Chapter One

I’ll know my purpose

This war was worth this

I won’t let you down

No, I won’t

 

Baby Joshua: call me when you get this message

 

I read the text message sent from my best mate of twelve years, glancing around the restaurant.  I read that line three more times before sticking my cell phone in the pocket of my apron.  He might have told me to call him as soon as I got that, but Table 12 needs to order food and drinks.  And I need to refill Table 7’s various soft drinks.  Without spilling, which I have a penchant for doing.

 

If Valerie, my overweight boss caught me on my cell phone, I would be working the night shift for the next two weeks.  Not that I don’t already work at night, but she would stick me with the after-midnight drunkard hours.  And this is the first waitressing job I have managed to keep for more than two weeks.  Pay’s decent, too.

 

Honestly, I think Valerie Marx is out of options.  After my second day, I realized why half of her waiting staff had quit.  She.  Is.  Horrible.  If she isn’t calling me a ‘twat’, she is insulting what I wear, how I look, and saying that it is no surprise I am twenty and can’t hold a job.  Sort of sounds like my mother that way.  And my old professors.  And everyone else who agrees I haven’t ‘reached my full potential.’

 

“Hello and welcome to Valerie’s,” I begin.  With a smile on my face.  Because as Valerie loves to tell me, if I’m not smiling, I’m not pretty.  And if I’m not pretty, I’m not making her money.  “I’m Emory and I’ll be your server tonight.  Are you ready to order?”

 

I scan the table, seeing a mum, dad, and their son.  And this time a genuine smile lights up my face.  I know these people.  I love these people.  They are the family I wish I had, so what are they doing at Valerie’s?  The food is okay and the owner horrendous.  Even some of the waitresses are awful, me obviously not included.  Because I’m awesome.

 

“Where are your glasses?” Ben asks me, looking gorgeous in his Ralph Lauren sweater.  He always did take more time with his appearance than I did.  Sort of pathetic, really.  For me, that is.  I throw on a T-shirt, jeans, and DC sneakers.  Maybe brush my hair.  No makeup.  No accessories.  The basics and then: Done. 

 

“The boss thinks they retract from my beauty,” I drawl, rolling my grey eyes.  “Lovely woman, she is.  Says that if my personality sucks, I may as well look good.”

 

“Do you need me to have a word?” Mr. Devine asks, cracking his knuckles.

 

“Honestly Michael,” Mrs. Devine scolds, waggling her finger, “we all know you couldn’t hurt a fly.”  She turns to me, smirking the smirk I haven’t seen in person on Josh in months.  “Don’t worry, dear.  I can do the talking.”

 

I laugh loudly, attracting the attention of Valerie.  She glares at me, pointing to Table 7 who still needs that refill.  Unfortunately.  Can’t I have minutes to talk with my surrogate family?  Of course not.  Valerie isn’t a kind person; she’s a dictator.  Sucks the life out of people until they quit.  Which I am looking into, as soon as I can find another job.

 

“Thank you for the concern,” I tell them.  And mean it.  Oh, do I mean it.  “I really appreciate it.”  And then, because Valerie is still looking and I really want to annoy her: “Have any of you heard from Joshy lately?  He texted me a couple minutes ago.”

 

They share a secret look.

 

“What do you mean?” Ben asks innocently, raising an eyebrow.  “We talk to him all the time, so about half as much as you do.”  I stick my tongue out at him.  “And, er… I’ll have a Sam Adams.”

 

“Right,” I jot it down on my little notepad.  Not really sure how some people can remember orders.  I have the memory of a goldfish, it seems.  Know something for three seconds and then it’s gone.  “And what will it be for my favorite people in the world?”

 

“Ouch,” Ben teases, clutching his heart.  “I take offense.”

 

“We’re only your favorites because we gave you Josh,” Mr. Devine winks.  “I’ll have a Gin and Tonic.”

