I couldn’t argue with her because she was right. Everyone was right, but that didn’t change the fact that I was stone-cold terrified of what would happen to the woman if I just washed my hands of the situation, and let my dad finish dismantling her. I didn’t know if I could live with myself if I let that happen, and no amount of success or personal achievement was worth that risk. I wasn’t even going to mention the offer of the tour with Artifice, because that would just give her more fuel for the fire. If I was here in Denver to keep the old man occupied, there was less of a chance he could totally destroy her.

“It is what it is, for now.”

She lifted a pale eyebrow. “But it doesn’t have to be. Look at you and Ayd. Things can be one way for a long time and then have to change because there is no other choice.”

I just shrugged. “Maybe.”

She rolled her eyes at me and climbed to her feet. “I have to go or I’m going to be late. Stop acting like a typical brooding musician and make Ayd talk to you. By the way, she was totally a ten when I saw her this morning, so way to go, killer.”

That startled a laugh out of me and shook some of the gloom from my current mood. “I told you one day I would have one.”

She laughed and winked at me with her blue eye. “Well, the catch is that you’re totally a ten right now, too, and I don’t think you’ve ever been above a five. You’re good together, Jet, in any form that happens to be. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

“Yeah. For some reason, I think that might be a lot harder than it sounds.”

After Cora left for work, I screwed around for a couple of hours and tried to finish the song I was working on last night when Ayden had ambushed me. It was sad and had a melody to it that made something in the center of my chest hurt. It was missing something I couldn’t put my finger on. With my mind spinning about the tour and a certain Southern girl, I couldn’t get it right, so I tossed my guitar in the case and went down to the studio. I was supposed to finish up with Black Market Alphas later on tonight, but the mood I was currently in didn’t bode well for getting anything accomplished, especially if Ryan showed up flashing his idiotic bravado and unearned arrogance.

I tweaked a couple of the tracks, messed around with some of my own, and sent a text to all the guys in my band that we needed to get together to talk. My dad called me three times and I sent all three directly to voice mail. I debated on calling Ayden and decided that the phone worked both ways. If she wanted to talk, she could get in touch with me. After all, I wasn’t the one who left her hanging alone in bed after a night of mind-melting sex.

Before I knew it, the afternoon had blown by and Ryan and the rest of the band were rolling into the studio. It was a shame the lead singer was such a little punk, because the other guys were all cool and I really saw a lot of myself in Jorge. They were getting set up when my phone beeped at me with a text.

I was surprised and admittedly stoked to see that it was Ayden.

Where are you?

At work.

You? Working? ;)

That made me scowl. What did she think I did all day long when I didn’t have a show? Of course I worked, how did she think I paid the bills?

When I feel like it. Why, what’s up?

I wanted to see if you were hungry. My last class got canceled and I’m starving.

I can’t leave. In the middle of a session.

I can come to you.

That was weird. I never let anyone in the studio that I wasn’t working with or in a band with. This place was generally my escape from the rest of the world. This is where I came to get away from all the other stuff I normally couldn’t deal with. Letting her in seemed like a bigger deal than it probably actually was, and it took me a solid ten minutes to text her back.

All right. But you might hate it. I don’t think the guys I’m working with know a single Kenny Chesney song.

Very funny, asshole. What do you want me to bring you?

Whatever. I’m easy.

No Jet, you are anything but that.

I stared at the phone like it would explain to me what she meant. The guys in the band were getting restless, so I told her to grab a couple pizzas and a case of Coors Light so I could feed them as well. I gave her directions to the studio. I couldn’t decide between being pleased that she was actively seeking me out or being freaked out about letting her into my inner sanctum. I decided to just hover between the two and focus on work until she got there. Something was going on with the band, half the guys weren’t talking and Jorge was a beat behind on three out of four songs. After the sixth time starting the first song over again, I was ready to murder them all.

I slammed my hands down on the mixing board and flipped off the switch that recorded everything in the booth. I cracked my knuckles on both hands and walked into where they were all glaring back and forth at one another, and where Ryan was scowling at me.

“What gives, dude? Today is the last day we have for studio time and we already paid you for it.”

I twirled the ring on my middle finger around with my thumb and met him glare for glare. This kid didn’t know me well enough to think that I was ever going to be impressed by his youthful overconfidence and mediocre talent.

“What’s going on today? You guys suck, and I mean suck. Whatever you’re doing is garbage and I’m not messing around with it. Did you forget you’re a band and that means you all have to play the same song at the same time? What the fuck gives?”

Ryan puffed his chest up and Jorge threw his drum sticks down. The other two guys frowned at me while Ryan moved to poke me in the center of my chest.

“Watch it. We’re paying you, remember?”

I smacked his hand away and narrowed my eyes threateningly at him. “Yeah. You’re paying me to put together an album that gets you noticed by a major label and gets you signed, not an album that sounds like a bunch of pots and pans falling out of the kitchen cabinet. My name doesn’t get attached to something that isn’t listenable. So, what is the goddamn deal?”

Jorge pounded one of the cymbals with the edge of his fist. “Yeah, Ry, why don’t you tell him what’s going on? Why don’t you tell him how you took all the credit for all the songs I wrote and all the shows we played when that girl from Shred interviewed you? Why don’t you explain to Jet how this new album is a collaboration between you and him, and the rest of us are just the hired help?” He hit the cymbal again. “You don’t need us, right? Why don’t you go ahead and finish the album by yourself, because I’ve had it.”

I took a step back as Jorge rounded the massive drum kit. Ryan had turned a lovely shade of purple and was looking frantically between me and where his drummer had stormed off to. I rubbed my chin and made him meet my questioning gaze.

“Can you write songs? Do you know how to put together a melody and a chorus the way Jorge does?”

He frowned and gulped. “No.”

“Can you play guitar?”

“No.”

“Can you play the drums?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

I rocked back on my heels and crossed my arms over my chest. “Are you a solo artist, Ry? Because if you are, then we need to scrap the tracks we already laid down and start all over.”

He balked at me, and the microphone in his hand dropped to the ground. “No. No way. That stuff we recorded the other day was boss.”

“Right. It was boss, because Jorge wrote amazing songs and you have an amazing band to back you up. Without that, you’re just some little shit jumping around the stage and screaming worthless nonsense. I don’t collaborate with worthless nonsense. You better recognize what you can do for them, Ry, not the other way around, because I guarantee if Jorge walks away I can hook him up with another band in a heartbeat. You’ll just be a memory for some guy somewhere who saw you play that one time. You need to get over yourself, like yesterday, and stop wasting everyone’s time. And if you can’t do that, I, for sure, have more important stuff to do than babysit a wannabe rock star.”