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Fuck, I’m screwed.
I can feel Cannon glowering at me but I refuse to look at him.
There’s nothing I can do or say here in front of Hayes to not incriminate myself. Cannon’s disapproval rolls off him in waves, and I feel like screaming at himI know I fucked up… but I’d be lying. Last night with Mia, I wouldn’t take it back for anything.
A half-hour later Rush stumbles in, his hair damp, with a fresh set of clothes.
I try not to laugh, but it’s clear we ended up in the exact same situation.
“What’d I miss?” he asks, trying to play off his lateness with humor.
Once more Hayes swivels in the chair, having already told Fox to pause for the moment. Hayes flicks his eyes from Rush in the doorway to me on the couch and back again.
“I want to make something very clear to the two of you—if this happens again, ifanyof you step a fuckingtoeout of line, you won’t like the consequences. I’m an easy-going guy for the most part, but you don’t want to piss me off, I promise you that.” He makes eye contact with each of us then, even Fox in the booth. “I won’t lie and say I didn’t screw up and screw around too. I goofed off, sure.” He shrugs. “But believe me when I say, those are the things you look back and regret. Yeah, it makes for interesting stories, but it’s stories to other people andyourmemories. You have to live with the shit you do, no one else. Think before you act.”
“Yes, sir,” we all mutter.
“Now, can we get back to work?” he asks with a raised brow.
He phrases it as a question, but we all know it’s not.
We nod and he swivels back to face the glass, motioning for Fox to start again.
Cannon mutters under his breath, “I’m going to kill you two.”
I eye him, and I’ll never voice it out loud but with those huge bodybuilder muscles, he could probably crush us both with his pinky finger in a single second.
An hour later Fox is done. He clasps his electric guitar and bends, picking something up from the floor before he exits.
He opens the door, squinting at the wrinkled paper in his hands.
I stare at it, the blood draining from my face.
My song!
“This is fucking good,” Fox remarks.
“What is it?” Hayes asks and Fox, fucking Fox, hands it over to him before I can protest.
Hayes reads over the lyrics, and I can’t interpret his expression in the reflection of the glass to gauge whether he thinks it’s good or terrible.
“Huh,” he says, after he’s read it through twice, “you write this? It’s … really good.”
He’s not looking at me, but Cannon, who writes most of our songs. Cannon holds his hand out for it and reads it quickly.
“Not mine, but…” He pauses, looking at me, having recognized my handwriting.
“It’s mine,” I confess, raising my hand slowly like a kid in school.
All their eyes turn to me and I want to shrivel into a ball and roll away, but fuck if I’m doing that.
Hayes gives me a nod of acknowledgement, surprise in his eyes. “This just might be your song.”
We all know he doesn’t meanmysong, butoursong, the song that everyone will know is The Wild. The song that will live and thrive even when we’re all dead and gone.
“Wow,” I breathe.
Cannon pats his hand down on my shoulder, the only praise I’ll get from him.
