Page 11 of The Prodigal Son

He holds up a hand to stop me. “Are you bribing me?”

I watch his features and remember that Adam Goode is not a virtuous man anymore. He’s not as pious or as obedient as he once let the world believe.

I’ve seen the videos.

“Maybe,” I reply with a shrug as I meet his gaze.

“You’ve got some fucking balls, Jensen.”

I smirk at him as I set down my fork. “Yes, I thought we’ve established that.”

He watches me as if he’s just now noticing something about me. Then, suddenly, his expression changes. It hardens. Placing his fork down, he pushes his plate away. Then he reaches into hisback pocket and pulls out his wallet. I watch with confusion as he slips a twenty-dollar bill from the fold and drops it on the table.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Miles. I wish you all the best with Redemption Point. I’m sure it’s in good hands.”

As he stands up, I reach out a hand and place it on his arm to stop him. “I don’t understand. What did I say?”

He lets out a sigh with hooded lids, a look of disappointment on his face. “It’s not what you said,” he murmurs. “It’s who you reminded me of when you said it.”

With that, he pulls his arm away and walks out of the diner. I’m left alone and reeling.

If he’s implying what I think he’s implying, it’s a cold punch to the gut I wasn’t expecting.

He thinks I’m like his father—like Truett Goode. It’s a sobering realization. One I wish I could argue. I might have the same job and even the same demeanor, but if only Adam Goode knew the truth, he’d know. I amnothinglike that man.

Three

Isaac

The lights are blinding as I clutch the guitar pick between my fingers and sing into the mic. Beyond the brightness, I don’t see individual people but a tidal wave of bodies and voices. Arms reaching overhead, phone flashlights gleaming, my own lyrics being echoed back to me as I reach the bridge.

To my right, Lola smiles so brightly I can see it in my periphery. And behind me the band plays, and it’s all I hear in my earpiece.

Being on tour is like nothing else I could have imagined. After my music really took off online, I knew the fan base had grown. Now, being here in a stadium where fans fill literally every seat, and they sing every word of my music, is incredible.

A fucking dream come true.

On the bridge, I let go of my guitar and swing it behind me so I can hug the stand and sing directly into the mic. I manage to make eye contact with some screaming fans in the audience as I bare my soul through the song.

Some lyrics I wrote when I was drunk or feeling emotional or pissed at my dad. It’s a song about being on my own, about saying goodbye, about finding myself. Most people assume it’s a breakup song, and I guess, for all intents and purposes, it is.

They just don’t realize it’s Theo Virgil breaking up with Isaac Goode.

I open my eyes and stare into the eyes of a young woman in the pit as she screams my own words back to me, and there’s a connection so visceral between us that she starts crying immediately.

Damn, girl, who hurt you?

On the last chorus, I pull the guitar back to my front and play even louder, giving a little jump as I strum. Lights flash, and my name in bright bulbs behind me pulse as the song ends and the crowd goes wild.

“Thank you, Los Angeles!” I say, breathless, as I hold up a hand. I toss the pick into the crowd and the people scurry for it desperately.

Sweat drips down my brow and my muscles ache, but I wouldn’t trade this for anything. As the band and I bow, I’m already excited just thinking about doing it all over again two nights from now in Portland.

The four of us make our way offstage and meet in the back for a postshow celebration. Lola and I hug each other as the other guys share some high fives and cheers. Every show feels like a celebration.

Granted, we’ve only been on tour for a week now and this is only the fourth show, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get sick of it. The energy is amazing.

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