Page 11 of From Drummer to Gamer

I glared at him. “What’s there to think about?”

“Plenty.” He flicked invisible dust from his jacket. “I’m the prize here, so I have to know my options.”

My fingernails mooned my palms. “Seriously?”

“Very,” he drawled, his tone dipping with pompous pretentiousness.

This wasn’t going to work. I wasn’t going to let my dumb-shit brother be in the way of me and Matt Evans.

I was going to see him one way or another.

I plastered a saccharine smile on my face. “But isn’t this your biggest dream, Raphy? Your talent deserves to be seen.” I laid a soft hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

He gave me a blank look. “I know what you’re doing. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Asshole.

I slapped his arm hard. “But you can’t possibly be saying no, right?”

“Of course, I’m not.” An unusual seriousness clouded his eyes. “But I have to think about it, Si. You might be his crazy fan, but I don’t trust him. I don’t want to end up in a ditch or be used.”

I sighed. He was right. “Okay.”

“Just give me a week.” He flashed me a smile. “I’ll try my best to make sure he gets to meet his lunatic fan and the entire closet she dedicated for him.”

Pink tinged my cheeks. “No, you won’t.” Even if meeting Matt Evans was still a dream, there was no possible way I would ever let him see that. Plastered with shirtless images of him, Matt Closet, as I liked to call it, was my fan dedication to him. I tried to make it pretty by adding his signed CDs and merch so it didn’t look like a stalker’s den. But who was I kidding? It probably was.

I grabbed the card back from him and held it carefully, tracing a finger along the edge. “So you’re telling me that Matt Evans touched this card?”

“Yep.”

“Then it’s mine,” I breathed, pressing it to my chest.

His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Please don’t call yourself my sister in public. I fucking need that—he gave it tome.”

“Pretty please.” I batted my lashes.

“Fine.” He huffed out a breath. “Let me take a picture at least,” he mumbled.

“Raphael, Sierra, time for dinner,” called out a voice that made us both jump.

“Coming, Ma,” Raphy shouted back.

We both were on our feet and already halfway out the door.

Denying Victoria Chan’s commands came with serious repercussions that both Raphy and I didn’t want to face.

Raphy and I helped Mom set the table while Abuela and Dad settled themselves in their seats.

“Thanks, kiddo,” my dad, Jen, said with a smile as I placed a plate in front of him.

Soon, dinner in the Chan family commenced. It was an affair, to put it mildly. It was where we discussed our day in a structured fashion while we stated the plan for the next day and what goal we sought to achieve by the end of the week.

In other words, it was a pain.

“Jen, you go first.” My mother’s peculiar brown eyes slid toward him while she meticulously sliced her chicken into one-inch squares that looked too perfect to eat. Even for a casual dinner, my mother was impeccably dressed in a flowing dress and tight bun—her skin glowing and clear.

My father’s words breezed through my ears like they always did. Hearing what an accountant did for the day, your entire life would do that to you.

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