open space where we like to rehearse. Down the hall in the back are some bathrooms. Across from those is our recording studio, where I’ve occasionally brought women in for a good time. I haven’t done that for a while, because the last time I did, the redhead I invited in used teeth. My dick was sore for a week. Never again.

Liz claims a spot on the couch and pulls her yellow satin gloves off by the fingertips. The gloves flop onto the coffee table. I’ve come to appreciate the short moments when Liz’s hands are bare. It doesn’t happen often—only when it’s just us.

It takes me another minute to finish tuning Kevin’s guitar. With a flick of my wrist, the instrument hovers through the air, back to its stand. Then I join Liz on the sectional, resting an arm across the back.

She tucks one of her cherry-brown curls behind an ear. “Sooo, I read some of the comments on last week’s music video.”

“I thought we decided you weren’t gonna read online comments anymore?”

“I didn’t wear gloves for that video shoot,” she says a little defensively. “I wanted to see what the fans’ theories were.”

“And?”

She chuckles. “The best theory was that I’ve been replaced by an alien clone and aliens are allergic to gloves.”

I let out a loud ha! “Yep. That makes way more sense than the fact that you did your scenes alone, so you didn’t need hand protection.”

“I know, right?”

Over our four years as a band, our fans have drummed up hundreds of wild theories as to why Liz always wears gloves. While most people accept her excuse of being a germaphobe, many others like to spread theories about her having robotic hands or that she’s hiding Hispanic gang tattoos.

It used to bother Liz. Now she owns it as her thing. Our sassy band manager, Monique, says that having a “thing” is great for branding. It gives people something to recognize Liz by. It’s endearing when our hardcore fans come to our shows wearing satin gloves of their own. Monique has suggested that we slap our band logo onto some gloves and sell them as merchandise, but Liz refuses to monetize her curse, fearing that if she does, it’ll get worse. I don’t blame her. I’d feel the same.

“I sense three people coming.” I point at Liz’s gloves. They fly off the coffee table and land in her lap.

“Thanks, T.” She doesn’t hesitate to slip into them as Kevin swings the back door open. Sunlight radiates into the room while he holds the door wide for Marcus and Emmy to enter.

“Grant!” Marcus shouts. Our fans have labeled our drummer as the tough guy of our band because he’s a tall, broad-shouldered Black man with a “Come at me, bruh!” resting face. On the inside, though, he’s a softy, especially when it comes to his girlfriend. “Lemme ask you somethin’. If, before you walk into a gas station, you ask your girl if she wants a snack and she says no , can she get mad at you for not buyin’ her a snack?”

I cock my eyebrows up. “No?”

Marcus turns to Emmy, who’s barely a step behind him. “See, babe?”

Emmy, our band’s pianist and alto, scowls at him. “Liz! If your man comes out of a gas station with three snacks for himself and none for you, then refuses to share one potato chip, do you have a right to get pissed?”

Liz laughs, pushing herself off the couch. “I mean, I’d be a little ticked.”

With a flash of red curls, Emmy turns to slap her boyfriend’s arm. “See?”

“It’s never just one chip!” Marcus says. “One always turns into the whole goddamn bag.”

Kevin makes a few tsk tsk tsk sounds as he wiggles a finger back and forth. “Word of advice, man: Always get your girl a snack.”

“Whose side are you on, Chan?” Marcus gapes at Kevin. “She told me she didn’t want nothin’!”

“Nah, bro.” Kevin shakes his head. “They always want somethin’. And if they don’t, now you got an extra snack.”

Marcus glances at me with a back me up look.

The most I can offer him is a shrug. “Kevin knows what’s up.”

Knowing he’s lost this one, Marcus mutters something under his breath as he takes his spot behind the drum set.

We’re able to rehearse a few songs before the opening band arrives. Around that time, our crew members trickle into the room.

