Read Jesse's Girl (Hundred Oaks #6) for Free Online Page B

deal? Is that it?” he asks quietly. The sadness on his face surprises me. “It’s always something,” he mutters. “If you think you’ll get a record deal from me, you’re wrong. So if that’s what you want, leave. Stop playing this ‘I don’t do solos’ game with me, trying to make me feel sorry for you or whatever.”
    “Of course I want a record deal, but I want to earn it, not beg for it.”
    “Hmph.”
    “You don’t know anything about me.”
    “Well, you don’t know anything about me.”
    Talk about being guarded. I could barely follow all of his accusations. If he’s this quick to judge, no wonder he doesn’t get many visitors.
    He uses the counter to crack an egg open, and the yellow yolk falls into the frying pan with a neat little plop. Unlike last week at my brother’s house, it’s quiet and orderly as Jesse cooks breakfast, and that makes me a little sad.
    In an awkward silence, Jesse prepares two omelets and scoops them onto plates. He passes one to me. I pick at mine while he shovels egg into his mouth like there’s no tomorrow, which softens me a bit: even though he’s a big star, he still eats like a regular boy.
    I say, “I thought Mr. Logan was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.”
    “He’s been busy trying to get me out of my contracts. He must’ve got held up. So you didn’t answer my question before. My uncle said you quit the school choir, so why’d you still wanna shadow me?”
    Dr. Salter told Jesse I quit show choir?
    The director spent weeks trying to change my mind, but I told her I couldn’t commit to after-school practices anymore, not when I had a band to practice with. But it shocks me the principal knows, let alone cares.
    I don’t feel comfortable talking about my decisions with Jesse though, especially not the bad ones. Even if it wasn’t my kind of music, I miss putting on my ugly green bodice-ripper gown and singing with my choir. Giving it up for The Fringe wasn’t worth it.
    “I wanted to shadow you because I was interested in learning from a professional,” I finally say.
    He chews. “A professional, eh?”
    “Yeah, I mean, I haven’t taken any lessons, except from my choir teachers. And there wasn’t much one-on-one instruction there, because I learned along with the whole class.”
    “Really?” he asks, surprise in his voice. “Where’d you learn to play guitar?”
    “My dad and uncle. It’s a hobby for them though, so they only taught me the basics. I taught myself the rest using online videos.”
    “Wow,” Jesse says. “I can’t believe you haven’t had any formal training.”
    I focus on his castle’s tiled floor. “I wanted to take lessons.”
    “But?”
    I decide to tell the truth—it’s not like I’ll ever see Jesse again after today. “We couldn’t afford them.”
    I used my dad’s old acoustic Martin when I was growing up, and I wouldn’t even own an electric guitar if not for my brother. One of the first things Sam did after he graduated college when he got a job working for the Titans was buy me my own guitar for my birthday. That meant I didn’t have to use the crappy one in the music room at school or go sit at Middle C and play the floor samples until they kicked me out, which happened more frequently than Diddy changes his name.
    “What do your parents do?” Jesse asks.
    “Dad manages an auto repair shop, and Mom cleans down at Cedar Hill Farms, this big estate.” Being poor must sound so foreign to the boy who lives here, but his expression never changes. I give Jesse a small smile, and he nods back, and it’s a nice moment.
    He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans against the counter, holding his plate up by his mouth. “So what do you want to do today then?”
    “Mr. Logan gave us a schedule, right?”
    “I’m not following a schedule on my day off.”
    I pause. “So we’ll do whatever you do on your day off.”
    “I usually play guitar and write.”
    “We can do that,” I say