Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103008 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
“So take a step back.”
“I can’t take a break. I’m supposed to be recording in a few weeks, and I’ve got nothing.”
“You can’t force it.”
“I have to. The label is under the impression I’ve got my shit together.”
“Why would they think that?”
He grunts. “If the people who own you ask how your new songs are coming along, you tell them ‘great’ and hope they believe you even if you haven’t started writing any.”
“Why can’t you tell them you need time off?”
Harley’s eyes narrow. “Time … off? Do those two words even go together in the English language?”
“When was the last time you had a vacation?”
“I get to explore the cities I tour in for a day or two.”
“That’s not a vacation,” I point out.
“The other Eleven boys and I spent a week in Barbados once.”
“When was that?”
“Like …” Harley does the math. “Eight years ago.” He slumps in defeat. “Okay, fine, you have a point. But more albums mean more money, and more money means the label is happy and keeps wanting to produce more of my music.”
“You’ve been in this loop for almost a decade.”
“And?”
“Why do you keep doing it and burning yourself out?”
“I’m not burned out. I need to prove myself. I need to—”
“I’m staring at two Grammys.” I point to the display case along the wall of the sitting room. “There’re also countless People’s Choice Awards, Teen Choice Awards, MTV Video Music Awards—”
“I’m not where I want to be yet. I need …” His face scrunches, and I begin to think he has no clue what he needs. “I need more.”
“Want to know what I think?”
“I don’t pay you for your opinions, so no.”
“Well, you don’t pay me to keep my mouth shut either, so you’re getting it anyway. I think you’re a workaholic.”
Harley starts a slow clap. “Wow. You could get a PhD in psychology with that type of power of observation.”
“I’ve seen what burnout does to a person, and while this might be a stretch of my job title, it’s my duty to protect you. Even if it’s from yourself. You should go out tonight.”
“I’m going out tomorrow night for Evah’s thing.”
“Is two nights in a row illegal?”
“No, but where would we even go? You learned last week I get recognized everywhere.”
That’s true. But I can’t sit here another minute and watch him struggle to write. It’s getting to me. I don’t like seeing him frustrated, and that’s not part of the job description.
The burnout thing is true. I witnessed it more times than I could count in the military, but while I can feign professional concern on the outside, something niggles in my subconscious, telling me it’s more than that.
Intrigue maybe. To know if the rumors are true.
“You don’t have Hollywood connections who can get you into a party? Maybe a club.” It would be harder to protect him at a club, but I have no doubt I could handle it.
“Going out is always a logistical nightmare. Paparazzi, fans, VIP areas … it’s all noise and chaos. We did that scene when we were younger, but now it makes me cringe.”
“What about a friend’s place?”
“The only friends I have are probably the guys, and we’ve lost touch since we split ways and went solo.”
“So get back in touch with one of them.”
Harley contemplates it and then pulls his phone out. “The only two who might be available are Denver and Blake. Ryder has his kid full-time, and Mason fell off the face of the planet about six months ago. Supposedly went back to Montana.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere Blake is on location shooting some action film?”
Harley’s gray-blue eyes narrow at me. “You read?”
“Yes. Muscle man read good.”
“No, I mean … you read tabloid and entertainment news?”
Oh, shit. “Uh, I might have this past week or so.”
“How much have you read?” Hard to miss the accusation in that.
“Why? What don’t you want me to find out?”
Harley stands. “You just can’t believe everything you read is all. Especially online.” He goes to storm out of the room, but I call after him.
“Where are you going?”
“To call Denver and get dressed. We’ll go hang with him for a while.”
I didn’t pry much out of him, but I did get him to take a break from writing. That’s more important.
Denver’s Malibu home sits on a street that is filled with cars.
Harley groans. “When he said he’d invite a few people over, this is not what I was expecting.”
“I guess your definition of a few differs from his?”
“Clearly. I … I don’t know if I can go in there.” He plays with the collar of his button down. He looks amazing in royal blue.
Not what you should be focused on, Brix.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I haven’t publicly dealt with the break-in situation yet. Everyone is going to ask.”
“Tell them you can’t legally speak about it, which is technically true.”