Page 9 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
I know what I’m seeing, but it actually takes me a few seconds to really believe that I’m standing in Grady’s kitchen having a staring contest with a pig.
“And who, may I ask, are you?”
She shifts her feet, but her eyes stay fast on mine.
“Do you have a name?” I look for a collar, but then realize how stupid that sounds to be treating a pig like a dog . . . and yet, there is a pig in front of me. One that is very comfortable in . . . I bend over to check out the pig’s underside just to be sure of her gender . . . her surroundings.
Her tail twitches some, and I laugh. I’ve resorted to speaking to a pig. Maybe I’m going crazy.
“Well, I’m going to eat some breakfast,” I say. “No worries though. It isn’t bacon. Just cereal.”
Yep. Definitely crazy.
It’s when I set the phone on the counter behind me that I see the handwritten note.
Dylan,
Don’t be alarmed by Petunia. I forgot to warn you about her, but the vet dropped her off this morning. She’s perfectly harmless . . . mostly. She has a doggy door so no need to take her out.
Grady
I stare at the note for a few seconds as Petunia grunts from the floor.
“Well, Petunia . . . it’s just you and me today.”
“How are you?” Jett’s voice rasps through the line like a fine whiskey over ice—smooth but with a burn to it.
I fight the threatening tears. I refuse to let his sudden concern for me make me fall back into the black hole being in Sunnyville is trying to pull me out of.
“Do you like the lyrics so far? I think they work well with the track you laid down.” I try to sound all business and wonder if he can see right through it.
“Dylan . . .” His voice is part apology, part concern, and I don’t want to believe either is sincere. “It feels like it’s been forever since—”
“Weeks. Not forever.” Twenty days to be exact.
“Too long.”
“The bridge sits perfect with the riff you have on there—”
“I didn’t call to talk about the songs,” he says.
“Then I guess I’ll be hanging up about now.”
“No. Please, Dylan. Don’t—”
“You’re going to show up for your scheduled session in the studio on Wednesday, right?”
“Of course, I am.”
“And you’re going to be on your best behavior? No tantrums. No—”
“Christ, Dylan, I’m not a kid.”
Then stop acting like one. The thought rushes through my mind. Why did it take me so long to see how immature he is? How his temper tantrums were not artistic frustration but rather him being spoiled rotten?
“Don’t screw this up for me, Jett. I need the label to think everything is good. I don’t need them worrying if the album will be completed in time. From the get-go of this contract they threatened to table it if you weren’t behaving, and I can’t risk that. I need the—”
“Money. I know, I know. And I told you I’d give you the goddamn money to help your mom. It’s not a problem.”
