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He gaped at me. “That’s what I’m here for. The only reason I flew in from London. We have two weeks to show them something.”
“Well, I have horses that need tending and a ranch that needs to be worked. So I don’t give a single fuck what you do with your days, but I won’t be writing until my duties are done each day.”
“This is your job. Your career.”
I sighed and glanced around the house. “And this is my family. My legacy. I’m sorry you don’t have anything as important in your life aside from being an infuriating douchebag.”
His annoyed glare told me everything I needed to know. He didn’t have a comeback for me because I was right. The guy was hot, rich, and a complete ass. The only thing redeemable about him was his ability to create music.
Besides, the last thing I was going to let him in on was the fact that I hadn’t written a new song in close to six months. I had to get my shit together, so when we really had to sit down and make something between the two of us, I wouldn’t make a fucking fool of myself.
“You can’t avoid this forever, Wilde,” he called up the stairs. “Better to rip off the plaster and get it over with.”
Was it? Maybe, but not when the wound was still raw and bleeding. He didn’t know the first thing about me. Not really. And the fact that he suggested we just get this over with proved it.
JAMESON
What the fuck was this guy’s problem? Couldn’t he see I was giving him the benefit of my years of experience in the industry here? I’d walked the same path he was on. Turned to too much alcohol in a wasted attempt to ease the pressure of being ‘Jameson Lorde.’ It hadn’t been the answer. Oblivion never solved a bloody thing.
It was well past midnight by the time I finally gave up the ghost, put my guitar away, and took myself to bed. I’d played through practically every album I’d put out, some B sides, and a few unreleased songs the label had cut in hopes of finding that spark I used to have. Desperate to catch the love of writing and creating I’d feel when those first few chords in a new progression began to flow. But nothing happened. All I felt was a deep emptiness, a hole in my chest where all the heart seemed to spill out of me.
Headlines flashed in my memory as I laid on my bed, things like ‘The Lorde has lost his flock.’
And my favorite way to torture myself, ‘Jameson Lorde’s big flop and how to save yourself from hearing it.’
“It wasn’t that bad,” I muttered, thinking about my last album, Velocity, and just how much I’d phoned in when writing it. I’d been nothing more than a mannequin with a pencil at that point. So detached from everything, I couldn’t put two notes together and make them feel like music. But I’d gone through the motions, written through burnout, forced myself to produce even though my heart wasn’t in it.
Hot garbage is what one critic called the album.
My girlfriend dropped me like yesterday’s leftovers, and the next thing I knew, it was a year later, and Jackie was on the phone, telling me I had to shit or get off the pot.
Fuck.
Here I was, shacking up with a hot new country artist who didn’t want anything to do with me. The guy couldn’t even look me in the eyes for more than a second. Although, I hadn’t really been much of a houseguest so far. But my defenses were up. I didn’t know anything about him. At the point when Jackie called me, I’d been ready to throw in the towel and be the has-been she accused me of being. I was so eager to fix this shit, I jumped at any chance.
I hadn’t anticipated being attracted to him, though. He had this broken, brooding artist thing about him. It’s a good job I’d Googled him, or I’d have been far more unprepared for the smoldering good looks I’d been greeted with.
I had to change course with Killian before we went off track too far to be saved. Not because he stirred things in me I’d not acted on in a long fucking time, but because he was going to help me save my own life. And it wasn’t a stretch to call my music career my life. Jameson Lorde was me on stage and off. I didn’t have a plan b. This was it.
I put on my noise-canceling headphones and began scrolling through every video I could find of Killian Wilde and his band Big Sky. I should have done this before now, but honestly, I’d been too numb to care. All I’d allowed myself to do was learn his history.
What I found shocked the hell out of me. This kid was pissing good. He owned the stage like he was born to be on one, sang with every cell in his body, and charmed his audience. Until about a year ago. That was when the light left his eyes, and the soul withered from his performances.
“Thank y’all for coming out tonight. I’m Killian Wilde, and this here’s my band. Rush Connors on lead guitar, Ian Grant on bass, and Atticus Price on drums. I couldn’t do any of this without them, and I’m so damn grateful to be on this ride with them. They’re gonna take a well-earned break for a few minutes while I play you a new song I just wrote. How’s that sound?”
Killian’s voice, resonant and deep with just a hint of gravel, sent tingles through me. He sat with his guitar and a simple spotlight shining on him as the band left the stage, but I didn’t miss the harsh tension in their posture, and the expressions on their faces. They weren’t happy to be excluded from this.
Then Killian began to play his guitar and fucking croon. The crowd ate it up as he sang an angsty as hell ballad, his voice frying just a little on the higher notes.
Those tingles I’d been feeling turned into full-on shivers, and my cock sat up and took notice.
But I couldn’t get involved with him, not in the way my dick wanted to. The last thing we needed was to muddy the waters with sex. Or...feelings.
I watched that video over and over until a glance at the clock on my bedside table said it was already three in the morning. Sighing, I gave up on sleep, as I so often did, and got up, padding into the bathroom to shower and get dressed in clothes I wouldn’t mind getting dirty.
I might know nothing about ranch work, but I was here to write music with Killian Wilde, and if I had to learn how to shovel shit and deal with livestock, I would. One British cowboy coming right up.
Nothing was more important than getting our first hit song written. Nothing.
