Best Friends Forever

“I’m just… surprised is all. I didn’t think they’d go for it.”

“Well they did! We’ve got studio time booked for you two on Friday—”

“Friday? So soon?”

“That’s not going to be a problem, is it? The video of you two has gone viral, so we want to move on this as quickly as possible.”

“No, no. That’ll be fine. I’ll make it work.” After all, it’s for the kids. For kids like Mariah that need something to give them hope. I can’t let them down. I still can’t believe it’s happening. I know Ian’s been trying to repair his bad-boy image, but it’s still a shock that he’s such a decent guy, agreeing to do the album without any compensation—and without any hesitation, judging by how fast Rosa called me back. It doesn’t really fit in with the image of an addict in my head.

Eric was always hard up for money. He spent every spare cent on drugs, and when all his money was gone, he’d come to me, wanting more. If I didn’t give it to him, he’d find it another way—normally by stealing. My sweet, honest little brother turned into a lying, scheming, criminal because of his addiction. I know it’s enough to turn anyone into a monster. And it’s not a problem that goes away. Whatever Ian tells his fans and the press, I don’t believe he’s not still addicted. It just doesn’t work like that. But a guy with a drug problem would probably care a little more about getting paid.

So I don’t know.

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. I’ll work with Ian Monroe, I’ll sing some songs in the studio with him and put on a good show for the handful of tour dates we’ll have, but I’m not getting involved with him. No matter how attractive he is or how much his voice makes me weak in the knees, Ian Monroe is trouble and he’s off-limits.

I’m still repeating that to myself, over and over again like a mantra, when my phone rings again. I expect it to be Rosa with more “exciting’ details, but I frown when I don’t recognize the number. Anxiety hits me fast and hard—did a crazy stalker fan somehow get my number again? I’ve been through a dozen numbers in the past couple years because of problems like that. And I learned my lesson about answering numbers I don’t know. But something makes me answer anyway. If nothing else, I can vent some frustration at this creep.

“Hello?”

“Chelsea?”

I don’t have to ask who it is. I recognize his sultry, growling voice immediately by the shiver it sends straight to my toes. “Ian?”

“Oh good, I wasn’t sure you’d answer a strange number.”

“I normally don’t.”

“Today must be my luc

ky day then.”

You have no idea. I want to be annoyed with him, but I don’t really have any reason to be. Being attracted to him and knowing he’s wrong for me isn’t really anything that’s his fault. That’s all my problem and I need to suck it up and stay professional.

“Anyway, I’m glad I got a hold of you. I don’t know if your manager told you, but we’re supposed to be in the studio on Friday—”

“Of course she told me,” I snap, jumping to Rosa’s defense. What kind of manager would bury the lede that badly?

“Okay, cool,” he says without missing a beat. He doesn’t sound annoyed with my callous tone at all, and I almost wish that he were. At least if he were also a jerk, I wouldn’t feel so bad. But hearing his genuine enthusiasm makes me feel like I just tried to kick a puppy. I take a deep breath and remind myself to mind my manners. This is work. He’s done nothing to warrant my anger; he’s not Eric, and he’s not the reason Eric’s dead. I am. That’s on me. Being angry at Ian won’t fix it or make me feel better about it, even if it seems like it should.

“Anyway, Merrill said the label wants us to try and write a new song or two and I was thinking we should get together to run through some lyrics and stuff. I’ve got a few songs I’ve never recorded that could be turned into duets and you’ve probably got some stuff, too I assume.”

It’s just work, I tell myself again. Be polite.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff in old notebooks that could work, but we can just look at it on Friday.”

He pauses, and I can tell by the way he doesn’t answer for a beat that he disagrees and is trying to say so tactfully. I don’t even know this guy, I just know this business.

“The last time I tried to write a song with booked studio time, I never heard the end of it. Besides, it’ll all go much smoother if we get together and work on harmonies and shit beforehand. We got lucky at the show that everything worked out, but I don’t really want to count on luck when I’m recording an album.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right. That’s the same argument I’d use if someone were trying to block me like I was him. At least that’s a point in his favor. He cares about his art as much as I do.

“Yeah, all right.”

“I’ve got a studio at my place,” he says and I freeze faster than a deer in headlights, so grateful he can’t see my shocked look.

“I’ve got one downtown,” I counter. “I’ll send you the address.” No way am I going to his house. And even though I have a studio of my own here at my place, I’m also not inviting him over. If he came over to my home studio, I’d be stuck with him until he decided he wanted to leave. And going to his place just seems like it’s asking for trouble.

I swallow thickly, trying to push the thoughts of exactly what kind of trouble we could get into out of my head. It doesn’t really work. Heat is pooling in my core and making me squirm at the thought.