Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105665 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
“I’m tired, Jersey. Not tonight.” He turned, ambling toward the stairs.
Jersey threw the knife. It landed on the cherry banister an inch from his hand. Ian grabbed the knife and shot it back at her, landing squarely into the wood floor between her feet, leaving less than an inch from each foot—perfectly centered. Bull’s-eye.
“Put the pasta away. I’ll eat it for breakfast.” He headed up the stairs.
Jersey stared at the knife for several seconds. Then she squatted, removing it from the wood. Easing back onto her butt, she bent her legs and rested her arms on them, dropping her head and closing her eyes.
They shared a roof and a bed, but Ian left her long before that. She didn’t know where he went or if he’d ever return.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
“You’ve never sounded better.” Ames grinned at Ian as they finished their third song in two weeks. “This album is dark as fuck, but I think it’s going to blow your fans away.”
Hector, their producer, nodded. “Yeah. I think we should stab you in the leg and cut off part of your ear more often.”
Ian held the headphones up to his ear and listened to the second track while glancing at Alex, Jordan, and Bryson, all tipping back beers, grinning like fools because they knew it was good. Not just good. It was their best work. And thanks to Ian’s flood of inspiration, it was effortless. They had twelve more songs to go, and no one showed signs of exhaustion. Except Ian. But he kept that buried, giving them the impression that he was on fire, smoking with the perfect lyrics, instead of burning in his own personal hell.
“Food.” Max smiled, pushing through the door of the tiny house that they used as their studio. She set the bags down, and everyone pounced. “A minute?” She nodded toward the other room.
Ian grabbed a sandwich and followed her. “What’s up?” Even with Max, he made it all look good. He thought it would eventually be good if he just kept pushing forward.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She bit her lips together, studying him for a few seconds. “Everything okay with Jersey?”
He shrugged. “Sure. You see her as much as I do. You should know.”
“Is that a problem?”
“What?” He narrowed his eyes.
“That I see her as much as you do? I mean do you ever wonder if you’re letting your time get too out of balance?”
He chuckled. “I’m making an album. I have a deadline. This is nothing new.”
“You’ve never kept a girlfriend through making an album.”
“Jersey’s different.” He took another bite.
“How so?”
“She’s not needy.”
“Wanting to be with someone doesn’t make them needy.”
“Is this coming from you or her?” He tossed the rest of his sandwich in the garbage by the sink. The direction of the conversation ruined his appetite.
“Me.” Max returned a tight-lipped smile.
He didn’t know if she was being honest with him. But Max rarely lied, so he took her at her word.
“You have a husband who you never see. Yet you tell everyone that’s what makes your marriage work. I know I’m not the first Ian you think of when you wake every morning and go to bed each night.”
Max frowned.
“Everyone has their limits. Their reasons. Things that motivate them. Things that hold them back. I won’t question yours if you don’t question mine.”
Dropping her gaze to her feet, Max nodded.
“Where are you going?” Jersey asked as Ian buttoned his shirt after taking a shower.
It was a late Saturday afternoon. She had seen Ian that week for less than an hour, except at nights when he crawled into bed well after midnight from long days at the recording studio.
“I’m meeting the guys, Ames, and a director for dinner to discuss a music video.”
“Lucky them,” she mumbled, ghosting her fingers over the arm of the black blazer on the bed.
“What do you mean?” He grabbed the blazer, standing again in front of the full-length mirror to slip it on.
“I mean…” she plopped onto the bed, staring at her stupid boot that she had to wear for two more weeks “…I’ve been waiting for almost a month to discuss things with you. Maybe I need to contact your assistant and see if she can pencil me in on your busy calendar.”
“What do you want to discuss?” He turned toward her, tugging on the cuffs to his shirt as his gaze swept over her quickly before finding something—anything else to focus on.
This was his new normal. Don’t look directly at Jersey for more than two seconds. Don’t give her more than two minutes of your time each day. Don’t give her the opportunity to ask questions and demand answers.
It wasn’t like she would leave. After all, where could she go with no job and no skills?
“I want to talk about Kessler.”