me.”
“Harley says his manager, Gideon, is good. Maybe he can work with us all or even find someone for us.”
“Speaking of Harley, how many missed calls did you have from him when you turned your phone on?”
“A gajillion.”
“Same. And a couple from my mom. I didn’t tell her we were planning to come out like that.”
“She’s all right with it, though?”
“She loves you. Probably more than me.”
“Not true.”
I smile. “No, but she does see you as one of her own. She’s happy for us but wary. Like she always has been when it comes to this industry.”
“You know who’s not happy for us? Blake. Wanna see the pic he sent?”
I move in closer so I can look at his screen as he pulls his phone out of his pants pocket. It’s a photo of Blake signing a … “Is that a cocktail napkin?”
“Yep. He was apparently out at a bar with Jordan last night. He made him sign a napkin saying he’ll do his movie. It’s official. He hates us.”
“We’ll see how he feels after the movie comes out. I’m no expert by any means, but I think it could be good for his acting career so he doesn’t get pigeonholed into action flicks.”
“Maybe he’ll thank us in his Oscar speech.”
I snort. “I wouldn’t go that far, but maybe. Did you call Harley back?”
“Not yet.”
And as if Harley himself was waiting outside, or he can sense whenever his name has been said three times in a span of twenty seconds, the buzzer for the front gate sounds.
“Took too long,” I say. “That has to be him.”
“Or Blake.”
“Hmm, or paparazzi.”
“Nah, they know not to actually buzz. It’ll be Harley for sure.”
We both get up to answer the front door, and there’s Harley’s bodyguard, holding back paparazzi while they take photos of Harley, Blake, and Ryder. They’re probably taking photos of Lyric too, seeing as his first single is selling well, but they have two other guys with them as well. Someone who looks like Lyric and also Harley’s manager, Gideon.
I hit the button to open the gate for them to come in, but this is just going to add to the mania.
As Harley reaches us, he smiles sweetly. “Band meeting.”
When they all file into the house and we close the door behind us, Denver grabs my arm. “It’s three years ago again. Help. PTSD. Harley’s meetings telling us what we could be doing better or different.”
Harley pauses in his tracks and turns to slap the back of Denver’s head.
“Oh, the head slaps are back too,” he cries dramatically.
I pull him to my side. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” I kiss the side of his head.
We all file into the informal living room and sprawl out, much like we did after Cameron’s funeral. It’s surreal being in the same room as these guys now, but I’m sure the feeling will pass once I get used to being in their presence again.
I realize now it wasn’t them I was angry with; it was myself. The need for sales, the need for likes, the need to be successful, I let it all get to me last time, and I won’t let that happen again. All I want is to be happy.
Harley stays standing with the guy who must be Lyric’s brother. “Everyone, this is Chord Jones. He’s an entertainment lawyer, and he’ll go over the contracts for you to give to your agents, managers, whoever you’ve got.”
Denver and I share a look.
“About that,” I say.
Denver bites his lip and says in a low voice, “We don’t have one.”
“Neither of you?” Harley asks. “Even after kissing on TV? I would’ve thought your phones would be flooded.”
“Oh, we switched them off so we didn’t have to deal with it,” I say.
His eyes widen, and he turns to Gideon with a pleading expression.
Gideon smiles. “Want me to take care of this?”
“Yes, please.”
“Do you see the kind of shit you’ve put me through? You managing Eleven is going to make me so happy. You’re going to come crawling to me begging for my forgiveness because of everything I deal with being your manager.”
“Whatever, I’m delightful.” Harley’s words are mumbled as if he’s already feeling exactly the same way Gideon says.
Gideon’s attention turns to us. “I’ll set you two up with a publicist, and I’ll be at all meetings. The kiss might need to be clarified through some sort of other media outlet. Article, TV interview, something. You can say as little or as much as you want, or