Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(49)

Griff does all the adjustments and a sound check, and I fight the familiar swarm of butterflies that have suddenly taken up residence in my belly.

It's weird that I get so nervous. I'm never shy about dancing-not unless my dad is watching. But he and Tessa, my stepmother, have lived in the Atlanta area for almost ten years now, so I don't have to worry about that too much anymore.

But recording these podcasts? It gets me every time.

"You look green," Griffin says, passing me a bottle of water. "But not as green as last time. Another decade or so, and you'll be as comfortable in the studio as you are on stage."

"Jerk," I say affectionately. "There's something about acting with my voice that ties me up in knots. Honestly, I don't know how you do it."

As soon as I've said those words, I cringe inside. He does it because he feels like he has to. It's hard to be out in the world with his scars, especially the ones on his face. Of course, he swears he loves the work, but sometimes I wonder if he wouldn't love something else better. If he got herded into this career because of my bad choices.

"When are you going to launch?" I ask, rushing to change the subject.

"I'm hoping for sometime in the next two months."

"That long? You already have at least a dozen episodes recorded."

"I want to do this right. That means I need to have the whole first season recorded, edited and ready to air. If it's a flop, I don't want to leave my four fans floundering just because I've lost enthusiasm for a show that only four people listen to." 

I roll my eyes. "It won't be a flop. It's going to a runaway success."

"Thank you, Nostradamus. And thank you again, because if you're right and it's a hit, then I owe you part of the credit."

"Yeah, well, that's me. A walking, talking inspiration for artists the world over." I smile, but the truth is that I'm thinking of Wyatt. Of that one sunset long ago when he took my picture under the canopy of a massive oak, and he swore that I was his muse.

"At least you have the easy part," Griffin deadpans. "Being the inspiration is a hell of a lot easier than doing the work."

"Hey!" I protest for form, but the truth is he's right. Years ago, I started giving him bedtime story prompts. I came up with a scarred boy who lived in the shadows of an imaginary town, and who grew into a detective who worked in the shadows, fighting for the innocent.

Not very original, I grant you, but I was only a kid trying to entertain her brother in the hospital. I'd set the stage, and he'd spin out most of it, with me taking over when his meds made him groggy.

Soon, we were telling the stories all day, letting the detective's adventures entertain us when another afternoon of bad television was too much to bear.

Now, of course, Griff's taken the original kernel of my story and run with it. His scripts are amazing, and Edmond-the hero, in a nod to The Count of Monte Cristo-is brilliant, scrappy, tortured, and honorable.

Griff's written at least five new episodes since the last time I recorded, and I flip through his story bible to see what's happened.

"Ha! I knew Detective Wilson was going to be suspicious."

"Yeah, you're very smart. You ready?"

I take a sip of white wine, then nod, and he switches the microphone on.

I don't notice it when we're not performing, but my brother has an amazing voice. Deep and melodic and sexy. And that's just another reason I think the podcast has a real chance of becoming something.

"You still need a name for the show," I tell him when we finish recording the first scene, and he's doing something with the soundboard.

"It's on the list, believe me. But it's a very long list."

"You need to be more organized." I spend my life making sure everything I do is set up eons in advance, with all the t's crossed and the i's dotted. But Griffin just goes with the flow. Sometimes that makes me jealous. Most of the time just thinking about it makes me crazy.

"Ready for the last bit?" he asks, then starts the recording and cues me when I nod. I dive into the words, giving it my all, which really isn't hard because the story's so good. And this is a particularly fun episode because I'm a detective who's giving Edmond grief, and even though I love my brother, that's a role I know how to play.

When we finally wrap and he shuts off the microphone, I actually applaud. "I don't know how you do it. I think each episode gets better."

"I guess I'm just swimming in talent," he says, and I roll my eyes. Not because he's exaggerating, but because it's true. And every time I think about that, it makes me a little sad. Because in Hollywood everything is about appearances, and I'm so very afraid that talent alone isn't enough.