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)
“Nah, that’s not it. You need a good fuck. Like, mind-blowing, phenomenal fuck.”
I guarantee that is definitely not my problem. “I’m all good on that front. Thanks.” More than good. So damn good it’s the only time in the last few days when I haven’t been thinking about the label heads deciding my fate.
Brix takes me away from all that. And not just with sex but by just being him.
He makes me step back and look at the broader picture. The label can take my career, but they can’t take music away from me.
Music has always been my escape from reality. It’s habit. It’s safety.
Now I’ve found another type of safe in warm arms and a kind soul.
When the label does finally get back to me, no matter the outcome, the thought of having Brix there makes the stress and anxiety over their decision lessen.
I’ve given them empty threats before. I’ve refused to go onstage until I got my way and thrown diva fits. But I’ve never demanded something this big. I haven’t had the courage.
I’ve always known my limits and what I can and cannot push.
Artistic control is not something many musicians get. Which is ridiculous if you think about it. The artist gets no say over their own work.
“Where are you getting phenomenal sex since your fiancée moved out?” Iris asks.
“My hand. Hey, do you know what Brix does on his days off? It’s driving me nuts.” Mainly because I want him home, but also, subject change for the win!
“I might happen to know …”
I cock an eyebrow in his direction.
He hesitates, then slumps. “Okay, no, he doesn’t tell any of us anything. Getting deets on his personal life is like torturing someone who’s already dead.”
“Huh?”
“There’s no point in trying. He won’t tell you anything.”
I narrow my eyes. “You say he won’t tell you anything, but I kind of get the feeling you know more than you’re letting on.”
Iris jumps out of his seat. “Oh, I forgot. I brought you a present.”
Now who’s changing the subject?
“A present?” I call after his retreating ass. He keeps walking.
I check my phone while he’s gone, hoping to see something from Brix, an update on when he might be home, but there’s nothing.
It does freakishly start ringing in my hand, though. It’s still not Brix.
I answer. “Hey, Ryder.”
“Is it true you told the label to go f—fudge themselves?”
I chuckle. “Is the kid in hearing range?”
“Sure is, and she’s picking up on everything Daddy says.”
And this is why I don’t want kids.
Ever.
“But is it true?” Ryder asks.
“Not entirely. I didn’t use those words, but I did threaten to walk if they don’t let me record the songs I want. How did you find out?”
Ryder whistles. “I never thought I’d see the day … Harley Valentine grew some balls.”
I laugh. “Fuck you. Oh, shit, am I on speaker? Hi, Kaylee, little darling.”
“I’m not dumb enough to put you on speaker around my daughter.”
“Smart man. But seriously, if the rumor mill is already turning—”
“I’ve started producing for some artists on the label.”
“No shit? You’re producing now? What happened to stepping away?”
He sighs through the phone. “I didn’t want to step away completely. I just wanted out of the spotlight.”
Even though he hasn’t gone solo and hasn’t done anything but be a stay-at-home dad since Eleven broke up, he’s still stalked by paparazzi, almost as much as I am. He’s probably the only one of us five who doesn’t have to put any effort into being famous. He could come out as a bisexual unicorn and everyone would be all, “Oh, we have to buy every single he puts out!”
Or perhaps it’s the mystery of why he wants to disappear into the background. It’s not rocket science. He’s doing it for his daughter.
“How’s fading away working out for you?”
“Yeah, great. Did you see they printed Kaylee’s picture in Us Weekly? Or was it Who? I don’t know. Either way, it pissed me off.”
Ryder is slightly overprotective of his four-year-old, but I get it. We signed up for the fame, his kid didn’t. She doesn’t deserve to grow up in the limelight.
Iris reappears in front of me and holds up a … cigarette?
“Hey, Ry? I have to go. But please can you produce one of my songs?”
“Maybe I could do your whole next album after Joystar drops your ass-umptions.”
“Drops my ass-umptions? Thanks so much for cheering me up over this. No, really, it’s like you’re hugging me through the phone.”
“What are friends for?”
I laugh. “Later.”
We end the call, and I glance up at Iris, who’s hovering next to my chair. “Figured you could get high while you think about your future unemployment.”
“Thank … you?”
“You’re welcome.” He’s too upbeat, either ignoring my sarcasm or missing it completely. He passes me the joint.
“And I’m supposed to smoke this? What if I have a bad reaction?”