PLAYING IT KALE
The McCain Saga
Keary Taylor
Copyright © 2014 Keary Taylor
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author.
First Digital Edition: January 2015
Cover Design by Keary Taylor
Cover Images by Shutterstock
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Taylor, Keary, 1987-
Playing It Kale : a novel / by Keary Taylor. – 1st ed.
ALSO BY KEARY TAYLOR
THE McCAIN SAGA
Ever After Drake
Moments of Julian
Depths of Lake
Playing it Kale
What I Didn’t Say
FALL OF ANGELS
Branded
Forsaken
Vindicated
Afterlife: the Novelette Companion to Vindicated
THE EDEN TRILOGY
The Bane
The Human
The Eve
The Raid: an Eden Short Story
The Ashes: an Eden Prequel
CONNECT WITH KEARY ONLINE AT
FACEBOOK
TWITTER
KEARYTAYLOR.COM
CONTENTS
Copyright
Also by Keary Taylor
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Acknowledgements
About Keary Taylor
CHAPTER ONE
Music has always been able to fix everything in my life, except my awkwardness.
I’m the kind of girl who will always say the wrong, most out of left field thing. The girl who will always, guaranteed, trip and fall flat on her face in the exact moment that everyone is looking. I’m the girl you always want to get away from as soon as possible cause you just don’t know what to say around me.
Maybe that comes from having parents who are scientists, and only seemed to have children to bless the world further with their brilliance by producing equally brilliant offspring. It could be that I was homeschooled and taught by overly-paid tutors. That I graduated “high school” when I was fourteen and held a bachelor degree by the time I was eighteen.
I don’t feel like I’m really that smart, but those kind of things just seem to come natural to me. Mom and Dad decided I should be a microbiologist, so that’s what they groomed me for. At the moment, I’m working as a lab assistant at Evergreen Micro in Seattle. I’m still in school, one semester from getting my Masters degree.
You’d think, hallelujah, the end of school is nigh.
But no. Then it’s just on to the PhD.
School is my life.
So maybe it’s a combination of all of this that makes me so weird and awkward and different from everyone. That makes it so I have a grand total of one close friend and only one kind of boyfriend in my past.
But it’s okay.
I’m Whitney Ford, and I’m happy with the person I am. I like being quirky and weird and different. Not everyone else likes it, and sometimes that kills me, but I don’t want to be any other way.
Because at the end of the day, I can go home to my apartment, pull out my guitar, and sing like no one can hear me.
“Please, Whitney,” Ming begs as we head to the parking lot. “You can’t imagine the humiliation this will cause me if I have to call and bag out on the day of their wedding.”
A cornered jackrabbit forms in my stomach at the mere thought of what she’s asking. “You know I can’t,” I say as the hot, late summer air envelops me as we walk out the doors of Evergreen Micro, fondly referred to as EM.
“It really wasn’t that bad last time,” she tries to argue. It’s weak; I can hear in her voice she isn’t even convincing herself.
“I turned fifty shades of green, Ming, not gray,” I say as I look over at her and raise an eyebrow. “I had to dash off the stage and puked on the move. That poor stagehand will never get the smell out of his shoes.”
“But that was a year ago,” she says as we weave between cars and head for the assistant parking lot. Clear at the back. “You’ve grown as an artist since then. Who knows, maybe this will be the night that you discover you’re over all that, there will be some kind of talent scout, or recording studio bigwig there, and you’ll get your big break!”
And burst into the music industry like never before seen, with half an album premiering on the radio, going platinum, and all that stardom.
Yeah. Freaking. Right.
“Ming, it just isn’t going to happen,” I say with a sigh as we get to our cars, parked right next to each other. “I just…can’t.”
And it makes me sick. And makes me feel like a chicken. And a horrible friend.
“Please, Whit,” she says with desperation and depression. “With Rachel sick, there is literally no one to fill in for lead vocal. Think of that poor bride, having her band back out for her wedding. Do you really want to crush her dreams and ruin her big day?”
Great. She’s laying the guilt on. One of those things I really can’t fight.
I can say no, up until the point that there’s guilt that I’m letting someone down. I have my parents to thank for that.
Ming must see it in my eyes, because there’s a twitch of a smile that forms in one corner of her mouth.
“I’ll give you my signed briefs…” she drags out in a sing-song.
And she’s found my kryptonite. She knows this is one of those few things that I cannot turn down.
“You’ll give them to me before the show tonight?” I ask with a squeak. Around the hard lump in my throat. Around the boulder in my stomach.
Ming raises her right hand. “I swear they will be in your hands as you walk on stage to sing your heart out.”
“Cause that’ll calm my nerves down, holding a pair of men’s briefs as I go to perform,” I say with a nervous laugh as I open the door to my tiny white truck.
