Page 118 of Second Sets Omnibus

“Holy… fuck,” I gasp out. “You're serious? You're fucking serious! We got… we got in? We fucking made it?” I ramble into the phone as my thoughts catch up to the situation.

“Yeah, man. You guys are the shit! Once you read the letter, it'll have all the information you need. We'll see you guys in a few weeks!”

“Holy shit. Thanks, man! Thanks for taking a chance on us! Wait till I tell the guys they'll be…” I trail off as haunting words play on repeat in my mind.

“We'll wait for you, River!”

“We can play in Chicago! No problem!”

“There will be a next time.”

After exchanging goodbyes, I hang up the phone, slowly dropping it into my lap. Slumping in the seat, I lick my lips. How the fuck am I going to get them to California if they're more concerned with staying with River than playing in the band. This is our fucking band—our only chance to make it in the big leagues. Tours. Buses. Recording studios. Screaming fans. They're all within grasp, handed to us on a silver platter for the taking. And here they are, convinced they'd wait for her.

Like fuck.

I will not let my brothers wake up regretting their life choices one day. No matter the consequences. No matter how much I'll hate myself and drown in my guilt, we're going to California. No. Matter. What. With or without River West.

Callum

River's mom is in the hospital. Something happened last night.

Rad

She's super sick, man, and River… she's…

Callum

She's not okay. I can't get her to… move or speak. She's just….

Rad

Catatonic.

I take a few breaths, swallowing down the panic rising inside me. Despite the win we just achieved, nothing but desperation claws through me, threatening to pull me under the waves of anxiety. If River's mom is sick, how the hell am I going to convince them to go to California with me? They'll insist on staying behind and caring for her even more than they already do. Fuck. Listen, I'm not a cold-hearted bastard, but we've had our sights set on this goal for years now. I can’t idly sit back and let our plans derail off the tracks. If there’s one person who can keep these fuckers’ eyes on the prize, it’s me.

Whatever it takes.

Me

Fuck, man. Tell Little Brat I'm sorry. We'll be there soon.

Kieran frantically knocks on my window with concern etched on his face. Rolling it down, all the energy rushes from me, and my head swims in a fog of confusion. It's on the tip of my tongue to sing our win and confess everything. Something holds me back, though, keeping my lips sealed. For some reason, I need time to think about everything. River. The competition. And our promise to her.

“I'm going to meet them at the hospital. Wanna go?” he asks with his brows furrowed. His fingers fidget in the open window, drumming against the car's interior.

I shake my head. “I'll meet up with you in a bit. I'll grab whatever River needs. Just text me, okay?”

“You good?” Kieran asks, looking me up and down. “You look like you're up to something.” His nose scrunches. “Or about to shit your pants.” I blanch at his words, shoving my hand into his chest and pushing him away. He smirks, swatting at me when he rights himself.

“I'm fine, asshole. Just go away. I'll be by in a bit. I'll unpack and shit.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Fine, shitbag,” he grunts, shoving off my Tahoe and climbing into his own. He glares at me with suspicion when he pulls out of the driveway and peels out of the neighborhood.

My eyes gaze up at the large, intimidating house full of an array of monsters ready to attack. Whether they're manipulative gold diggers or the devil himself, they reside here in a seemingly ordinary neighborhood. With trepidation, I climb out of the car and head into the pits of Hell with my head held high. Finally, hope shines somewhere in the back of my darkened mind, slowly coming out of the box I shoved it into years ago. It fills me to the brim with anticipation and so much goddamn hope I could vomit. This is fucking it. We're achieving what we set out to do. We fucking got in! We did it! Now, all we have to do is blow the rest of the competition away and leave no doubt in the West brothers’ minds that we’re the best.

When the front door closes behind me, I'm greeted by a smug-looking Gloria bustling around the kitchen. With practiced grace, she sets a few sets of papers on the countertop, grinning as she reads the words. Eyeing her face, I note the lack of bruising and swelling, meaning my father must be far away on his so-called business trips.

“It seems we have a score to settle,” she says, sitting on the edge of the stool in front of the paper, tapping them with her nail.