a paper clip and unbends the end of it. “This Ian of yours. He meet your dad and Haley?”
I frown at the sudden change in subject. “No.”
Tyler moves the chair toward me an inch, two, then hooks the end of the paper clip in the belt loop of my jeans. “A real man meets his girl’s parents.”
He’s close enough his scent invades my senses. It’s the sunshine and cedar I remember, with a smoky edge.
“Does a real man sneak out her window so her parents don’t find out he spent the night?” I counter, thinking of prom, when he took Carly to the dance—when I slept in his arms after and made him promise not to leave.
Tyler’s gaze narrows.
If I didn’t know it was crazy, I’d think he was worked up about Ian.
I don’t need to tell him we’re broken up, because that’ll only invite more questions when it’s none of his business and I really don’t want to talk about it with Tyler.
He rises from his chair, leaning in to murmur at my ear. “The next time I visit your room at night, I promise I’ll use the door after.”
He walks out, leaving the paperclip dangling from my shorts.
8
“Your pinch harmonics are sloppy,” I state.
From his seat on the stool across the studio, the kid Jax recruited stares at me with dead eyes. “Can’t you fix it with the board?”
“I could. But you’re playing it wrong. Play it right, no one’s gotta fix it.”
It’s my first day of babysitting, and the analogy’s not far off. I figured I’d help the kid get the guitar and vocals for a track, but everything’s either wrong or a pain in the ass.
When he gets up from his stool, I demand, “Where are you going?”
He holds up his hands. “Need a smoke break.”
Was this what I was like working with Jax?
No. No way.
Could be I’m pissier than usual. Probably because my hand’s been hurting more in the months since I left the tour—or maybe I have more time to think about it—and Zeke called and left a belligerent voicemail to say he hadn’t heard back from me about the songs.
I followed up with an email telling him I’d thought he sent them as a joke and I was still laughing.
Fifteen minutes later, there was an email from marketing noting I hadn’t posted anything on social since a picture Beck took in LA and I’m overdue.
I go out to the front room to ask Shay about the schedule, and she pulls her headphones off her ears.
“What’re you listening to?” I ask.
“Local artists. There’s a lot of talent here. One of my favorites is actually playing tonight at Valor. And,” she goes on, both brows rising up her face, “they have two for one drinks. I can text you the details.”
“Thanks.” I’m not planning on going to a local gig and the appeal of two for one drinks has long stopped being a motivator, but I can’t shoot down her enthusiasm.
She punches my number into her phone, but I’m already looking up as the kid comes back in the front door, smelling like smoke and brushing past me to the studio.
I follow him in. “Let’s try the track again. And clean it up this time.”
“You wanna show me what you had in mind with your fucked-up hand?” the kid drawls.
I narrow my gaze. “Give me the guitar.”
He does, and I hook it around my neck.
I’m going to regret this for the next two days, but I don’t even care.
I play the passage like I’m on stage at MSG with no one to cover my ass—including the pinch harmonics.
My hand is on fire, and not in a good way. It hurts like hell. If I had to play an entire set like this, the muscles would give out and I’d have cramps for days.
Thank God I don’t. Only enough to shut this dumb kid up.
It won’t always be like this, I remind myself.
When I’m done, he’s silent.
I shove the guitar in his face. “I can play it with my fucked-up hand, so you can play it with your fucked-up attitude. Again.”
By the time we have something passable, it’s after dark, and I’m beyond ready to get away from this asshole.
For a moment, I debate calling one of the guys I toured with or the friends I met on the road. They’d remind me what it’s like to be around people who take their careers seriously.
On the way to my car, I almost run over the kid,