Ming lets out an excited squeal, jumps up triumphantly, and wraps her arms around me in a tight embrace. “Thank you thank you thank you,” she says too loudly, right into my ear. She goes to plant a kiss on my cheek, which turns super awkward when I turn to look at her, and she plants it on the corner of my mouth.
We both jerk away from each other and give weirded out expressions. And burst out laughing.
“Forgive my enthusiasm,” Ming says, giving me a dramatic look. “But thank you, seriously. Henry and I will pick you up at three. Bring your guitar. W
ear something pretty. Warm up those incredible vocal cords. All that jazz.”
Ming speaks as she backs toward her car. Or rather bus. It’s a classic old VW van. It’d be awesome—if she could afford to fix it up and give it a paint job.
“I hate you,” I call to her, even though there’s a smile on my face.
“I detest you as well,” she yells with a smile. We wave and both climb into our vehicles.
It’s a ten minute drive to travel the one third of a mile from my work to my apartment. I miraculously find a spot on the curb, right in front of my building, and walk up the stairs.
I’d never be able to afford this amazing view on my own, looking out over Lake Union. It’s a gorgeous view of the saltwater lake, thousands of boats, the hills dotted with houses and buildings. At night, the entire horizon glitters. I can literally see the building where I work from here. The apartment is an incredible two bedroom, one bath place that was built back in the fifties.
It belonged to my grandmother for fifty-one years. She and Grandpa bought it, and she lived here alone after he died when I was seven. When she passed away when I was eighteen, Mom inherited it and started renting it out to me.
She doesn’t charge me much. Because “my studies are far more important than worrying about money right now. That part will come later.” Thanks, Mom.
She’s a complicated woman. Stoic and scientific, but she has her moments when motherhood and caring shine through, and it’s always bizarre and confusing. Dad is kind of the same way, but much more of a super-geek.
I look at the clock above the kitchen sink, and it reads one-twenty-six.
Holy crap.
What did I just agree to?
Not much time to spare, I jump in the shower. It takes me a good thirty minutes to dry my blonde hair that I can nearly sit on, and another twenty to put it up in rollers. I carefully apply my eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, a bit of blush. And top it off with my signature bright red lipstick.
Throwing open my closet, I survey the spoils of war.
Eighty percent of my wardrobe came from a thrift shop. We have an awesome selection here in Seattle, and there are many gems to be found. For very cheap. One woman’s outdated jacket is another Whitney-favorite find.
I go for a vintage, blue eyelet dress that has a white under slip that shows through. And, always, flats. Because everyone stares, and not in the good way, when the already five foot nine-and-a-half-but-to-be-honest-five-foot-ten blonde, wearing four inch heels, walks by.
Ten minutes before Ming and Henry are supposed to show up, I let my hair out of the rollers, letting my hair fall down into cork-screw curls.
It takes forever. But it’s my signature look.
I head back into my bedroom for my guitar case.
“Wish me luck, Kale,” I say.
A few years ago, this beautiful man emerged into the world. He was perfect. Smooth, muscled body, always without a shirt. A chiseled chin and intense hazel eyes. That dark, perfectly-styled hair.
Being the girl who had no game and no charm and usually being several inches taller than all the boys, I settled for a fantasy man.
And Kale McCain was it.
Last Christmas, Ming scored me this signed poster.
Kale has his hands behind his head, staring at the observer intensely. There’s the barest hint of a smile on his face, like he’s melt-the-panties-off-of-you hot and he knows it. His name is spread faintly vertically on the sides of the poster, and it has his branch of Shurrock & Fantasy across the bottom of it—Your Fantasy. And right across his perfect bellybutton, is his signature in a bronze-colored metallic marker.
Just as I hear someone honk outside, I blow Kale a kiss and head out.
“Are you excited?” Ming singsongs once again as I climb into the back seat. Also inside is Henry, Ming’s twin brother who plays the bass, Connor who plays the guitar, and Eduardo who plays drums. Ming plays the keyboard.
We’re like an odd, cultural stew band, with Chinese twins, a short, I’m pretty sure illegal, Peruvian who barely speaks English, and then Connor and me, tall as bean poles, blond as the sun, and both socially awkward. No, we’re not related, but no one would ever guess otherwise.
“Unless you classify feeling like you’re going to throw up every waking second as excitement, then maybe not,” I say as I set the guitar on the floor of the van and hold both hands over my stomach in an attempt to calm the angry butterflies.
“Everyone, please give Whitney lots of words of encouragement,” Ming says as she pulls out onto the road. “I’ll start: Whitney, you have the voice of an angel and the beauty of a Scandinavian model. Henry, go.”