 

“Club soda is fine, thanks,” Mrs. Devine smiles.  “Someone has to drive these two drunks home.”

 

“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I tell them, ducking over to the bar and avoiding Valerie.  She is going to kill me for wasting time.  Small talk is nice, yes.  It helps get tips.  But, according to her, too much time talking will make it look like I picked a favorite table.  And the other tables will get jealous.  And jealousy is a negative emotion, so people will associate Valerie’s with negativity.  Which she rants about.  Often.

 

I spent the next few hours spilling drinks, but not on anyone.  Which is a first.  Today must be my lucky day.  I tripped.  Twice.  On the plus side, a boy who hasn’t hit puberty caught me before I could face plant.  And then introduced me to his hawt older brother.  We smiled awkwardly before I handed Table 3 their check.  Got a sweet tip.  Probably because it was full of creepy grandpas.  But who said there is anything wrong with that?  Certainly not me.  Never me. 

 

When Valerie handed me my total earnings for the week, her bushy eyebrows nearly touched her greying hairline.  I doubled what I made last week, while only doing two hours overtime.  But what can I say?  I had a good night tonight.  I made my customers laugh, the Devines tipped very nicely, and I flirted with a few rich businessmen who gave me large bills and told me to ‘keep the change, love’.

 

Her only comment was that I should wear V-necks more.  Might be a compliment?  Not sure, though.  Is she merely saying that I have a nice chest?  Or it’s passing?  Because Joshy tells me I have a nice chest, and I catch Ben staring at it more than often, but that’s where my interactions with the male species end.  Unless we’re talking about virtual interactions.  Because I talk to boys on World of Warcraft and fan forums all the time.  They ask me for pictures and I find random ones on the Internet.  It’s fun.

 

When I finally got back to my apartment, the one I am sharing with my best mate of twelve years but have currently been living alone in, I decided to shower before calling him.  He messaged me several hours ago, but Josh knows I forgot all about it before a few minutes ago.  Which is to be expected.  It’s me.

 

“On line with Devine,” is his answer when he picks up the phone.  I smile at the sound of his voice, sitting on his unused bed.  Might be a little creepy.  Or, definitely is creepy.  But I have the completely normal habit of hanging around in his room when he goes on tours.  I prefer his, anyway.  He has a drum kit, a guitar, amplifier, and Katy Perry poster.

 

Who is a total babe, by the way.

 

“You told me to call?” I ask, twirling a piece of dark brown hair around my finger.  I settle into his mattress, leaning against some pillows.  “And make this quick.  I have a raid in twenty minutes and Cande will kill me if I’m not on.”

 

“Are you still playing World of Warcraft?” he asks.  I can see his frown through the phone.  Josh is convinced WoW destroyed what little social life I had a chance of having.  “You know I like to be there to monitor you.”

 

“Come on, Joshy,” I tease.  “I’ve been good.  I remember to eat three meals a day.”  Not really true.  Actually, that’s a major lie.  When Josh leaves on tour, I seek solace with games.  Forget everything else.  “Er, you said you had something to talk about?”

 

“Nice try to change the subject,” he laughs.  I sigh.  I really miss that laugh.  Haven’t actually seen him in months.  Ever since he went on tour.  Ugh, I wish I could have gone with him.  He should have taken me.  “And yeah, there was a reason I called.”

 

“Which is?” I press.  Screw Josh for being so vague.  All the freaking time.  I swear he does this on purpose.  To annoy me.  Because this is the problem when we are apart for too long.  He forgets how much he loves me. 

 

“I need you to play something for me,” he requests.  Again with the vagueness, am I right?  He needs to work on that.  “Remember our last video chat?  Maybe cover that song on guitar.  It was decent.”

 

“Baby Joshua can’t even give me a compliment,” I pout.  “Maybe I’ll sing that for you.”

