Come Friday (Bishop Family Book 8)

by Brooke St. James

  "This next song is called Go Ahead and Be Mine," he said.

  His announcement drew a reaction from the crowd… mostly the ladies. I heard cheering and clapping and watched as Wes's eyes cut to his left. He turned and counted off the song to the drummer, and within seconds, the blues-rock tune began. It was catchy, and from the first few notes, before he even began to sing, the whole audience was swaying and nodding along.

  I see you standing in the hallway,

  I see you standin' at my door.

  I feel you lying beside me,

  just like you did before.

  I hear you whisper in my ear,

  that you love me so.

  Then there you go again, baby.

  Baby, please don't go.

  I've had enough of this waitin',

  It's just a waste of my time,

  Tell me what we're doin', baby.

  Just go ahead and be mine…

  It was a compelling, soulful song with a haunting melody, and Wes delivered a passionate performance of it. I would have absolutely loved the song had it not obviously been written for someone else—the model girl—the one he had been desiring for so long.

  Suddenly, I didn't want to hear any more of it.

  Suddenly, I wanted to be anywhere but there.

  Rather than just stand there and listen to the rest of the song, I dug in my purse and retrieved my phone. I realized, as I held it in my hand, that there was nothing to look at. I wasn't going to stand there and randomly check my email, so I dropped my phone back into my purse and instead grabbed my wallet. I leaned over to speak to my brother and Chasidy, who were both mesmerized by the performance.

  "I'm going to use the restroom and maybe go to the bar and get something to drink," I said. "Do you want anything?"

  Luke pulled back to look at Chasidy who shook her head. "No thanks," he said before staring at the stage again.

  "Do you want me to go with you?" she asked as an afterthought. I could see that she was comfortable with my brother and was only asking to be nice like I had done for her.

  I smiled and shook my head at her before taking off toward the restroom. I had to walk across the dining room to get there, and rather than cut through the middle, I decided to go around the perimeter of the room. I had almost made it all the way to the ladies room when I saw something I wished I hadn't seen.

  It had to be her.

  There was no way to tell for sure, but it simply had to be her. I caught sight of her because her long, graceful arm extended into the aisle as I was about to walk past her. I glanced at her only to realize that she was blowing a kiss toward the stage. She was sitting at a table surrounded by other people. She had dark, raven-like hair with a striking, statuesque face. Even when sitting down I could tell she was tall. Her makeup and clothing were that of a high-fashion model. I only glanced at her for three or four seconds as I walked by, but it was enough. It was enough for me to know what I was up against. Knife throwing or not, I was not in this girl's league. She looked fierce, like she could tear me to pieces with her eyes.

  I kept walking, straight into the restroom where I used the facilities before washing my hands for way too long. I could hear the music and I knew that he had moved on to a different song, but I still took my time. I looked at that woman again on the way out of the restroom. It was like a train wreck—I didn't want to look at her, but I couldn't stop myself. She was staring straight at the stage with an adoring smile on her face. Many of the women in the room were doing the same thing, but her smile was different. There was obviously familiarity in the way she looked at him, and it made my chest hurt.

  Wes hadn't promised me anything. He hadn't even flirted with me for that matter. All he did was ask me to teach him how to throw a knife. I couldn't understand why I was getting so worked up and jealous over something that didn't even exist.

  During my trek from the ladies room to the bar, I made up my mind that I would not call him or give him lessons of any type. The whole point of my YouTube channel was to give people instructions on how to throw a knife. There was no need for him to come over to my house to learn how to do that—he could go out in the woods and throw at a tree if he wanted to learn. He could go to the dealership and throw at the plywood for that matter. In fact, now that I thought about it, that's exactly what he should do. My brother wasn't as into it as I was, but he knew a thing or two about throwing knives, and he could help Wes practice at the dealership. It was a perfect solution and one that I would definitely offer if the subject ever got brought up again.

  I took a deep breath and smiled resolutely as I headed toward the bar. I would do my best to get through this night and forget all about how gorgeous and talented Wes Bishop was. I would forget about the fact that looking at him made my heart race and left me breathless.

  I would pretend to stare at the stage, but really, I would stare at the bass player or drummer or better yet, the speakers. My plan was to ignore Wes Bishop completely, and after hearing the lyrics of that song and seeing the girl for whom it was written, I thought it was a mighty fine plan indeed.

  Thankfully, by the time I got back to our place along the wall, the band only had a few songs left on their set. Just before they left the stage, Wes announced that he was thankful for such a wonderful audience and hoped to see us all again the next time they played. He also stated that the music for the remainder of the evening would be performed by DJ something or other and that everyone should stick around.

  "Oh, my gosh, they were so good, weren't they?" Chasidy asked as soon as Wes shrugged out of his guitar.

  "Really good," I said, smiling and trying to seem enthusiastic.

  "Do you guys want to stick around to hear the DJ?" she asked, looking back and forth from Luke to me.

  Luke shrugged and looked at me like he could be persuaded to do it, but I instantly shook my head. "Not me," I said "I'm tired. I'm definitely going. I can call a cab, though, if y'all want to stay."

