Franco (Bright Side #3) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Thursday, January 18

  Friday, January 19

  Saturday, January 20

  Sunday, January 21

  Tuesday, January 23

  Wednesday, January 24

  Thursday, January 25

  Friday, January 26

  Saturday, January 27

  Sunday, January 28th

  Monday, January 29

  Monday, February 12

  Wednesday, February 14

  Thursday, February 15

  Friday, February 16

  Saturday, February 17

  Sunday, February 18

  Monday, February 19

  Tuesday, February 20

  Wednesday, February 21

  Friday, March 9

  Tuesday, March 20

  Thursday, March 22

  Tuesday, March 27

  Thursday, April 5

  Friday, April 6

  Saturday, May 25

  Wednesday, June 13

  Saturday, June 23

  Tuesday, June 26

  Wednesday, June 27

  Friday, June 29

  Saturday, June 30

  Monday, August 20

  Thursday, August 23

  Friday, August 24

  Thursday, August 30

  Saturday, September 1

  Wednesday, September 12

  Thursday, September 13

  Sunday, May 26

  Acknowledgments

  Franco Playlist

  Other Books By Kim Holden

  About The Author

  Published by Do Epic, LLC

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locale is entirely coincidental.

  Franco Copyright © 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-9454-4302-2

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  Cover designer: Brandon Hando

  Cover image obtained from Love N. Books, www.LoveNBooks.com

  Cover photographer: Daniel A. Flores, www.DFVFX.com

  Cover model: Graham Nation

  Editing: Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words, www.alchemyandwords.com

  Interior design: Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words

  "Goodbye Los Angeles" lyrics reproduced with permission from the artist, Future Husbands. "Goodbye Los Angeles" Copyright © 2014

  Dedication

  Jama,

  You are the world champ of friendship.

  And mithering.

  But mostly friendship.

  I love you loads,

  Tiaco

  Thursday, January 18

  (Franco)

  "Let's go, twizzle tits!" I swear Jamie and Robbie are the slowest creatures to walk upright on two legs. Okay, that's a lie, Gus is the slowest. But considering Jamie and Robbie do everything together like they're conjoined, it doubles their slow quotient and puts them slightly ahead of Gus.

  "What's on the agenda tonight?" Gus asks.

  I can't help but laugh at the obscene amount of gum he's talking through. I know he started chewing gum because it's helping him quit smoking, which I'm proud of him for doing, but his new vice is fucking hilarious.

  The chewing halts and he narrows his eyes at me, which only makes me laugh harder. "What, dude?"

  Shaking my head through the last of the chuckles, I answer, "The gum. You're killing me with the gum, man. How many pieces are you chewing?"

  His middle finger is flashed impressively quick and with the authority of someone who means it, but the, "Fuck you," that accompanies it is half-hearted and sounds more like an agreeable, "I know."

  "We're going to the Y-Not. Wanna come?" The Y-Not is a little bar around the corner from the apartment we're temporarily housed in. It looks unassuming, which is so not L.A., and the name is endearingly and horrendously cheesy, which all adds up to a must-see in my book. It's a fairly new establishment, in that it wasn't here a year and a half ago when we recorded the last album.

  "Nah, dude, I'm just gonna chill here. Maybe watch some shit TV and get some rest." The way he says it puts my mind at ease. I've never been so okay with being turned down in my life. Gus's past year has been the things nightmares are made of. Losing people you love is a bitch. But losing your best friend, especially someone as fucking outstanding as Kate Sedgwick, rocked him to his core. He was a hollowed-out shell going through the motions for months and months. Looking at life through lifeless eyes and seeing absolutely nothing but the void she left behind. It was devastating to watch, because a) I couldn't help him, b) I missed her too, and c) I knew the pain and loss I felt must be amplified by one thousand percent in his heart—and that kind of grief was unimaginable to even consider.

  But the past two months I've witnessed life slowly breathing back into him. At first it was gradual, and I almost wanted to deny the progress I was seeing, because if he plummeted again I didn't think I could take watching it. So, I stood by with reluctant and slightly pessimistic hope that my best friend was recovering and clawing his way out of the depression that gripped him. And once the steady climb became noticeable, it skyrocketed. His confidence in his talent has never been what it should be, but the Gus I watched from behind my drum kit performing in front of me on New Year's Eve was the fucking rock star I always knew he had inside. And I don't mean a showy, cliché douche, because that will never be Gus—I mean a front man, with the confidence to back up his undeniable talent. And watching him in the studio these past couple of weeks confirmed the evolution. It's next level. I'm so proud of him.

  "You ready?" Jamie asks as he and Robbie join us in the living room.

  I laugh because he says it like they've been waiting on me. "I don't know..." I run my hand over the top of my freshly shaven and smooth head while showcasing my Twin Atlantic t-shirt with my other hand. "Clean shave, clean shirt, brushed my teeth, what do you think? It's not just for show."

  Robbie just smirks and shakes his head because he knows I'm busting their balls. "Let's go, showboat."