By seven, our openers are on stage while my band is backstage with Monique, talking through our upcoming filming schedule. I’m barely paying attention, for two reasons. First: I don’t have anything going on in my life, so whatever dates work for them work for me. Second: I keep checking the time every two minutes. Arella should be here soon, and the clock on my phone seems to get slower with each glance.

Forty long minutes later, our security manager peeks his head backstage and motions for me. Earlier, I asked him to come find me whenever Arella got here.

Emmy is in mid-sentence when I shoot off the couch.

“Be right back,” I say.

“What?” Marcus says as I rush away. “We’re goin’ up in like fifteen minutes.”

I ignore him as I exit through a door and come out at the side of the stage. I scan the crowded restaurant for her face but don’t find it.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Our security manager points with one of his thick tattooed fingers. “At the far end of bar.”

Even through the dim lighting and all the people surrounding her, my eyes pin onto her immediately. She’s got her back facing me, with all her wavy chestnut locks pulled into a long braid hanging over one shoulder.

The openers are in the middle of performing their closing song as I make my way toward Arella. Occupied tables of all sizes cover the floor from the stage to the back wall. From a side table, a pair of young women shout my name over the music. I flash them a smile and a quick wave. Instant giddiness flies through my head. Then comes their disappointment when I don’t stop to chat with them. Sorry, ladies, but I’ve got more important things on my plate.

Tonight, for phase two, I have two objectives. First is to ask Arella out on a date. I need to keep seeing her until I find out what makes her immune. Since it could be anything that causes it, I need to learn as much about her past, her family history, her genetics, and whatever else as possible.

My second objective is to get her to tell me all the basic information I already know about her. I would hate to slip up and mention something I know that she hasn’t told me yet.

Arella, looking as stunning as yesterday, has her phone pressed to her ear as I approach her from behind.

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?” A pause. “You’re kidding... No. I can’t be here without you, Javie.” Silence, then she groans. “All right, fine. No, it’s okay. Yes, really. Mm-hmm. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a deep sigh, she sets her phone onto the bar counter.

Now’s my chance.

“Hey.” I slide onto the empty barstool next to her.

Arella jumps back a little, clasping a hand against her chest. “Ah! You scared me.”

“Now we’re even.”

She crumples her eyebrows together before making an oh! face. “That’s right. I scared you yesterday while you were fixing my tire. Thanks again for that.”

“No problem. Where’s your friend?”

Arella rolls her eyes, but her irritation doesn’t shoot through my mind like it should. “Javina’s girlfriend flew back from a work trip early as a surprise. Apparently, that means Javina needs to go to the airport and ditch me here by myself.”

“You’re not by yourself. You’ve got me.”

“But won’t you be up there?” She points at the stage, just as the opening band’s final song ends.

The floor vibrates with an eruption of cheers as the lead singer waves at the crowd. The lights go wild with bright neon colors flashing back and forth. The singer says his last thank-yous, then vanishes behind the black curtain with the rest of his band. Slowly, the stage lights dim out as the cheering fades and transforms into a loud hum of conversation.

I have little time left, so I throw a hand up to get one of the four bartenders’ attention. The guy with an eyebrow piercing spots me right away and offers me a curt nod as he finishes the drink he’s making.

After he sets two drinks in front of a young Asian couple, he approaches me. The name tag pinned to his upper chest reads mitch . I’ve never seen him before, so he must be new.

“What can I get for you?” Frustration simmers in Mitch’s gut. I wonder what from.

“I’ve got my card on file under Trey Grant.” I gesture to Arella. “Anything she wants is on me tonight.”

Mitch squints his eyes. “Huh? What d’you mean you’ve got your card on file?”

“Just tell Sophie I’m covering her bill.”

The guy scoffs. “And you are?”

I don’t expect the new guy to know who I am. Still, he doesn’t have to come at me with that snippy attitude. Twisting on my seat, I hop off and head toward the nearest table.

“Excuse me,” I say to the group of men shoving onion rings into their mouths. I grab the little acrylic sign off their table. “I’m just gonna borrow this for a sec.”

