Call You Mine Read online

  Contents

  Call You Mine

  Also By Claudia Burgoa

  Grace’s Prologue

  Beacon’s Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Grace’s Epilogue

  Beacon’s Epilogue

  Excerpts

  Loved You Once

  A Moment Like You

  Defying Our Forever

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Claudia Burgoa

  Also By Claudia Burgoa

  The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers Series

  * * *

  Loved You Once

  A Moment Like You

  Defying Our Forever

  Call You Mine

  As We Are

  June 2021

  Yours to Keep

  September 2021

  * * *

  Luna Harbor

  Finally You

  Simply You

  Perfectly You

  Madly You

  Second Chance Sinners Duet

  Pieces of Us

  April 2021

  Somehow Finding Us

  May 2021

  * * *

  Against All Odds Series

  Wrong Text, Right Love

  Didn’t Expect You

  Love Like Her

  March 2021

  * * *

  Standalones

  * * *

  Us After You

  Almost Perfect

  Once Upon a Holiday

  Someday, Somehow

  Chasing Fireflies

  Something Like Hate

  Then He Happened

  Maybe Later

  My One Despair

  My One Regret

  Found

  Fervent

  Flawed

  Until I Fall

  Finding My Reason

  Christmas in Kentbury

  * * *

  Chaotic Love Duet

  Begin with You

  Back to You

  * * *

  Unexpected Series

  Uncharted

  Uncut

  Undefeated

  Unlike Any Other

  Decker the Halls

  Co-writing

  Holiday with You

  To those who I lost on 2020. I love you and I know you’re by my side.

  “I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this…” —Pablo Neruda.

  Grace’s Prologue

  I’ve known about the Aldridge brothers all my life. I’m best friends with the youngest, Beacon Kirk Aldridge. We’ve known each other since…well, I wasn’t even born when he moved to Mercer Island, Washington, where all of my family lives.

  You could say we’ve been inseparable since the beginning of time. We’re talking about having embarrassing pictures of the two of us covered in finger paint, swimming in a kiddie pool, and taking naps together. There are videos of us playing music together. Well, it’s not music. It’s just noises a two-year-old—that’d be me—and a four-year-old can make at that age.

  Summers together were the best, except for that one week when he had to visit his father. I missed him so much. He’d come back talking about his brothers. They were older. He wanted to bring them home so they could be a family. When I think about that boy asking, “But why can’t we live together?” my heart shrinks. He wanted them to be a part of his life. He looked up to them until they stopped going to Baker’s Creek; and it was just him.

  Who are his brothers?

  He likes to categorize them by assholiness. I’m not kidding. That’s how he does it. Number one is Henry. The guy owns one of the best hotel chains in the world. Number two is Hayes. He’s one of the best orthopedic doctors in the world. Number three is Pierce. He’s a lawyer—bloodsucking asshole. Number four is Vance. He’s a former Delta Force. Number five is Mills. He’s not really an asshole—or maybe he lost his title because his son, Arden, is super cute. We adore him.

  Number six is Carter. He died when he was twenty-one. Carter was his favorite brother.

  I’m not a fan of those guys—or his parents.

  His dad dying and leaving a will where he forces his sons to spend eighteen months in Baker’s Creek was bad. You know what’s worse? Beacon doesn’t like nonsense. Good luck keeping him in one place for that long.

  While he’s gone, I’m taking this time to find a boyfriend. Without the man around who likes to swat away any prospect like a fly, I might be able to finally meet Mr. Right.

  Beacon’s Prologue

  When I was twenty-five, I was named the Sexiest Man Alive.

  Is it true? Nah, but there are things said about me that I don’t care to control. The rest—I keep a tight grip on what the media prints, publishes, and posts about me.

  On the outside, I’m a free-spirited man who doesn’t give a shit about the world. That’s how I want everyone to see me. As I mentioned, I regulate the narrative of my life.

  I’m also called one of the most influential figures of alternative rock. That is the one I care about. I work hard to be number one. I live for what I do.

  Music is one of the most important and powerful things in the world.

  Music is my life.

  A life I fill with melodies, harmonies, and lyrics. Without it, my existence would be pointless.

  She’s been a part of me since I can remember.