  Walking toward the door, I call him on it, "Damn right, I'm gonna meet someone tonight. I can feel it in my—"

  Gus interrupts me, "Balls?"

  "I was going to say gut...or even heart...but yeah, balls works too. Later, twat biscuit."

  "See ya, dicksicle. Have fun and be safe," Gus calls as the door shuts behind us.

  The air is warm tonight, and it feels good to be outside. We've been cooped up in the studio recording our second album for a couple of weeks now, and don't get me wrong I love what we're doing, playing drums is what I live for, but I also love being outside. Being in the water surfing, or walking the beach, or riding my motorcycle is where I am if I'm not playing drums. Every day we aren't on tour, I'm outside. I go a little stir crazy when I'm penned in by four walls for too long.

  Jamie and Robbie are arguing with the passion of two scorned teenage girls about a video game they've been playing. I've never been much into gaming so it's like following a foreign movie without subtitles and I tune it out.

  The first thing I notice about the bar when we step inside is how mellow it is. L.A. is a pretentious bitch; everything in this city is based on looks, appearances, stature, success...or a damn good fabrication of those. It's an illusion that houses nugg
ets of authenticity. And I feel like those nuggets are so few and far between that I gloss over them because it's too hard to distinguish the real from the fake. L.A. is not my scene, so the atmosphere in here makes me smile and forget about the people not so far away trying to be someone they're not.

  "Modelo okay?" I ask Jamie and Robbie.

  They give me two thumbs up because it's a little loud to talk over.

  "Cuervo shot, too," Jamie mouths.

  I nod, and then gesture with my chin at a door leading to a patio. "Go see if you can grab us a table out back. It's too nice to sit inside tonight."

  They nod and make their way past the pool tables, through the throng and disappear out the door.

  There are three bartenders: two dudes and one cute little brunette. I get her attention and smile, being the flirt that I am, and she saunters my way.

  "What's it gonna be, handsome?" She's even cuter up close.

  I pin my pointer finger down with my thumb and show her three digits. "Three Modelo, three Cuervo shots."

  She flashes a pouty smile, all full lips, and quickly turns and walks to the other end of the bar to fill my order. My eyes drop to her ass as it comes into view moving away from me. She's wearing shorts so tiny her cheeks are hanging out. Don't get me wrong, it looks good, she's in fantastic shape that's for sure, but here's the thing...I like some modesty. I know that's weird for a twenty-six-year-old guy who has a Ph.D. in flirting, but I think a little modesty reveals humility, which is one of the sexiest traits in a woman. I like a girl who's pretty, but doesn't know it, if that makes sense. Pretty, but doesn't shove it down my throat. Unassuming does it for me. So, when the bartender returns with the shots, she's somehow made the transition from cute to an afterthought. That's how quickly I can write potential off, in a split second. I know, I'm fickle, but if I'm going to spend quality time with a woman, I want to enjoy their company. It takes all kinds to make the world go around and I've dated them all, believe me, maybe that's why I'm so damn picky. I'm not looking to settle down or fall in love, but I still treat dating like an interview process, and vet like a mofo, because crazy or high maintenance isn't something I'm willing to entertain even on a casual basis. I don't care how amazing they are in bed, it's not worth it. Needless to say, I don't date much these days.

  She pops the bottle caps off the beers and places them on the bar top next to the shots and flashes her smile again. "That'll be twenty-one dollars, sugar."

  I hand her twenty-five and ask if she can help me carry the beers outside. She eagerly obliges, and when Jamie eyes her walking toward their table, with me walking behind, his sober expression lights up into mischief. He's into her. The kid can't hide an emotion to save his life. He sucks at poker because, you know, no poker face. The only person he can beat is Gus, and I half think that's because Gus lets him win.

  She sets the beers on the table. "Hi, boys."

  "Hi," they both answer. Robbie is unimpressed with her saccharine tone. He's only into blonds, so Miss Mahogany Mane doesn't stand a chance anyway, but he's not even trying to hide his displeasure. Jamie, on the other hand, is still grinning like crazy.

  She turns to me and bends over slightly, so her cleavage is strategically at eye level. "Let me know when you're ready for more, hun." It seems she's one of those people who's incapable of ending a sentence without a pet name.

  I kind of hate that, too, but I'd like good service tonight and I don't need her spitting in our next round of drinks, so I wink and offer, "Sure thing."

  She sashays away, ass swinging like a clock pendulum while Jamie drools.

  "Wipe your chin and close your mouth, man, it's embarrassing," I say to Jamie when she's out of earshot. I'm laughing at him, God this kid kills me. He's like a mini-Gus, except they're nothing alike. They share a lot of the same personality traits, but they project them differently. They're both insanely nice and generous, but while Gus does it with an easy, it's-who-I-am attitude, Jamie is more naïve, like a baby animal that you want to protect from the fierce, vicious world outside for fear he'll get eaten alive.

  Jamie's smiling because he knows I'm joking, but his eyes are still glazed over with the prospect of getting in her very tiny shorts. For being on the shy side, the kid gets his fair share of tail and then some. Chicks dig his innocence. Women are attracted to Gus and Jamie like moths to a flame. Though Gus has been converted to monogamy by Scout, and I love seeing that change in him. "What? She was hot," Jamie defends.

