“It was when Eleven was breaking up. The label thought to keep me relevant and present in the public eye, the best thing to do would be to give them something to talk about.”
He says, “Makes sense,” again. It’s his I call bullshit phrase without actually saying it.
I slump. “Okay, fine, that’s not entirely true.”
“I never said you were lying.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Brix remains quiet, which makes me fall silent too.
It’s a problem I’ve always had, really, admitting who I am. It goes against the image the label created for me, and I guess it’s been easier to go with the narrative I was given than to lead my own.
My hand writes that down.
I read over the words over and over again, and then suddenly a song starts forming in my mind.
I may not be able to say it, but I can write it. Singing it is another question.
Lyrics pour out of me, and my usual back-and-forth of writing, then erasing, rewriting and cutting, ignites the muse inside me.
“Looks like you found your words,” Brix says.
“Shh.”
He laughs.
Before I know it, we’re pulling up to a mansion in the middle of the desert.
Stone-wall entry, cement-rendered and modern, the house shits all over mine back in LA.
“What kind of ass-backward ‘ranch’ is this?” I ask.
Brix grins. “We call it the ranch because it used to be a little three-bedroom cabin on the other side of the property, but umm, let’s just say Trav has been doing well these last few years.”
I get out of the car and do a full circle. “I want to live here.”
“I’m sure Trav could maybe keep you as a pet. Or a singing monkey. Don’t know if he’s a fan of boy band music, though.”
“He knows who I am. That’s one step up from you when we met.”
“We have to talk about your standards.”
I shake my head. “Nah, my standards are good. I like people who know my name more than those who don’t. Pretty simple.”
“Well, I know your name now.”
“Just what I wanted when I put my heart and soul into my solo album. Now, if only I could hire the rest of the population who didn’t buy it to be my bodyguard …”
“Decent plan.”
“Are you showing me to my room or what?” I ask.
“You mean our room.”
“Our?” My heart beats wildly at the idea of sharing a room with Brix.
“We may be somewhere safe with a group of guys I’d trust with my life, but it’s my job to be your shadow whenever you’re not in your own home. Hence, one room. Unless you really do want to camp with Iris.”
Camping with Iris would be the safer option. But am I going to take it?
Nope.
Chapter Ten
Brix
We settle into our room—one that’s at the back of the house. I wanted to get to it first because it’s the biggest and has a couch I can crash on while Harley takes the bed. Even if I am a good six inches taller than he is and he’d fit better on the couch. I have a feeling it wouldn’t go over well if I asked for the bed.
“When do we get to blow shit up?” he asks, and I have to admit his excitement is kinda cute.
“How about we teach you how to use a gun first. The explosives can be like positive reinforcement. Do well with a gun, you get to play with C4.”
“You’d make the bestest parent ever.”
“At least you’re willing to admit you’re basically like a child.”
“Where’s my gun?” He’s like a damn puppy.
“I’m already regretting this.”
“Nah, it’s going to be fun.”
“Getting shot could be considered fun, I guess. Follow me.”
The ranch is on acres of land in the middle of nowhere near Palm Desert with no neighbors. It means we can make as much noise as we want without alerting anyone.
Harley walks through the halls with a look of awe in his dark blue eyes. We really should call it the mansion instead of the ranch.
Our bed is a four-poster, and the room has a bear-skin rug. Not even joking.
Trav as a person is a basic man. Which is why when he hired a decorator and told them to “go nuts,” they turned this brand-new, empty mansion with high ceilings and marble tile throughout into a pimp’s heaven.
We’re talking animal print everywhere, plush couches, and tacky furnishings that the designer supposedly called “retro,” but it looks like there should be hookers swinging from poles and neon