I hand the sign to the bartender, then point at my face. “That’s me. Tell Sophie this guy is getting this girl’s bill, ’kay?”

“Cool.” Mitch tosses the sign back to me, and I catch it easily. He’s lucky I’ve got good reflexes, or I would have dropped it from his shit throw. From under the bar counter, he pulls out a laminated menu and shoves it at Arella. “Be back in a jiff.”

I should speak to Sophie about Mr. Rude and Unfriendly later. He’s not someone I’d want bartending at my joint. No doubt, Sophie doesn’t want him either.

After I return the sign to its original table, I reclaim my place next to Arella, who’s reading the menu. “What’re you in the mood for?”

“Thank you, but you don’t have to pay for me.”

“No worries. Sophie gives the entire band and crew a huge discount. She says we help bring in most of her income.”

I check the time on my phone. Monique is probably freaking out right now about me not getting mic’d up. I’m gonna hear it from her later about how I purposely do things just to piss her off, even though that’s never my goal. If Arella wasn’t such a vital puzzle piece to finishing my parents’ research, I’d be back there already.

While Arella focuses on the menu, I focus on her as if staring longer will make my mind power kick in. So far, nothing. Damn, she’s beautiful though. Undoubtedly the prettiest Ordinary I’ve ever laid eyes on. Strands of wavy locks fall out of her braid, framing her rosy cheeks. Long black lashes surround her hypnotizing brown eyes, and her nose has that delicate small and rounded shape about it. All her features fit with her sweet and gentle demeanor.

Arella sets the menu down and turns to me with a shy smile. “Am I that interesting to watch?”

I smile back sheepishly. “A little.”

Mitch returns with that same snippy tone. “You decide on somethin’ yet, sweet cakes?”

Sweet cakes? I can’t stop myself from shooting him a dirty look. Mitch pretends like he doesn’t see it, but I sense it when he does, the moment his nerves spike. Subtly, I give him my best I’m this close to hitting you face.

“I’ll have some water and the chicken nachos, please,” Arella says, never acknowledging Mitch’s stupid pet name. Maybe she doesn’t care that he called her sweet cakes , but I do.

“Cool.” Mitch snatches the menu from her, then leaves.

Now that he’s gone, it’s time for me to make good on my mission. “So, Arella, do you work anywhere besides Sunrise Daycare?”

Her shoulders stiffen. “How do you know where I work?”

“You and Javina were wearing the same T-shirt yesterday. I just assumed...”

“Oh, right.” She relaxes. “I’m also a nanny over the weekends. How about you? What do you do?”

“You know what I do. I’m a musician.” I nod my head toward the stage I’m supposed to be behind right now.

“Do you do anything else?”

“Just this.”

Her fingers play with the end of her long braid. I can’t tell if she’s doing it out of habit or because she’s nervous. Here I am, playing that guessing game again.

“If you don’t have another job, what do you do in your free time?” she asks.

This is supposed to be me learning about her, not the other way around. I answer anyway. “Doing what I do keeps me busy enough. We film videos at least once a week and rehearse a lot. Then there’s all our writing and recording sessions. I also do a lot of the background work like song arrangements and producing. When I have free time, I like to ride my Harley around the suburbs, read, work out, you know.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it good.”

I purse my lips together into a thin line. “Sure.”

Something I’ve learned about life is that the way things look on the outside isn’t always what they are on the inside. I would trade away the Internet fame and everything I have if it meant I could live the life I would have if my parents had never been murdered.

“What do you do in your free time?” I ask.

“Um, are they looking for you?” Arella points toward the stage. I turn at the hip to find two crew members up there, cupping hands to their eyebrows and surveying the crowd.

Dammit. I’ve never been this late. Monique is gonna kill me.

“You’re staying for the whole set, right?” I force my ass to slide off my seat.

“How long does it go ’til?”

“Ten.”

“Oh, that’s kind of late.” She tugs at the bottom of her shirt. “I’ll stick around for as long as I can.”

