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I want the fucker to quit.
We’ve never hit it off. If it hadn’t been for the studio putting us in a band together under contract, there would be no way I would work with this guy. He’s a condescending asshole who thinks he’s so smart. I would quit myself, except the pay is exceptional and music is the one thing in my life that I’m still very passionate about. Music is the one thing I know I’m damn good at. Besides, I’m not really qualified to do much of anything else. These days it seems like you need a college degree to land a good job, and since I don’t have one of those, I’m smart enough to stay p
ut and put up with Ace’s bullshit. I mean, there’s always at least one person that you hate at any job, right?
Ace pinches the bridge of his nose and tips his head down, causing his long bronze hair to fall like a curtain around his face. It’s like he has to take a second to calm down before addressing me. We’ve known each other a little over two years, but in that time I’ve learned that, like me, Ace is a hothead, and the two of us together don’t mesh well.
When Ace’s gaze shifts back to me, he runs his hand over his face and smooths down his long beard. “Look, I know I can be a little overbearing when it comes to music, but I just want it to be perfect. I don’t mean to be a complete dick when I call things out like that. I just get so passionate that I can’t contain myself. I know you’re good. Anyone can see that, so I’ll try to back off a bit.”
I raise my eyebrows. While that’s not exactly an apology, it’s the closest thing I’ve ever gotten from him, and the last thing I ever expected.
Apologies aren’t easy. God, I know that more than anyone, because there are people in my life who deserve one from me who’ve never gotten it and probably never will. I mean, how can you possibly say sorry for ruining someone’s life?
My mind instantly drifts off to the last time I saw London and the things I said to her. So many times I’ve wanted to pick up the phone just to hear her voice and beg her to forgive me, but I know it’s too late now. Too much time has passed between us, and I’m sure she’s moved on by now. London is one piece of my past I have to continue locking away. It hurts me too much to think about her.
I clear my throat. “Whatever, man. I’ll play it again as long as you go back to the booth. I don’t want you in here breathing down my neck.”
Ace holds up his hands and nods. “Fair enough.”
Without any additional argument, he turns around and heads back into the sound booth. When I’m alone again in the room, the producer gives me the go sign to start from the top of the song. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and allow my fingers to find the chords. This time I make it all the way through without one interruption, and I don’t mean to brag, but it was damn near perfect.
“That sounded great, JJ. You’re wrapped,” the producer says into my headphones and then gives me a thumbs-up when my eyes flick in his direction.
Instantly I pull the headphones off and toss them aside before I unplug my guitar and place it back inside the case. Just as I snap the last latch closed and stand, the door to the recording booth opens.
Jane Ann, the band’s tour manager, stands there in the doorway, wearing one of her signature all-red outfits that match her flaming hair perfectly. Her arms are folded tightly against her chest, and there’s a hideous scowl on her face, pointed in my direction.
Fuck. She’s pissed, and I can probably guess what this is all about.
My shoulders sag. Not this shit again. I’m so not in the mood. “What?”
She arches one of her perfectly plucked red eyebrows at me. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know you better than that, JJ. You are too smart to not know why I’m pissed right now.”
I roll my eyes as I push past her with my guitar case in hand. I’m not doing this in here with an audience on the other side of that glass—I’m sick of having this conversation, period.
Jane Ann doesn’t take the hint, because she’s hot on my heels as I make my way out of the studio and down the hallway. “JJ!”
The way she calls my stage name makes me cringe, and I wish that I could reply with a big “fuck off.” I hate that this woman has so much power over me—and the band, for that matter—but the reality of the situation is this woman is my boss.
“Why do you have to defend him, Jane Ann?” I call over my shoulder to her as I keep walking. “He’s not that fucking great.”
I finally come to the exit and spot the beat-up, blue F-250 pickup truck that’s belonged to me since college and keep trudging toward it.
Jane Ann doesn’t take the hint, though, because she remains right on my heels through the parking lot. The woman is relentless.
“Not that great? You are joking, right? Ace White is the entire reason Wicked White has had the level of success it’s achieved on the first record.” There’s a bit of a growl in her voice. I can tell that she doesn’t like that I’ve just insulted her so-called top musical find.
I release a sarcastic laugh. “That’s fucking rich. Have you forgotten that it takes all four of us to make this band happen? Without Tyler, Luke, and me, there would be no Wicked White. Ace is just the face you all chose to promote.”
I unlock the truck and jerk open the driver’s-side door. If I didn’t love my guitar, I’d be tempted to throw it inside versus sliding it gently behind the seat.
“We’re not on this again, are we?” The annoyance in her voice is unmistakable as she refers to the one thing she knows I deserve.
I spin around. “You’re damn straight we are. I don’t know why it’s so hard to give me the opportunity that you promised me when I signed my contract. It was supposed to be me singing on those tracks. I’m not just some guitarist—”
She narrows her eyes and cuts me off. “That’s exactly what you are. I found you playing in some dive with a band that was going nowhere. When I offered you a spot in the band that Mopar Records was building, you were eager to sign my deal because you knew you’d never get this far on your own.”
“I would’ve—”
