Total pages in book: 200
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 760(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Behind his desk, Carl smugly sat back in his chair. The bastard knew this was a terrible fucking idea. It was the exact reason he’d signed off on it. I felt the ice growing at my fingertips and slowly crawling its way up my limbs.
This was not happening.
Braxton Fawn could not be our new guitarist.
“Why would I do that? She’s perfect.”
“You haven’t even heard her play,” I pushed through gritted teeth.
“I trust Oni. She found you.”
And I’ve regretted it every single fucking day. I kept those thoughts to myself because it was pointless to voice them when Carl already knew. He delighted in our misery. For five fucking years, he slept like a baby, knowing he had us under his thumb. We should never have signed that bullshit contract. I should never have been so weak.
Only one year to go.
The end of our world tour marked Bound’s hard-won freedom. After three albums and too much lost, the knowledge should have filled me with joy.
There was only one problem.
That could have gone better.
Despite the shitshow the meeting had turned into, I felt like I was walking on a cloud. I expected to walk through those doors with only a handful of empty promises. Instead, I was Bound’s new guitarist.
Bound.
Bound.
BOUND.
My arm throbbed where I’d pinched it the entire elevator ride down. I was expecting to wake up any moment now. I was trapped in an endless dream and wasn’t sure I wanted to leave. There was only one problem: America’s sweethearts turned out to be real douchebags.
I made it to my car parked in the building’s garage just as my phone vibrated, and a text appeared in a banner at the top of the screen.
Poison. 9 p.m. We need to talk.
—Oni
Groaning because this day was starting to feel like it would never end, I threw myself into my hooptie and headed straight home. Home was a cheap three-bedroom apartment in Mid-City, where I found my best friend and roommate sitting crossed-legged on our couch.
Griffin Sinclair reminded me of Nicola Peltz with her blonde hair, green eyes, and perpetual soul-searing gaze. Only with longer legs. Maeko, our other roommate and bestie, was nowhere to be found. Maeko had moved to Los Angeles with the dreams of becoming an actress, so I was hoping her absence meant she was at another audition. Unfortunately, with her Japanese-American heritage and the lack of diversity in Hollywood’s starring roles, she’d yet to land more than a small part, but she wasn’t giving up. Griffin and I wouldn’t let her.
“Back so soon?” Griff quipped. Her green gaze was assessing as she watched me instead of the show playing on TV. “Why am I not surprised?” She then wrinkled her button nose at my sister’s dress. It really was hideous. “What are you wearing?”
I paused, debating telling Griffin about my new gig before deciding against it—at least for now. Griffin, who worked part-time as a paralegal while studying law, was a bloodhound for secrets. It was nearly impossible to keep anything from her. However, the biggest reason was that my blooming music career rested on my surviving a world tour with three egomaniacs. Carl Cole’s words replayed in my head as if on cue.
“Learn the words, survive the tour, and then we’ll talk. In the meantime, sign this.”
The paper he’d shoved at me had been a short-term contract that lasted until the end of the tour. It basically ensured that I couldn’t quit for any reason without serious financial repercussions.
Translation: He’d sue the fuck out of me.
I still wondered how the agreement could be considered short-term since standard recording contracts only lasted a year. Even I knew that it was career suicide to sign with a label for longer than twelve months at a time. There could be differences in vision between the label and artist too vast to overcome, a lack of funding and influence causing stagnant careers, or corrupt labels who demanded too much and gave almost nothing in return.
“You’re not surprised because you know me well,” I answered my friend.
“That I do. So what happened with your folks?” she asked, referring to my impromptu trip home. It was maybe my third in the four years since I left home.
“Rosalie’s dating an atheist,” I blurted unceremoniously.
Griffin winced before shaking her head. “Poor baby sis.”
“Indeed.”
I shuffled into the living room barely large enough to fit our second-hand coffee table, armchair, and dilapidated couch. The furniture was a little masculine, but none of us minded since we were too poor to be picky, and we’d taken it off a neighbor’s hands for free. His asking price had been two hundred dollars, but Griff worked her magic. Men had a tough time saying no to her, which was ironic since they weren’t her type.
My bones ached from unknown exertion as I flopped next to Griffin on the couch. I then settled onto my side before laying my head in her lap. Staring at the TV but not watching whatever was playing, I replayed the meeting with Bound and Savant Records over and over in my head.