  I started playing music as a young child. Although I composed and wrote lyrics when I was a teenager, my career didn’t take off until my friends and I formed Too Far from Grace.

  We could go on and on about how my career began. But I’m sure you’re not here to hear about my epic band, our success, or how millions of fans idolize us.

  You want to know more about me because I’m one of the six Aldridge brothers.

  So let’s do this with style, unlike my brothers.

  The name is Beacon.

  One name. I’m a mononymous person, like Plato, Molière, Bono, Sting, and Beyoncé.

  Most know me as the front man and lead guitarist of the punk rock, alternative band Too Far from Grace. I formed that band when I was twenty-one after graduating from Juilliard. My best friends and I planned it while growing up.

  It was all set, except one of them said, “Thank you, but I play solo.”

  Maybe she said, “I’m too
cute to be with a bunch of disgusting boys.”

  Nah, I’m kidding. Grace isn’t a diva. She’s my closest friend. It’s because of her and her mom that I found my love for music.

  When we were forming the band, though, she was already a famous cellist getting requests to play worldwide. She’s the Bach of our time.

  When you’re that famous, why would you want to play for an unknown band?

  Also, she doesn’t like to deal with crowds. She’d rather be in a conservatory playing for a few stuffy people than in a stadium filled with thousands of fans chanting out her name.

  I know her better than she knows herself. She’s a lot more than a friend. She’s my person. You know, the one who understands you, and without a doubt will be there for you no matter how crazy your ideas are. She’s that and more.

  She claims I’m an attention seeker. I’d like to defer. If I wanted attention, I’d use my last name, mention my parents, or flaunt my grandfather’s legacy.

  I’d write a tell-all book. I’m not thirty yet, but I know tons of juicy stuff that I could leak to the press.

  Things that they don’t know about me: My grandfather is the late actor Kirk Fitzpatrick. My mother is the famous pop-star Janelle, who began her career at fifteen. She surrendered me to her parents before my second birthday.

  My father never gave a shit about me after the paparazzi caught him with me, and he lost his wife and all of his mistresses.

  I was raised on Mercer Island, Washington, but was born in LA.

  The Decker-Colthurst family opened their arms to us and helped my grandparents raise me. Legend says that I was a handful.

  Confession, I still am.

  I had six brothers. One of them died, and the other five don’t care much about me.

  What do I do with my free time? Well…some secrets keep many safe, and that’s how they’ll stay—secret.

  Everyone is always wondering about my love life and the part of myself that I protect from everyone.

  I don’t have any romantic relationships. The speculation that I’m dating some groupie that’s always hanging out with the band is false. Grace isn’t a groupie.

  So, let’s be clear. This is the only statement I’ll make.

  I chose the job.

  If there’s something I learned at an early age, it is to prioritize.

  You can judge me. I don’t care. I live by my values and put what matters the most before everything. Just remember, sometimes we only see what we want to see and let the illusions take over reality.

  Chapter One

  Beacon

  It’s the end of the last song—the second encore.

  The audience sings the lyrics along with me.

  I still remember when my fingers finally let you go.

  When I lost the right to hold you,

  The right to claim you,

  The right to call you mine.

  You’re close, and so far,

  I lost the right to call you mine.

  If only I could kiss you once,

  One last time before I become the ghost of your past.

  I direct the microphone toward the audience. Everyone knows this song, loves this song, and empathizes with my pain.

  The pain of losing my first love, the love of my life.

  My forever.

  This was the first song I wrote from the heart. It’s inspired by one of the most painful experiences of my life. Everyone connects with it on such a deep level. It makes me wonder if humanity feasts on the despair of others, or we are all hurting. Maybe we’re joined by loss, agony, and melodies.

  I’m drenched in sweat, my throat is tired, and I’m ready to disappear. Thank fuck, the tour is over.

  This is a big chunk of my life. Live concerts, fans yelling at the top of their lungs, and sharing the stage with my best friends—my brothers. I love everything, but to an extent.

  It’s loud, hot, and crowded.

  I’m a huge contradiction. Before a concert, I’m pumped up and ready to give everything I have to my fans. During the show, I play and sing my heart out. Once it’s over, I can’t stand the masses.

  I need to go.

