Truth

Before I scribbled my signature down onto the piece of paper with my shaky hand, I peered up at him and asked, “But why me?”

Vinny cocked his head, his deep-brown eyes squinting as he tried to understand my question. I clarified, pen still in hand. “Why me? You could hire any of the thousands of successful songwriters in the business, Vin. Someone that knows what they’re doing. Someone that could truly help Reid. Why me?”

Vinny smiled softly at me. “Here’s the thing about Reid, Brooklyn. He knows how to write music. He knows all there is to know about it—he has albums to back that up, Grammys to back that up. He doesn’t need to learn how to write again. He doesn’t need some stiff music teacher or songwriter to tell him the difference between a chorus and a verse. He knows what rhythm is; he knows what key is. What he needs is someone like you reminding him how to put his heart back into his music. The love. I’ve read your songs. The difference between the songs you write and the songs that all the other candidates I had lined up for the job write is that you put heart into your work. Soul. Your songs weren’t perfect, but they were real. Raw. The imperfections in your songs were downright perfect. You know what it’s like to write from the heart, and so does Reid. He’s just... a little lost. I think you’ll be a good fit for him.”

My eyes welled up as Vinny spoke, and they were doing it again as I stood in a hotel suite with a bunch of famous people that I didn’t know. I wiggled my toes in my shoes, trying to remind myself that I was good enough. I didn’t have all that fancy stuff that every other songwriter had—like experience, per se—but I had heart, and that was good enough.

It had to be.

It really had to be, because I needed the money, and there was nothing else to it.

I had to succeed.

Suddenly, the door to the room opened back up, and my head snapped over. I locked onto Reid again but quickly looked away.

Great start, Brooklyn. You can’t even look at him without getting all sweaty. I was certain that even the skin between my toes was sweating.

Reid King was nothing less than completely and utterly intimidating.

My God.

Seeing him on a computer screen (because, let’s face it, I deserved an A+ in online stalking) versus being in the same space as him, breathing the same air as him, was completely different. He was so… real. He had flaws that were unseen to the naked eye while scrolling on Instagram or YouTube. But being in person, seeing his flaws, his blemishes, I almost felt bad for those that couldn’t see them.

His dark, unruly, curly hair that resembled a mop on top of his head caused him to appear messy and wild. The angled jaw just below his scowl made him look not only sexy, but resilient, too. He had a slight scar on his cheek. From what? I had no idea, but it somehow fit his persona. And his eyes? I couldn’t look into them in fear that he’d somehow wipe away my memory like swiping at a fogged-up mirror. His eyes were like endless pools of amber crystals, dark around the edges and lighter in the middle. His eyes seemed soft against his hard exterior, but I had a feeling that if I were to truly stare into them, they’d be unbreakable, too. He looked indestructible, strong, unyielding.

It perplexed me that he was struggling with writing.

He looked anything but weak.

“This won’t work,” Reid grumbled, crossing his arms over his black t-shirt. The muscles in his arms were twitching back and forth, and I couldn’t stop staring, my eyes switching between the two forearms. The muscles were so defined, probably from years of strumming strings on a guitar.

Carissa stepped up beside me. “And why is that, Mr. King?”

I heard one of the bandmates snicker under his breath, soon followed by another.

Reid gave them a death glare, and I was right: those soft, honey-colored eyes were anything but forgiving. It didn’t seem to faze them, though. One of them stepped forward—the one with red hair whose name I already forgot, a smile etched onto his face.

“Reid, come on. You’re not going to win this battle and we all fucking know it. Carissa means business, bro.”

Reid’s face contorted as he wafted his hand out toward me. “She’s like fucking eighteen!”

I clenched my teeth, making my shoulders stay upright.

“Well, at least that means she’s legal,” the other bandmate said after a seductive wink.

Cue my face turning bright red.

I coughed, pushing my brownish red hair behind my ear. “I’m the same age as you.” I directed my words toward Reid. Nerves were attacking every inch of my skin. I was likely to have hives in approximately three minutes.

Reid started out with a huff, but Carissa swooped in and saved the day. “Surely, you’re not about to say that she isn’t good at what she does because of her age, Mr. King. She’s the same age as you, so that would make you quite the hypocrite, wouldn’t it?”

He opened his mouth again, but Carissa put her hand up, showing off her diamond ring that probably cost more than Cara’s entire kidney transplant plus more. “This isn’t up for negotiation. A copy of the contract that Brooklyn signed has already been placed in your room, and really, Reid, there is nothing respectable that can come out of your mouth right now, so just close it.” My eyes shifted to him, and his lips formed a pouty scowl before Carissa continued. “I’m your manager, and you know what I say goes, whether you like it or not. This is me trying to save your ass with the help of Rod. The record company wants this, and they expected me to make it happen. Don’t make me look like an idiot.”

He growled through his irritated mouth. “I don’t fucking need any help.”

Carissa smashed her lips together, and my nervousness kicked up to an entirely different level. “Reid, it takes a strong person to ask for help, and I know you better than you think. You’re strong. You’re not weak. So get your shit together and accept the help we’re trying to give you.”

“You expect this girl to help me?”