“It’d mean a lot to me if you stayed. I’d like to know what you think of our music.” I need her to stay. If she leaves, I’ll have to plan another run-in with her. At that point, it might look suspicious.

I see the battle she’s having with herself in her head, even though I can’t sense it. I’ve gotta get her to stay, so, with the sweetest puppy-dog eyes I can muster, I add, “Please?”

After a moment, she lets out a breath and smiles sweetly. “All right. I’ll stay for your whole set.”

Thank fuck. “Great. I’ll come find ya when I’m done.”

Backstage, the openers are getting their instruments packed up as I beeline past them to my electric guitar. Liz and Emmy each have a microphone in their hand, flashing me a what the hell look. Kevin, with his bass guitar strapped over a shoulder, taps the invisible watch on his wrist. Marcus spins his drumsticks around his fingers, shaking his head at me. The crew members are all in position, ready to roll. The only person not in sight is Monique, and I count it as a W.

I’m about to swing my guitar strap over my head when a large hand shoves me so hard, I’m launched forward a step. It’s Marcus, and his mood swarms around me like angry bees. “Bro, you missed our entire pre-show routine. I was ’bout to send out a search party.”

I throw both hands up in surrender. “I’m here now. No need for the helicopters.”

“I had ten dollars on you hiding in the bathroom, whackin’ one off.” Marcus huffs as he makes his way back to join the rest of our band near the stage door.

Our gray-haired sound manager replaces him. “I bet twenty dollars.” He hands me my earpiece.

I shove it into my ear, then hook the mic pack to the back of my jeans.

Our sound manager marches away as his voice bellows through my earpiece. “Found Grant. He’s ready.”

Monique growls my name through the device. I know it’s her from the same exasperated tone she always says my name in. “Trey Grant, I swear to Lord Jesus, you be givin’ me more aneurysms than all six of my children put together.”

I ignore her. She says that about me at least once a week.

Our sound manager responds with a chuckle. “Monique, you say that about him every week, yet ya still like the kid.”

“I’d like him more if he didn’t purposely try to make my job harder.”

I chuckle to myself, then press a button on my mic pack. “Monique, we all know you enjoy yelling at me as much as I enjoy making you yell at me.”

She growls again. “Get to your position, Grant.”

I rarely get nervous before a show., but tonight, my mind feels chaotic. My body’s here, about to perform, but my mind’s still with Arella, trying to figure her out.

Focus! I order myself as my bandmates and I step out onto the stage, still hidden behind the giant black curtain. On the other side, the audience is screaming at the top of their lungs. I allow their intense energy to rush through me and take control. Hopefully, it’ll drown out the tension in my stomach.

The crowd gets louder when the lights flash and our intro music drops over the speakers. A heavy drum beat with a guitar riff plays, then comes Liz’s recorded voice.

“Like a sunrise on the darkest day or a shining star within the black sky, you’ll always see us because we are... Flames in the Night!”

The crowd chants along with the countdown. “Five. Four. Three. Two. ONE!”

As my bandmates march out from behind the curtain, the rumble of screams pulsates through my veins. I’m always the last to come out. When I do, I lift my guitar into the air, and the crowd gets wilder. Their rush of exhilaration slams into my head so hard, I almost lose my balance.

With my Empath powers having the range of a quarter mile, I can sense hundreds to thousands of people at once. Usually, I’m able to minimize my range to only those within a few steps of me. It makes the emotions of everyone else in the distance feel like a low hum—still present, just not as loud.

On stage, I like to expand my range to everyone in the audience. Being able to sense every single person as I perform is one of the few perks of this empathy gift—a gift I never would have chosen. Not that anybody gets to choose.

Marcus ticks off four beats on his drumsticks before going into his drum solo. After eight measures, I enter with my guitar. After that, the rest of the band joins in, and we play our usual opening song, “Fired Up!”

The more I sing and play, the more I lose myself in the moment. Music has always been my escape. It helps me forget about my bullshit childhood and seeing my parents die in front of me.