Next In Line: A Cake Series Novel by J. Bengtsson

Author:J. Bengtsson [Bengtsson, J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: J Bengtsson Books
Published: 2021-05-31T18:30:00+00:00

“Give me something inspired, boys,” Tucker said, fixing to leave after setting us up with dinner at the brewery down the street. The tab was on him, but he wasn’t doing it for free. We owed him not in money but in brainpower. We’d been tasked to do what was arguably the hardest part of forming a band—picking the name.

“Hey, Tucker. Hold up,” I said, sliding out of the booth and jogging over to him.

He turned back toward me, questioning. “Everything okay? Are you not happy with these guys? Because…”

“It’s not that. It’s something…uh…personal.”

I pulled him out of earshot.

“I need your help with something, and you look like you’ve hired a few hitmen in your day.”

His brow lifted. “Uh…how kind of you. Who do you want dead?”

“Nothing so drastic. I’m trying to find someone—a girl. Her name is Jess.”

I told him the story of our meeting and then of her hasty retreat.

“What do you know about her?” he asked, pulling up notes on his phone.

“I don’t have her last name, but I do know her real name isn’t Jessica. It’s Jesse. She works for RYde. She’s originally from Norwalk. And she drives a tan Hyundai Elantra.”

“No problem. I’ve had people whacked with far less information,” he joked—I think. “Phone number?”

“No. I have the wrong number for her. And I know her last initial, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it is. Maybe L.”

Tucker shook his head. “Jesus, Quinn. Maybe pay more attention next time.”

“I wasn’t expecting her to leave so fast. Otherwise, I would have asked all the pertinent questions.”

“I’ll see what I can find. Now go back and get me a damn band name.”

I headed back to the table before calling over my shoulder. “Hey, Tucker. You’re all right.”

“What was that all about?” Mike asked, clear suspicion in his voice.

“Relax.” I slid into place beside him. “Your name’s already on the banner.”

He wiped the fake sweat off his forehead and laughed. “Whew. I’m not used to winning, as you can tell.”

“Well, maybe you should get used to it.”

“All right. That’s what my landlord likes to hear,” Matt said.

Matt, aka Matty, was the most unassuming guitarist I’d ever met. Unlike Mike, who screamed dysfunction, Matty, with his short-cropped hair and striped polo shirt, looked like a stockbroker who played Guitar Hero on the weekends. But Matty was the real deal. A former member of a now-defunct Swedish death metal band, he had the quickest fingers I’d ever seen. And having only returned home to LA a few weeks earlier, no one had had a chance to snap him up. He was a true find—and the only one on Tucker’s original list to make the band.

“I’ve got an idea for a band name,” the drummer said, lifting his weary head off his arms to speak.

And then there was Brandon. Let’s just say every group needed a Shia LaBeouf, and Brandon was ours. Not that he looked like the actor, with his platinum-blond roller-coaster hair, but he sure as hell gave off the same vibes.

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