  I nod. "She's cute." And shrug. "Not my type."

  He nods slowly, and a smirk plays at his lips. "She didn't pass the test, huh?" He knows the list of shit that turns me off with women is long and getting longer by the day.

  I take a long pull on my beer before I answer his taunt. "Nah, I just didn't like the fact that everyone else has seen ass-ets before I'd have a chance to unwrap them myself. She's all yours."

  Robbie holds up his tequila shot. "I need to unwind. Let's get fucked up." He's a man of few words.

  Jamie and I raise our shot glasses, and as the three clink together, we repeat after Robbie, "Let's get fucked up."

  An hour passes in no time, and we've downed two more rounds of drinks when it starts sprinkling rain, which is pleasant until the clouds open up and it turns into a downpour chasing us inside.

  I glance at my watch—it's only nine o'clock and I'm already feeling a little hazy. "You two wanna play some pool before we have another beer?" I need to slow down if I want to walk out of here tonight of my own volition, instead of carried out by my compatriots.

  "Sounds good. I'll take your money. Rack 'em up," Jamie says confidently.

  I'm shit at pool. I know it's a game of geometry and angles, but my mind doesn't work that way, which means I always lose. And we always play for money, so not only do I lose my dignity, but I lose cashola, too. Technically, it should be the last thing I enjoy doing, but I love it. I have a pool table at home, and I can play whenever I want, but I'm still shit even with the practice. I guess that's proof you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it.

  Robbie and Jamie are both skilled, and they kick my ass quickly, jabbing me with put-downs the whole time. I accept them graciously, which is kind of unlike me not to verbally, good-naturedly poke them back, but my attention keeps being drawn to a couple sitting at a small table not far from us. They look tethered, like an invisible, giant hand is holding them down in their seats even though everything in them wants nothing more than to jump up and run for the door like the building is on fire. The guy is average in the looks department, but he looks cynical and jaded. I'd wager his day gig has him confined to a cube farm doing mundane work that has already stolen his soul and left him a cookie cutter soldier of boredom and mediocrity with no hopes or dreams. I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm good at reading people and this dude looks like he would be torture to spend five minutes with, as if he could suck the life and creativity out of you like a dementor in the Harry Potter films and you'd be left only a zombie like him. He's frowning, sulking like he's Captain in charge of the S.S. Asshole. I'm not a fighter, but I kind of want to kick his ass, because he's so blatantly treating her like an irritation.

  She, on the other hand, is a completely different story. Her hair is strawberry blond, more red than yellow, and it's the first indicator of the fire housed inside. She's wearing a You Me At Six t-shirt, which has me smiling because I already like her taste in music; a determined smile that seems to be a defiant, feisty, fuck you to his lackluster and piss-poor demeanor; and leopard print flats on her feet that for some reason just scream vixen to me, and not slutty vixen, but sassy, I-dare-you vixen. She has my full attention.

  I'm out of our game of three, and Robbie and Jamie are still playing, so I take a seat on a stool next to their table. I'm eavesdropping, and their conversation is sporadic and limited at best—single or two-word exchanges.

  "Hungry?" She's not kissing his ass, but it's a polite attempt to relieve the awkwardness.

 
Which he deflects with a simple, childish, pouty, "No."

  "Another drink?" She needs, more than wants, another drink to cope with her predicament, I can hear it in her voice.

  "No." He really could care less if he's coming off as a dick. I hate that.

  "Play pool?" She's about done. That was short and sweet and sounded annoyed as all hell.

  "No," the asshole replies.

  I'm straining to hear her say something else. Please say something else. Anything. Because she has a British accent that's broken and a bit rough—not the stuffy, proper, royal type. She's just gone from intriguing to downright sexy.

  "Toilet." It sounds final. She points to the restrooms on the other side of the bar.

  He raises his eyebrows lazily to acknowledge the announcement and continues to look miserable.

  And when she stands and walks to the restroom, I follow her. She's not aware I'm following her because I'm not tailing closely, but I can take her all in. She's maybe five and a half feet tall, loose curls fall to the middle of her back, her t-shirt's oversized and knotted at her hip, and her legs are wrapped in skinny jeans. She looks casual, but fucking adorable.

  I hang outside the ladies room door for her and when she exits I step in front of her and block her progress.

  She looks up at me and cocks her head. "Sorry, I need to get by."

  The accent? From two feet away? Directed at me? I just died. I give her my most non-threatening grin because I don't want to scare her and come off like a creeper. "You really in a rush to get back to the walking dead?"

  She shakes her head adamantly, but she's trying not to smile, I can tell. "Nah, I'm in a rush to leave while the wanker's not looking. Sneaking out the back proper getaway-like."

  I laugh, because just listening to her accent has my heart smiling in my chest, but her attitude has me wanting to take her outside in the rain and have a long, drawn out conversation with her to see what she's made of. "Is he your boyfriend?"