shit was trying to threaten me. He didn’t want to risk tipping Braxton off that he was as crooked as they come. Carl was nothing without us, but he held on to the delusion that it was the other way around.
“Stay awhile,” Carl invited, making my heart drop into my stomach. Braxton looked like she’d disembowel me if I made a wrong move. If she did, my heart would undoubtedly fall at her feet. “We have much to discuss.”
My fingertips dug into my palms as I sat across from Carl in his high-rise office with Los Angeles bustling on the streets below.
“Find someone else.”
An hour ago, I would have been too proud to beg. I just couldn’t stop recalling the glow in Braxton’s eyes, along with excitement and wariness, as she signed her name on the dotted line. She was too goddamn eager, too unaware of what she’d done.
“Anyone else.”
It was pointless asking him to cancel or postpone the tour since he’d already refused. Carl had a bigger stake in this tour. It was also his last chance to squeeze us. We’d wised up a long time ago, and now his mission was to make us pay for it.
Behind his desk, Carl smugly sat back in his chair. The bastard knew this was a terrible fucking idea. It was the exact reason he’d signed off on it. I felt the ice growing at my fingertips and slowly crawling its way up my limbs.
This was not happening.
Braxton Fawn could not be our new guitarist.
“Why would I do that? She’s perfect.”
“You haven’t even heard her play,” I pushed through gritted teeth.
“I trust Oni. She found you.”
And I’ve regretted it every single fucking day. I kept those thoughts to myself because it was pointless to voice them when Carl already knew. He delighted in our misery. For five fucking years, he slept like a baby, knowing he had us under his thumb. We should never have signed that bullshit contract. I should never have been so weak.
Only one year to go.
The end of our world tour marked Bound’s hard-won freedom. After three albums and too much lost, the knowledge should have filled me with joy.
There was only one problem.
That could have gone better.
Despite the shitshow the meeting had turned into, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. I expected to walk through those doors with only a handful of empty promises. Instead, I was Bound’s new guitarist.
Bound.
Bound.
BOUND.
My arm throbbed where I’d pinched it the entire elevator ride down. I was expecting to wake up any moment now. I was trapped in an endless dream and wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. There was only one problem: America’s sweethearts turned out to be real douchebags.
I made it to my car parked in the building’s garage just as my phone vibrated, and a text appeared in a banner at the top of the screen.
Poison. 9 p.m. We need to talk.
—Oni
Groaning because this day was starting to feel like it would never end, I threw myself into my hooptie and headed straight home. Home was a cheap three-bedroom apartment in Mid-City, where I found my best friend and roommate sitting crossed-legged on our couch.
Griffin Sinclair reminded me of Nicola Peltz with her blonde hair, green eyes, and perpetual soul-searing gaze. Only with longer legs. Maeko, our other roommate and bestie, was nowhere to be found. Maeko had moved to Los Angeles with the dreams of becoming an actress, so I was hoping her absence meant she was at another audition. Unfortunately, with her Japanese-American heritage and the lack of diversity in Hollywood’s starring roles, she’d yet to land more than a small part, but she wasn’t giving up. Griffin and I wouldn’t let her.
“Back so soon?” Griff quipped. Her green gaze was assessing as she watched me instead of the show playing on TV. “Why am I not surprised?” She then wrinkled her button nose at my sister’s dress. It really was hideous. “What are you wearing?”
I paused, debating telling Griffin about my new gig before deciding against it—at least for now. Griffin, who worked part-time as a paralegal while studying law, was a bloodhound for secrets. It was nearly impossible to keep anything from her. However, the biggest reason was that my blooming music career rested on my surviving a world tour with three egomaniacs. Carl Cole’s words replayed in my head as if on cue.
“Learn the words, survive the tour, and then we’ll talk. In the meantime, sign this.”