Call You Mine (The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers #4) - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,1
be in a conservatory playing for a few stuffy people than in a stadium filled with thousands of fans chanting out her name.
I know her better than she knows herself. She’s a lot more than a friend. She’s my person. You know, the one who understands you, and without a doubt will be there for you no matter how crazy your ideas are. She’s that and more.
She claims I’m an attention seeker. I’d like to defer. If I wanted attention, I’d use my last name, mention my parents, or flaunt my grandfather’s legacy.
I’d write a tell-all book. I’m not thirty yet, but I know tons of juicy stuff that I could leak to the press.
Things that they don’t know about me: My grandfather is the late actor Kirk Fitzpatrick. My mother is the famous pop-star Janelle, who began her career at fifteen. She surrendered me to her parents before my second birthday.
My father never gave a shit about me after the paparazzi caught him with me, and he lost his wife and all of his mistresses.
I was raised on Mercer Island, Washington, but was born in LA.
The Decker-Colthurst family opened their arms to us and helped my grandparents raise me. Legend says that I was a handful.
Confession, I still am.
I had six brothers. One of them died, and the other five don’t care much about me.
What do I do with my free time? Well…some secrets keep many safe, and that’s how they’ll stay—secret.
Everyone is always wondering about my love life and the part of myself that I protect from everyone.
I don’t have any romantic relationships. The speculation that I’m dating some groupie that’s always hanging out with the band is false. Grace isn’t a groupie.
So, let’s be clear. This is the only statement I’ll make.
I chose the job.
If there’s something I learned at an early age, it is to prioritize.
You can judge me. I don’t care. I live by my values and put what matters the most before everything. Just remember, sometimes we only see what we want to see and let the illusions take over reality.
Chapter One
Beacon
It’s the end of the last song—the second encore.
The audience sings the lyrics along with me.
I still remember when my fingers finally let you go.
When I lost the right to hold you,
The right to claim you,
The right to call you mine.
You’re close, and so far,
I lost the right to call you mine.
If only I could kiss you once,
One last time before I become the ghost of your past.
I direct the microphone toward the audience. Everyone knows this song, loves this song, and empathizes with my pain.
The pain of losing my first love, the love of my life.
My forever.
This was the first song I wrote from the heart. It’s inspired by one of the most painful experiences of my life. Everyone connects with it on such a deep level. It makes me wonder if humanity feasts on the despair of others, or we are all hurting. Maybe we’re joined by loss, agony, and melodies.
I’m drenched in sweat, my throat is tired, and I’m ready to disappear. Thank fuck, the tour is over.
This is a big chunk of my life. Live concerts, fans yelling at the top of their lungs, and sharing the stage with my best friends—my brothers. I love everything, but to an extent.
It’s loud, hot, and crowded.
I’m a huge contradiction. Before a concert, I’m pumped up and ready to give everything I have to my fans. During the show, I play and sing my heart out. Once it’s over, I can’t stand the masses.
I need to go.
Making a final bow to the applauding crowd demanding another encore, I jog off the stage with my guitar. Manelik continues drumming hard while I cross the hallway. One of the bodyguards and the rest of the band follow me. When the drums stop, the people begin to stomp their feet harder and faster.
They chant, “Encore, encore.”
They need another song, another hour with us—more of Too Far from Grace. I hope Mane runs fast or the driver will leave him. Near the service door at the back of the arena, I spot Byron Langdon, our manager, who waits with towels and water for all of us.
“Where is Manelik?” Byron asks with annoyance.
“Behind us?” I ask, pulling the doors open and breathing the cool, fresh night air.
“Get into the car,” Byron orders and then speaks to one of the security guys. “I swear if he’s not here soon, I’m leaving him without a detail—or a ride home.”