  Making a final bow to the applauding crowd demanding another encore, I jog off the stage with my guitar. Manelik continues drumming hard while I cross the hallway. One of the bodyguards and the rest of the band follow me. When the drums stop, the people begin to stomp their feet harder and faster.

  They chant, “Encore, encore.”

  They need another song, another hour with us—more of Too Far from Grace. I hope Mane runs fast or the driver will leave him. Near the service door at the back of the arena, I spot Byron Langdon, our manager, who waits with towels and water for all of us.

  “Where is Manelik?” Byron asks with annoyance.

  “Behind us?” I ask, pulling the doors open and breathing the cool, fresh night air.

  “Get into the car,” Byron orders and then speaks to one of the security guys. “I swear if he’s not here soon, I’m leaving him without a detail—or a ride home.”

  The clapping and stomping noise continues up until I make my way inside the limo. My mouth stretches from ear to ear when I see the best thing in the world waiting for me.

  “Hey, G,” I greet the most beautiful woman in the world—and my best friend.

  Her grayish eyes look at me with amusement.

  “Hi, stranger,” she responds, moving toward the corner of the bench and fixing her long braid.

  Today, her hair is different shades of pink with streaks of blue. Her beautiful face illuminates the entire night. She’s wearing a tank top that lets me see her tattoos. They are black and white riffs, lyrics, and symbols. Looking at my arm, I smile; we actually draw each other’s tattoos.

  “Why do you always lose your shirt?” She rolls her eyes, handing me a clean T-shirt and another towel. The one Byron gave me is soaking wet.

  Some artists need drugs, alcohol, or women after a concert. I just need her. Her presence, her voice, and her hugs.

  “He’s an attention whore,” Sanford, the bassist, answers as he makes his way into the car.

  “What’s your excuse, San?” Grace exchanges a knowing look with me.

  We love the guy, but he’s full of shit.

  “We’re like a boy band,” he responds. “Instead of wearing matching dorky outfits, we just don’t wear shit.”

  “You’re your own boy band, asshole,” Fish, the keyboardist, complains and looks at G. “The fucking place is too hot to wear clothes. We keep our pants on just because our PR would kill us.”

  “What are you talking about, assholes?” Mane asks as he enters the car along with Byron.

  The clunk of the car door seals away the outside noise. We all take our seats. Mine is right beside Grace. After I put on the shirt, I finally hug her.

  “You okay?” she asks, hugging me back.

  “And it’s over,” Sanford states as the driver sweeps us away.

  It’s time to go home.

  “Did you catch the show?” I ask Grace, not letting her go. I need to absorb all her magic.

  She’s like an enchanted unicorn or a magical fairy who possesses the power to ground me.

  In the past few months, we’ve barely seen each other. She’s one of the most famous cellists in the world. This spring, she toured with The New York Philharmonic. Last week, she played a solo concert at Carnegie Hall to wrap her season.

  She yawns and nods. “Uncle Jacob let me be backstage,” she mentions our agent. “I was hanging out with him and Byron.”

  “At what time did you arrive?”

  “Just as you guys took the stage. I told you I’d make it on time,” she says, resting her head on my shoulder. “I love the new song.”

  My fans liking my songs is an accomplishment I don’t take for granted. Her loving them is what I live for. I don’t say a word and just watch as the car drives north toward home. For the next week, I don’t plan to do anything but be at home with my friend
s, G, and our cat. The rest of the world can crumble, and I won’t give a shit.

  Chapter Two

  Grace

  Current situation. I’m in my parents’ kitchen after what I can only describe as the worst date in the history of romance.

  It’s not an exaggeration. This was by far the most horrible date I’ve been on.

  My plan of action is erasing the embarrassment and drowning my sorrows.

  My method is eating frozen yogurt and drinking tea.

  Thoughts of the day: My love life is either the result of bad luck, the fact that the men of my generation are defective, or there’s something incredibly wrong with me.

  “I should give up dating and men,” I grumble.

  “You’re only twenty-seven,” Mom says, as if that explains why I can’t find a steady boyfriend.

  Bringing up my age won’t make me feel better.

  She can’t sympathize because the woman has been married for over thirty years to the love of her life. I don’t remind her that Nathan, my baby brother, has been dating his girlfriend since they were sixteen. Six years of happiness. There are plenty of women and men who find love at a younger age.