Truth

“Come onnn, come hang with us,” Jackson begged. “I promise, you’ll feel less out of place once you get to know us.” Ha, out of place is putting it lightly.

I wanted to go with Jackson, because from the looks of it, Reid was staying put, which meant that if I stayed put and ate the old crumbly granola bar that was resting nicely at the bottom of my bag, I’d be staying in here with him. It would be awkward, and my nerves were already fried from my first run-in with him. I was supposed to be creating music with him, writing songs, and he hasn’t even spoken directly toward me yet. Plus, Jackson and Finn combined were the lesser of two evils. Reid King was brooding and intimidating, and I could feel the hold on my nerves slipping with each second that I was around him.

Give it time, Brooklyn. You’re gonna have to jump over the heap of awkwardness eventually.

“I think I’ll stay in for tonight, but I promise next time I’ll go out with you guys and have some food.”

Jackson’s shoulders dropped as he gave me a puppy dog look. “Okkkayyy.” Then he walked over to the door slowly, his head still drooping. I laughed and he turned around and winked at me. Then he looked to Reid and intoned, “Don’t be a dick,” before walking out the door.

Awkward wouldn’t even touch this tour bus with a ten-foot pole.

Chapter Five

Reid

I was a fucking asshole. I knew it, my bandmates knew it, everyone knew it. I was certain that Brooklyn, my new pet, knew it as well. I wasn’t always like this, though. In fact, this was new behavior from yours truly, which was probably why the record label was losing their shit and sending someone like her to “help” me write music.

I was still pissed off about it. I’d been sitting here at this tiny table on the bus with a notepad and pencil in front of me, agitated that she was still in here. Anger was clawing at my throat, clouding my senses. There was no fucking way I could write with her in here, staring after the tour bus door like her best friend just abandoned her at a bar with a sketchy guy.

My mouth was opening before my brain could react. And sure enough, what came out of my mouth probably proved any doubt she had that I was, in fact, an asshole. “You know he’s just trying to get into your pants, right?”

Brooklyn, with her silky auburn hair, snapped her head over to me. I wished I could have read her mind. What was going on through her head? Was she a curser? Or was she a goody-two-shoes who never cussed a day in her life? Was she mentally berating me and plotting my death, or was she cowering and contemplating calling Carissa to dip out of this bogus arrangement? My guess was the latter. She was wearing a stupid, girly, yellow dress dotted with sunflowers. Her cheeks were painted pink, and her wide, forest eyes looked as if she were full of an innocence that I’d only ever seen in children.

You know, reading minds would probably solve all my problems. If I could read minds—one in particular—I wouldn’t be in this position. I wouldn’t be stuck in this strange place of not knowing what was the truth and what was a lie. But was it really a lie if someone honestly believed what came out of their own mouth? I wasn’t sure.

Brooklyn looked down and played with a loose thread at the hem of her dress as sh

e mumbled, “Nice icebreaker.”

I shrugged and wrote down the words “mind reader” on my blank piece of paper. As if those two words were actually going to somehow give me inspiration to write a full verse.

“It’s true,” I mumbled. “He’s just trying to get in your pants. Why do you think he was trying to get you to go out with them?”

Brooklyn cleared her throat, but I kept my eyes trained on the blurring blue and white lines below my pencil. “Is that how it works? Jackson invites me to dinner, and boom, he’s in my pants?”

I slowly raised my head to meet her stare. I purposefully trailed my eyes down her somewhat wavy hair, the curve of her chest covered by a cottony fabric, all the way to her ridiculous shoes. “By the looks of you, yes.”

I was lying right through my teeth. She didn’t look like some groupie that somehow always ended up in Jackson’s arms. She had yet to flirt with my bandmates, or even bat an eyelash my way…which was unusual. Her clothes screamed virtue. She seemed pure and soft in all the right places—docile even. But I wanted to get under her skin, drive her away so I could focus on this task at hand—alone.

Brooklyn pulled her shoulders back, and her gaze never wavered from mine. I had to give it to her—she wasn’t fazed by me in the least. She almost appeared as nonchalant as I did. My good looks did nothing to affect her. There was no squirming in her seat, no batting of her eyelashes, no stupid girly giggle. “Well, think again, Reid. I’m here to help you, not them. Shall we get started?”

I threw my head back and let out a loud, sarcastic laugh. “Get lost, Teach. You and I both know that this isn’t going to work.”

Brooklyn let me laugh for a few before straightening her shoulders even more. “It’s not going to work with that attitude. I can tell you that much.”

The grip I had on my pencil grew hard, the wood almost splintering in my bare hand. Damn, she was hard to crack. Irritation was setting in. “Let me ask you something, Brooklyn.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay…”

“How many songs have you actually sold? How many songs have you written? Do you even have experience? I’m having a hard time understanding why the company chose you. Please enlighten me.”

She tilted her head just slightly, her eyes straying from mine. Good, I hit a soft spot. Now let me push on that soft spot over and over again until she’s packing her bags.

Brooklyn’s mouth opened but then slammed shut again. She pulled her bottom lip in her teeth, teetering it back and forth before looking at me once more. I found myself locking onto her big, almond-shaped green eyes and seeing something behind them that seemed unreachable. I rolled my eyes. “Cat got your tongue?” A spark of life flared within her, but she still kept her mouth clamped. I shook my head, throwing my pencil down as I crossed my arms. “Okay, how about this? What would you do right now if I asked you to write me a song? How would you show me your worth?”

A loud sigh escaped her mouth, but she took the bait. “Well, this isn’t really about me, but okay, fine.” Brooklyn reached down and untied her shoes and plopped her legs up on the couch, leaning back to make herself comfortable. “I usually like to start with something that is provoking me to feel whatever it is that I’m feeling in the moment.”

I scoffed. “Oh, great. So…you think you’re the next Taylor Swift.”