I doubted anyone would believe me even with my tour contract bearing Savant’s letterhead along with Houston’s angry scrawl, Loren’s practiced one, and Jericho’s lazy loops beneath my effeminate signature. Stupidly, I’d stared at our names for hours that night, and it wasn’t awe over my fast road to stardom that made me do so. It was seeing my name mixed among theirs. The strangest part was how right it all seemed—like lost pieces connecting at last.