 

“NO!” he shouts, before coughing.  “Er, I mean, no.  Please.”  Josh hates me when I sing for him.  I call myself tone death.  Or worse.  He says I’m worse.  Which I disagree with, because I think I’m wonderful.  “Please, Em.  My ears were bleeding.”

 

“Dude,” I pout, walking over to his dresser.  I pull on his favorite navy hoodie.  Still smells like him.  Like home.  Which is the reason I wouldn’t let him take it.  “You seriously suck.  Like, majorly.”

 

“And you seriously sound American,” he laughs.  “Like, oh my god.”

 

“You wanted me to play you a song?” I remind him, huffing.  “Because I refuse to play for someone who doesn’t appreciate me.  And I was going to play something, maybe even something normal.  Not that I know what normal really is.  You know as well as anyone that I’ve never been it.”

 

There’s a pause.  Which surprises me.  Calling myself abnormal is like Christmas for Joshua Devine.  It’s an open invitation to mock me.  And he has never not had a retort for me.  I hear fumbling, a hushed conversation.  I press my phone against my ear, grabbing my Fender telecaster electric guitar from another room.  Start strumming.  Still nothing.  He doesn’t make fun of me.  

 

“Excuse me,” I huff, blowing a piece of dark brown hair out of my face, “but I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

 

“It appears we have that in common,” an unfamiliar voice tells me.  I squeak.  Did he hand the phone off to someone else?  Joshy used to do that at summer camp, because his mates wanted to flirt (read: attempt to have phone sex) with a girl.  Except this doesn’t seem like one of those times.  Sort of wish it was.  That voice sounds intimidating.   

 

“Right,” I cough.  “Who is this?”

 

“Miss Clark, may I tell you that your boyfriend is quite protective of you?” he continues, ignoring my question.  I pout.  I absolutely hate when people ignore me.  Even strangers.  If anything, it makes it even ruder.

 

“Josh is not my boyfriend,” I am quick to clarify.  “We’re best mates.  Only.  Why?  Did he say something different?  Because usually he warns me beforehand and usually we pretend if someone is stalking him.  Which I don’t think you are.  Right?”

 

“Simon Cowell does not stalk,” mystery man tells me.  He pauses.  Something clicks inside my head.  Did I just call Simon Cowell a stalker?  Hm.  I would.  I guess there’s a first time for everything.

 

“Of course not,” I agree.  “Honestly, I’m not surprised.  When I was younger, I was convinced you weren’t even human.  Ask Josh.”  And then I realize what I just said.  And my eyes go wide.  “Oh my god, I did not just say that.”

 

“Am I making you nervous, Miss Clark?” Simon Cowell asks me.  I can’t see him, but I suspect he’s smirking.  I watched the X-Factor.  I know how he is. 

 

“I mean you’re you and I’m, well, me,” is my brilliant explanation.  I hit myself on the side of the head a few times, groaning.  Great excuse, Emory.  Really.  So glad you can be eloquent around someone as famous as Simon Cowell.

 

It may come as a surprise to people, but I wasn’t exactly popular in grade school.  Or college.  Or university.  But I was quite the catch in preschool.  Had boys proposing left and right.  Married a few of them.  Married Roger Davis more than once.  He had the best fruit snacks.  And then I met Joshy.  And I didn’t really need other mates.  He had a bunch, though.  I just sort of followed him around, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

 

“I see your logic,” he tells me.  I’m sort of taken aback.  Is Simon Cowell mocking me?  If it were anyone else, I would be highly offended.  Unless it were Josh.  Then I would probably laugh.  “Now, Miss Clark, can you do me a favor?”

 

“Anything,” I rush. 

 

When Simon Cowell say ‘jump’ you say ‘how high?’  How hiiiiigh?

 

“Our guitarist, Dan Richards, is injured.  You were highly recommended,” by Joshy, I’m sure.  Still, nice to know he has good things to say about me.  “So you can please play a song for me, Emory?”

 

I pretend to think it over.

 

“How does a cover of the Power Rangers theme song work for you?”