“So…what are you telling them, then? You have to tell them something since you’ll be missing all the Sunday dinners.”
“I’m just going to have to come up with a plan. Teacher’s retreat?”
Jane raised an eyebrow as her lip tugged upward. “Perf.” Then she opened the door, allowing the balmy suburb air to filter through the car. “You ready to go sign your life away… for the summer, at least?”
Nerves clenched at my throat, making it hard to swallow my caramel latte. “He’s… he’s not in there, right? I need time to prepare.”
“Who, Reid?”
My throat clenched even tighter, along with my legs—really, every muscle in my body grew taut. “Yeah,” I choked out.
Jane laughed, climbing out of the car in her red, pressed dress. She leaned down and peered at me. “He’s not here, and I’m glad because we’re going to have to work on that whole face-reddening-just-by-the-sound-of-his-name thing.”
I rolled my eyes and climbed out of the car, too, cursing myself for my stupid heat-blasted face.
I wonder how odd it’d be if I showed up to meet Reid with a brown paper bag over my head?
Part of me didn’t care. I was there to do a job and that was it.
It was just Reid King—not intimidating at all.
Chapter Three
Reid
My fist was aching from the sudden impact of a nearby wall. My entire body was shaking from the abrupt burst of anger that was coursing through my veins after hearing the words come out of Rod’s mouth.
A partner? Was that what he was really going to call it? He was trying to sell the idea to me. I could tell by the way his words were strung together like he was a fast-talking auctioneer. He had been walking on eggshells around me, afraid I’d flip my shit and do something stupid—much like punching a wall. And it was stupid. I fucking knew it was stupid. I played guitar for a living. My hands were more than just hands. They were tools for success—them, and my voice, of course.
“Sit the fuck down, King.”
I growled as I swung my body around, staring down my agent like a bull glaring at a red flag.
“And wipe that look off your face.”
I continued to stare, my chest expanding with every breath I gasped at. “What look?”
“That look you get when you really want to fire me but know you’d drown without me.”
“I don’t need a fucking ‘partner.’ I don’t need someone to help me write songs. I fucking know how to do it. I have several albums that say so. This is complete fucking bullshit and you know it!” I was shouting now, spit flying from my mouth.
The pain I’d carried around for months and months often morphed into anger. Pure, raging anger. And I was losing my battle with trying to keep my sanity. There weren’t enough outlets in the world for all the shit I carried.
It was catching up to me, all of it was, which was why I was having this conversation with Rod.
You know, all my life, I was particularly good at keeping my emotions in check. I’d always been that one to put a face on, to push away the insecurities, the pain, the worry, the doubt, all of it. But now it was like I was broken or something. I was crawling underneath my skin, like I was seconds from exploding at any given second. Music was my outlet. I took every ounce of agony, grief, happiness, whatever, and channeled it into making music. My songs were real. They were raw and authentic, and they were truly my own emotions. Every song had a piece of me. Every set of lyrics had a piece of my soul. And now I was empty.
That was my problem.
I was empty, and now I couldn’t channel all the shit that caved in on me on the daily. Some artists turned to drugs—a temporary fix nonetheless—but I’d never done that shit. Ever. I wouldn’t. Music was my fix, and it wasn’t a temporary high… until now.
It was fleeting away from me so fast I couldn’t hold on.
But if the record label and Rod thought some hotshot professional music writer was going to help pull me out of the fucking abyss that I was in and get me over this stupid fucking mental block, they were poorly mistaken.
Jesus Christ. I couldn’t even believe I was hearing the words come out of his mouth.
“No. The answer is no, Rod.”