Catch Me When I Fall (Falling Stars 2)

Leif had just gotten married this last winter. He’d had a rough past, but he’d finally found peace in Mia, the woman who had been meant for him.

He lifted his arms out to his sides. “Sure, blame it on me, man. Everyone knows when we’re off, it’s because of you. Who even told you that you could play bass, anyway? Problem is, you can’t keep up.”

The two of them went round and round. Enemies and the best of friends. Always challenging the other. It made for interesting days, that was for sure, and the music never, ever got stagnant.

Rhys hooted and tossed his booted feet onto the table, crossing one ankle over the other. “Keep dreaming, Banger. You just don’t get the rhythm of a good country song.”

“Head Banger to you,” Leif told him, sipping from the coffee Mel handed him. “And that’s what I’m here for . . . to get a little of the country out of you.”

It was true. Rich wanted him to add a different element to our sound. He didn’t want us to just be another country band. He wanted us to stand out from the crowds. Write music that all different sorts of people and tastes would gravitate toward.

“God, can you get your feet off the table, Rhys? I swear, you were born in a barn,” Mel chastised, swatting at his boots as she tried to find a spot to set his coffee.

Rhys laughed harder. “That’s because I was, in fact, born in a barn.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Rhys, but the barn that was torn down on the old farm where the city hospital was built does not count.”

“’Course it does. I feel that country dirt all the way to my bones.”

“The only dirt around here is your dirty dick. I saw those two chicks you snuck into your room last night.” Mel glared at him as if she were his keeper.

Rhys cracked up. “No sneaking to it, Mells Bells. Could hear those two all the way to Atlanta.”

“Gross,” I muttered, laughing under my breath.

My nerves came rushing forward when the bedroom door opened to my freshly showered brother. The room instantly grew quiet, the two of us staring at each other.

Discomfort bounded.

Filling the space.

Richard swallowed hard and roughed a hand through his damp hair. “Hey, Em. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

My throat felt swollen and achy, and I peeked at the rest of the band and Mel. All of them watched us with worry, apprehension thickening the air.

I gave a tight nod and walked toward his room, the space only lit by a slice of sunlight slanting through a thin strip in the drapes. He stepped to the side to let me pass and shut the door behind us.

Closing us off.

Turning back to face me, he blew out a strained sigh and rubbed his palm over his mouth. The uneasiness was so dense I was choking on it.

“Listen,” he said, his voice low, “about last night.”

My heart gave a tremble. “I’m—”

He held up a hand. “Let me get this out, Em. I . . . fuck . . . I’m fucking sorry for what I said. I was pissed that you ran off stage after what you said on the call with Fitzgerald yesterday morning, but I’m more pissed at myself for the way I handled it.”

Warily, I nodded acceptance. “I’m sorry, too.”

He looked to the floor, wavering, hesitating, and my nerves were getting bound up again.

I could just feel somethin’ coming that I knew I didn’t want to hear.

“But you can’t keep dragging your feet. It’s not fair. Not to Rhys and Leif. Not to Mel. Not to me. And it’s damn sure not fair to you.”

He pinned me with eyes that were the same color as mine. “We’ve worked too hard for this, Em. Too fuckin’ hard.”

I blinked at him, conjuring enough courage to at least get a small confession out. “The songs have dried up, Rich. I . . . I can’t write . . . can barely sing . . . and I don’t know how to fix it. I would if I could. I just need time.”

“We don’t have the time, Em.” He glanced away, looking at the wall as if he had to prepare himself to deliver bad news. “Fitzgerald is pissed that this deal isn’t done. Angela said she’s left you a bunch of messages that you haven’t returned, and she’s getting pissed, too. This isn’t the way business is run.”

Regret pulsed in my chest. I tried to inhale around it. Angela was our manager. She’d worked every bit as hard as the rest of us to ensure our success, believing in Carolina George when no one else did.

“I’ll call her,” I promised. Somehow, I’d smooth it over. Make it right.

Rich shook his head. “It’s too late for that. Fitzgerald sent the head of Mylton A & R. He’s going to be here this morning.”