Becky and Pete have been friends all their lives, almost as long as they’ve been a pop-punk duo. They moved out from their small hometown in hopes to ‘make it’—yet almost a decade on, they’ve got little to show for their efforts.
Enter The Hacks—a pop band that has been around for nearly fifteen years. Brothers Todd, Tyler, and Tristan were barely out of the diapers when their first album became a worldwide sensation. Their chart-topping success is long gone, but they’ve managed to stay relevant.
In an unexpected turn of events, Becky and Pete are hired to be the opening act in The Hacks’ UK tour. Although they don’t belong in the same genre, the duo sees it as an opportunity. Maybe this is the chance they’ve been waiting for.
But expectations might not meet the reality of the music business, especially when the lines between personal and professional life start to blur.
Are Becky and Pete up for the challenge?
I run regular Kindle promotions, so the book is constantly featured in the top 100 at the Kindle store. It also has a very high rating both on Amazon and Goodreads.
It’s Monday morning. I’m still very much asleep, letting my body recover from last night’s gig. It was a shitty gig, like most we have been doing recently—small place, drunk crowd, awful sound system. Add to that the fact that we’re just two people trying to sell a punk act and you have the exact recipe for underwhelming.
We need a full band, my drunken brain says but I order it to shush. We’ve tried that. It didn’t work. It won’t work. Besides, Becky and I are completely capable of putting on a banger show. We just need a better sound system, a not-so-tight place, and our own audience. Just that, huh?
Anyway, here I am, happily snoring out the booze I’ve ingested to soften the blow of a crappy night, when my phone starts to ring. I don’t recognize the ringtone at first because I’m dreaming, and in the dream it’s a different one. It’s a N*Sync tune, something my sisters liked to listen to when we were kids. I refuse to pick it up for that very reason. But, then, Justin Timberlake appears out of nowhere, serenading me with that silly song. That’s when I wake up.
The phone rings again—my generic and familiar ringtone now—and I pick it up without looking at the caller ID. My brain is still in a haze, and Justin’s noodle hair is still on my mind.
“Hello?” I try to make it sound like I didn’t just wake up.
“Hi, can I talk to Peter Pollick, please?” a male voice asks.
“That’s him,” I grimace. I hate the sound of my full name. Really, what were my parents thinking? Before you say it’s not that bad—my middle name is Payton.
“Hello, my name is Neil Connolly and I’m contacting you on behalf of Blast Records,” he says it as a question.
I open my eyes at once.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
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Portuguese
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Translation in progress.
Translated by Thayná Carvalho
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Spanish
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Already translated.
Translated by Camila Gambardella
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