  "Oh, no," Chasidy said. "We don't need to. It's just such a cool place, and I thought you might want to stay to talk to your mate—tell 'em how much we enjoyed his show."

  "I'm sure he's busy," Luke said. "I'll hit him up tomorrow and let him know we had fun."

  Chapter 7

  I thought about Wes way too much that night.

  The image of him on stage absolutely haunted me. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine the tone of his soulful voice and see him standing behind the microphone. He had a compelling stage presence, and the memory of it stayed with me all through the night. I tried to tell myself I was only impressed because of the things my brother had told me about his family. I hoped this would make me forget about him, but it didn't help at all.

  I remembered that dark-haired vixen sitting on the table making pretty eyes at him, and that helped a little—at least it helped me get mad and remember that I had already decided to never contact him. It was just a silly little crush, after all. And avoiding him was the only surefire way to fix it.

  Turns out that was no easy task.

  I got a call from my brother before noon next day, and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Hey Wes wants you to call him."

  "Wes who?" I asked.

  I cringed, squeezing my eyes shut tight when I realized how silly it was for me to play dumb. This would do nothing but giveaway to my brother how much I had been thinking about him. I was silent as I waited for him to tease me about it, but he didn't.

  "Wes Bishop," he said. "He called me just now asking if I gave you his number. He's expecting you to call him. He said you have a lesson today."

  I let out a laugh. I expected my brother to confess that he had been joking, but he just stayed silent on the other end.

  "Are you going to call him?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because we don't have a lesson. I don't give lessons. I told him that last night."

  "I thought you worked it out," Luke said. "He thinks you said 'yes'. He thinks you'
re doing it."

  "Just tell him he can watch my videos," I said. "I don't see why he thinks he needs a personal lesson."

  "Why don't you tell him?" Luke said. "I don't want to get in the middle of this. He's sort of my boss, Jo. I wish you would just do it. He wants to learn how to throw a knife. It's no big deal."

  Luke was right. It was no big deal. I was over reacting. I knew my brother loved that company, and it was selfish of me to avoid doing that simple favor just because I was scared of a little crush. I had crushes before and I had gotten over them. Once you're over a crush it seems silly that you've ever had it in the first place. I wished I could get to that point with Wes—the point where being attracted to him seemed silly to me. Either way, I knew the right thing was to suck it up and pretend not to be affected. I could give the guy a lesson. What harm could come from that?

  "Jo?"

  "Yeah, you're right. It's no big deal. I'm sorry. I'll call him."

  "Thank you," he said in a relieved tone. "I'll text you his number."

  "Okay. Sounds good."

  "Thanks, JoJo."

  "No problem."

  Luke and I said our goodbyes, and seconds later a text came in with Wes's contact information. I used the next few minutes to think about what I should write, and then I composed a text to Wes.

  Me: This is Jolene. Luke said you were still interested in taking a throwing lesson. Maybe we can work out a time next week. Let me know what you have available. We enjoyed your show last night!"

  I pressed send before I could overthink it, and I heard back from him right away.

  Wes: "Why not today? What do you have going on? I'm free all afternoon."

  Nerves flooded my body when I read his words, and I glanced around my apartment, trying to judge whether or not it was clean enough for him to come over. I had to stop caring whether or not it was clean. I needed to make myself as unappealing as possible just to prove to myself that I didn't want to impress him. It was out of sheer stubbornness that I made myself agree to letting him come over whether I was ready for it or not.

  Me: "Today's fine, but you won't have time to order a knife. You can use mine, but you'll want to order a few for practice."

  Wes: "Great. Thank you! Name a time and tell me your address, and I'll be there."

  I sent him a message saying that three o'clock worked for me, and I attached the address of my building. I was mad at myself for agreeing to do it, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I would act unaffected and get through the lesson. I would be nice to him just like I was nice to everyone else I met. I had to forget about his looks and his talent. I had to forget about the fact that he came from a famous family.

  A few times growing up, I had heard my mom say that we shouldn't be a respecter of persons. She used it in a way that would encourage us not to show partiality. I was fairly certain she had learned it from the Bible, so I typed the phrase into Google and found a verse in the book of Acts where Peter says God is "not a respecter of persons". Some versions said that God doesn't show favoritism or partiality.

  This was an interesting passage for me. I thought about all the different levels of people in the world—different levels of success, different levels of beauty, different levels of wealth, different levels of intelligence or talent. I thought about all the many varieties of people in the world and felt touched when it sank in that God showed absolutely no partiality to any of us. I was kind of hoping that the passage I searched would have said that we shouldn't be a respecter of persons so that I could tell myself it was wrong of me to be impressed by Wes, but I figured that if the Bible made a point of saying that God wasn't partial, then perhaps that was the same as saying we shouldn’t either.

  I was thankful that I had taken the time to look that verse up, because it honestly made me less nervous about Wes coming over. I imagined him as just any old person and not necessarily a gorgeous, rich, talented, wonderful one.