Henry turns in his seat to look at me. “You’re a good singer.” He turns around in his seat and goes back to his phone.
I give a chuckle. “Thanks, Henry. You always know how to put me at ease.”
Henry just nods, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t even really hear what I said. That’s Henry. Always plugged into some device or another. He’s an engineer who just happens to be amazing on bass.
“Connor, go,” Ming says.
“Uh,” he says in his too-high sounding voice. “You’re great?” He gives an awkward shrug of his shoulders. He’s only seventeen and is girl crazy, but has no idea what to do around them.
I smile as a laugh bubbles out of me. I wrap my arms around him, manageable since he’s in the seat next to me. He wars between loving my hug too much and wanting to pull away. “Thanks,” I say as I release him.
“Eduardo?” Ming says as she looks back at him in the rearview mirror.
Eduardo sits in the back seat by himself. It’s hard to tell how old he is. He could be eighteen, he could be thirty. But right now, he has earbuds in and is bashing on invisible drums, his eyes squeezed closed.
This kid belongs in a rock band, not in a wedding singer group who can only get a few gigs a year.
Ming chuckles and shakes her head. “Seriously, no worries, Whit. You’re going to be awesome tonight.”
“Hmm,” I mumble as I look out the window and try to not think about how badly I’ll embarrass myself tonight.
I never asked where the gig was. It’s about a forty minute drive. I don’t pay much attention until we pull off the main road and onto a gravel driveway.
“Where are we?” I ask as I look around.
There’s an older house with a flag pole in front of it. Next, we roll past a barn, and then park behind a huge, old, metal garage.
“I think the town’s called Duvall?” Ming says, uncertain as she puts the van into park. We all start climbing outside and pulling our equipment out.
The smell of horses and mountains hits me immediately and it’s both overpowering and comforting at the same time. Just across the driveway, I see a huge fence and a dozen horses out in the field.
“Welcome to the sticks,” Connor says as he surveys our surroundings.
Yes, this does feel like out in the middle of nowhere, but it’s beautiful in its own way. No evidence of the huge city I grew up in. Just towering trees, the mountain backdrop—just country.
“You found us!” a cheery voice from behind us says. We all turn to see a thin woman who looks to be in her fifties, with fiery red hair, walking toward us. “You must be Ming, I’m Raelynn,” she says as she extends a hand.
“That’d be me,” Ming says with a bright smile.
“Well, how about I show you where to set up?” she says. “Sorry I can’t stay around and help, I’ve got to get back in and help the bride. Wedding starts in an hour!”
The excitement in her voice is contagious, and I find myself smiling with her.
Raelynn walks us toward the second barn. There’s a large concrete pad with a huge overhang. There are twinkle lights strung up in the rafters and flowers hang everywhere. Just off to the side of the barn is a pergola, also with flowers and silks wound everywhere. It’s gorgeous.
On the other side of the barn is a platform—a makeshift stage. There are
extension cords running to it from the barn.
“Is this enough room?” Raelynn asks, sounding unsure.
“It’ll be fine, Mrs. James,” Ming says. “I think we can handle it from here. You go be with the bride.”
“Break a leg,” she says as she starts back for the house. “Or, no, don’t do that. I’m sure you’ll be great.” The woman shakes her head and laughs at herself as she jogs back toward the house.
My heart starts racing as I look back at the stage. There’s already a ton of cars parked behind the garage. As I look toward the house, I see a whole lot of people milling about in the house. I can hear voices from the upper level of the main barn. This has to just be the wedding party.
They’re probably going to have a million guests that will be arriving just before the wedding.
And they’re all going to be witness to me forgetting my lyrics. Or just standing up there and freezing up. Or puking. Or shaking. Or some other horribly embarrassing event.
“Whitney,” Ming cuts through my mini-freak-out. “Calm down. Stop thinking about it. You’re psyching yourself out.”
I look over at her and can tell that I’m stark white. My hands shake slightly.
“We can handle setting everything up. You go find a place to chill out for a while. We won’t need you until after the ceremony is over anyway.” She says all this as she helps the band set up the amplifiers and drums and microphones.
I should be helping. I really should.
But I’m really, really freaking out.
I nod, clutch my guitar case all the harder, and start wandering.
With so many people milling about at the moment, it’s hard to find some privacy without just wandering out into the trees or fields. So I aim for the back of the main barn. There are stacks of wood everywhere and to the side of it, there’s a tall log round that I settle myself onto.
A horse wanders over toward me at the edge of the fence. He’s a beautiful silver/gray color. He puts his head between the panels and sniffs at me. I lean forward and scratch his nose. His lips try nibbling on my fingers and when he tries to eat my hand, I quickly snatch it away.