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PROLOGUE
VAN
FOUR YEARS AGO
My office. Now.
Nothing like starting off the first day of a new job with a text like that from your boss.
Not that it was entirely unexpected. It had been a crazy-ass week.
Seven days ago, I turned forty.
Forty.
Four decades of my life had passed. Don’t ask me how the fuck that happened. One day, I was thirty and looking at forever, then I blinked, and here I was.
Then, five days ago, the woman I’d been casually seeing for the past three weeks dumped me. She said she was sick of my “total lack of commitment.” We’d only gone out, like, two or three times; what the hell did she mean by that?
Whatever.
I didn’t have the bandwidth to date or to give my social life any thought. The fact that I couldn’t remember her last name was a sure sign that the relationship - if you could even call it that - was going nowhere.
Finally, two days ago, my week turned around. In the very best way.
I’d gotten a job offer to work for Bandit Music, the biggest label in the country.
Almost two decades of being on the road, managing bands, and scheduling tours had all led up to this. Now, I was getting the chance to manage not just any band but one that had recently signed with the label.
According to my boss and Bandit CEO, Greg Haddley, Wayward Lane was the next hot thing.
Greg had a proven track record of finding and developing top-selling artists, so I was excited as fuck, to say the least.
And I wasn’t going to let anything distract me from this opportunity—not a milestone birthday, and certainly not the loss of a potential relationship that was over before it had even begun.
Picking up my work cell, I texted Greg a quick “I’m heading up now” response and took the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor.
When the doors opened, Greg’s assistant motioned me to enter his office.
The space was big and bright, with panoramic views of Nashville.
I was envious. His office was larger than my entire one-bedroom condo.
But it wasn’t just Greg in the room waiting for me.
There was a group of guys sitting across from him who looked to be in their early twenties, wearing wide-legged jeans, rumpled t-shirts, and scuffed doc martens. They all had long hair—with one exception—and copious tattoos and piercings among them.
I could smell their cocky attitude even from this distance.
Then I remembered the demo tape and the lead singer in particular. He had a stellar voice and a memorable face.
These were the guys I’d be working with, the band called Wayward Lane. Their blend of punk, rock, and soul had garnered a lot of attention from various labels, and between their sound and their look, it was no wonder.
Greg stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and motioned for me to come in.
“Ivan, I want you to meet Wayward Lane: Brodie James, lead vocals; Iain Holloway, guitar; Faisel Reed, drums; and Ronin Stadler, bass. Guys, this is Ivan Cross. He’s been assigned as your manager and will take good care of you from here on out.”
The singer stood up first, the guy with the shaved head, and held out his hand.