  Wes knocked on my door at exactly three o'clock. I answered the door with that verse in my heart, repeating to myself that he was just like any other guy. But the thing is, he wasn't. He was so very handsome that my body reacted to him even though my brain kept saying over and over again that it shouldn't. My heart raced despite me begging it not to. My breath came up short despite me trying to regulate it.

  "Hey Bugs," I said, smiling and doing my best to seem nonchalant.

  "Hey," he said.

  I stood back, and he stepped inside, instantly looking around as if checking out the place. "Did you just call me Bugs?"

  "Yes."

  He waited for me to explain, but when I didn't he said, "Why? Where'd you get that?"

  "Wes Bishop," I said. "W.B. Warner Brothers."

  "Bugs Bunny," he said, smiling and nodding like he understood.

  "Bugs Bunny," I agreed.

  "I like that. Nobody's ever called me anything but Wes before."

  "You mean nobody's ever noticed your initials are clearly Warner Brothers?" I asked, looking totally surprised.

  He gave me an amused grin. "Nope," he said. "Pretty crazy, isn't it?"

  "Yeah," I said. I gestured for him to make himself at home.

  "I live like four blocks from here," he said.

  "Really?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I come by here all the time. That's my favorite coffee shop across the street."

  "I'm surprised I've never run into you in there," I said. I wasn't really surprised. I loved coffee, but I never went to that coffee shop. I always made it at home. I only said that because I was nervous and it popped out of my mouth before I could even think of what I was saying. "My mom loves it, too," I added, since that was the truth. "I went there to get her a pound of coffee beans for her birthday."

  "I was thinking about that card you gave her. I think it's really cool that you make her one every year. My mom would really love that."

  "Are they still in the U.S.?" I asked. I wondered if it was a question he knew I knew the answer to. My brother had told me some things that he didn't want me to repeat, and I got suddenly scared that I would accidentally say too much.

  "They are. Memphis. That's where I grew up."

  "I've never been to Memphis. I was born in Philadelphia, but I spent most of my childhood in Savannah, Georgia."

  I talked as I crossed my living room toward the throwing area. Before Wes could comment on what I had said or make another statement of his own, I spoke again.

  "These are a few of my favorite throwing knives," I said, pointing at the coffee table.

  I usually kept my knives stored in a drawer, but I had lined them up on a coffee table for the lesson. I had chosen several from my set of simple blades along with a few different types of handled knives. I planned on letting him try each of them so he could decide what he liked best.

  "You'll want to start pretty close to the target," I said, gesturing to a spot about five feet from the wall.

  He smiled at me. There was something about his smile—something that told me he was a bit amused at how quickly I wanted to get started. I could tell just by the way he looked at me that he expected us to make some more small talk before starting the lesson.

  He was too nice to say as much, however, and he politely moved to the place where I motioned for him to stand. He took a deep breath and straightened his stance as if he was the nervous one, which was kind but completely unnecessary since I knew he wasn't nervous at all. Confidence seemed to emanate from him.

  I spent the next half-hour giving Wes a beginner's lesson that was similar to my first YouTube videos. It was a good thing I knew what I was talking about, because I was able to do it without nerves being too much of an issue. I explained the knives and the different ways to hold them. I even demonstrated a few different releases before telling him that we would start with a simple overhand technique.

  The first ten knives he threw did not stick into the wall at all—they hit at the wrong angle and fell to the floor. I had three square cushions placed strategically un
der the target so that the knives wouldn't clang to the floor when they fell. They were pretty large, and I usually had them stacked in the corner of my bedroom in case I ever needed extra seating in my apartment. Wes glanced at me with a look of lighthearted frustration when the tenth knife fell onto the cushion. He let out a deflated sigh.

  "I thought I was going to be really good at this," he said. "I thought I was going to hit them all bull's-eye, square on the nose."

  I smiled at him and shook my head. "You're doing great. A couple of them almost stuck."

  "It's a good thing you have those pillows under there to catch them when they fall," he said. "I guess you have to keep them there so you don't bother your downstairs neighbor."

  The truth was, I only put them there for this lesson. I would sometimes miss my expected aiming location, but I almost never missed to the point where the knife fell to the floor—except for when I was trying something crazy or new. I smiled and nodded, but there was enough confusion in my initial reaction that he figured it out. He flashed me a small, self-deprecating grin. "You probably just put them there for me, didn't you?"

  "I use them sometimes when I'm trying something new."

  He let out a sigh. "I really thought it was gonna be easier than this."

  "Did you learn how to play the guitar in thirty minutes?"

  "No, but that's different. That takes memorizing a lot of different configurations and stuff. This is just one motion. I thought it would be like throwing a ball. I don't understand why I can't make it stick."

  "You're just over rotating a little," I said. "You have to use your index finger to slow it down. It's like riding a bike. Once you get it, you'll get it."

  I knew what happened next was a bad idea before I even did it. It crossed my mind to stand in front of him and let him feel my form. I told myself it was a terrible idea. I begged myself not to stand there and let him touch me. I knew it was going to do nothing but get me in trouble.