Truth

Rod scratched his chin, his finger resting right on the dimple below his mouth. “Reid…” He walked toward me before catching my narrowed eyes and stopping in his tracks. “This isn’t really a negotiation, and it’s not even up to me. It’s the record label—the big guys, the ones who pay us both. They were ready to drop your ass after the last show. Do you know how hard it was for me to convince them to give you space, to let you work through whatever it is that you’re fucking dealing with? I even had your bandmates write a statement on your behalf.” He sighed, and I continued to stare at him with a pissed-off expression on my face that was most definitely not there by accident. “It’s either you take their help or you’ll be a washed-up rock star whose only connection to the word ‘king’ is the fact that it’s on your birth certificate. Is that what you want? Do you want to be that guy the other night who vomited all over his fans because he was too drunk to sing? I still can’t wrap my mind around it.”

Oh yes. You heard him right.

I did that. I, Reid King, the King of Music, who always had his head screwed on right, the guy who never got in trouble, the one who said no to drugs—no, seriously, my picture might as well have been on D.A.R.E billboards all around the world—got piss drunk and upchucked all over his fans at a charity concert. I watched the video on YouTube before Rod, and my main manager, Carissa, along with our social media crew, got it offline. It didn’t matter, though. Every magazine from here to New York had some type of drama-filled article over the infamous Reid King losing his shit.

I didn’t bother reading them.

I didn’t bother looking them up on the internet.

I knew what a mistake it was to do that, but her words stung me that day. Like a thousand yellow-jackets attacking my skin, their sting staying with me for so long that I had to do something. I fucked up.

It seemed I’d been doing that a lot lately.

“I don’t need some hotshot musical genius to come in and fuck with everything, Rod. I just don’t. I know I’m struggling. I don’t need you, or anyone else, breathing down my goddamn neck every second of every day. I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll figure what out, Reid? How to pull yourself together? You’re falling apart and you know it.”

I cracked my neck to the right and heard a loud pop. I focused on the sound instead of ramming my fist into the wall again. Maybe I should just write a song about punching Rod in the face.

Yeah, that would be a best-seller. A number one hit.

I chuckled out loud, the laugh sounding dry and downright sarcastic. I mumbled under my breath, resting my head along the wall with my hands caging me in. “This is fucking bullshit.”

“Glad to have you on board, King. Now let’s go introduce you two, shall we?”

I pushed off the wall, glancing at myself in the mirror. I looked as defeated as I felt, my cheeks drawn downward, dark bags under my eyes, a scowl on my face that would hopefully scare the pants right off my new fucking teacher. I grimaced even harder at Rod’s cropped haircut as I followed behind him.

“When am I even going to work with this dipshit? On the tour bus for the next couple of weeks? Please tell me that he’s not coming with us.”

Rod glanced behind his back, hitting the button on the elevator. “Who said it’s a he?”

My normal 98.7 degree body temperature rose so fast that my blood was likely boiling under my skin. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s a woman? What is she, some sixty-year-old Betty that likes cats? Fucking shit,” I mumbled again.

I was picturing the new addition to the tour group the entire time Rod and I were in the elevator traveling to the h

otel suite below us. I’m sure the woman was old. The record company probably wanted someone that wasn’t the least bit attractive or young. You know, because she was going to be on a tour bus with not only me but also two other bandmates who had a hard time keeping their dicks in their pants.

The only benefit of the teacher being a she instead of a he was that I was likely to scare her quicker. I wouldn’t cooperate, the old woman would quit, and then I could be on my own again—just the way I preferred it.

No woman was going to put up with my shit—nor my bandmates’. Hell, she wouldn’t be able to keep up with us; she probably liked to be in bed by eight every night.

When Rod and I stopped in front of the suite door, I prepared myself for the worst. I inhaled through my nose as my teeth clenched together. I narrowed my eyes, prepared to stare down my new enemy so hard that it caused them to look away nervously. But what I saw was so much worse than I expected.

I took one look at my new teacher and gave a big ol’ “Fuck no” before storming out of there, swiping my guitar out of my room, and retreating to the hotel roof.

To do what? Who the hell knew, because it seemed I couldn’t write a fucking song to save my life, and that was exactly what I needed to do. I needed to save myself before I was nothing but an empty vessel.

Chapter Four

Brooklyn

I was shocked. Instantly. Almost as if Carissa, my new-ish boss, had pulled a taser out of her Louis Vuitton bag and stunned me. I was left standing in a hotel suite that put my apartment to shame—like seriously, the bathroom was bigger than my ENTIRE living space—staring at a pair of very amused men who were trying their hardest to hold in their laughter as their “king” stormed out of the room like a pouting five-year-old.

Was he serious?

What? Was I not good enough for him? I didn’t understand. Those deep, honey-colored eyes poured into me and then sucked out any ounce of confidence that I’d had, which was next to none. I dropped my head down to my Converse, wondering if that was what did him in. Did I look too much like a child for him? Not professional? Maybe I should have borrowed one of Jane’s fancy pantsuits. Maybe I should have gone with a Hillary Clinton vibe instead of my usual casual-but-still-professional vibe. I wore a nice dress (with pockets, of course), but I paired it with a pair of white Chucks to make me seem approachable. I didn’t want to come off as some business woman.

I mentally berated myself. Stop it right now, Brooklyn! Do not let him make you feel like you’re not good enough. Remember what Vinny said. I breathed in and out of my nose, calming my nerves, replaying what Uncle Vinny had told me when I’d signed the contract last Friday.