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Or was that his master plan?
Out of sight, out of mind.
My stomach churns and turns sours, a wave of stress-induced nausea washing over me. I take a small step backward, still staring at the screen with wide eyes.
I don’t understand.
There must have been meetings and discussions, numerous fucking discussions about this, and apparently I wasn’t part of any of those meetings or discussions. Decisions are made by committee in the music industry, and yet here I am finding out about Cold Neptune going on a European tour for the first time by way of some cheesy morning TV show and a reporter who looks like she’s just about ready to jump Reed’s bones on sight.
Dr. Copeland studies the side of my face with an intensity that’s impossible to ignore. I can feel his eyes boring into my head, gauging my reaction as he waits for some kind of response from me.
But I’m coming up blank. Dumbstruck.
The brunette asks Reed what’s coming up next for the band, and he smiles his famous crooked smile at her. He’s such a fucking slut. He’s probably already screwed her seven different ways to Sunday and knows every orifice of her body in an intimate fashion.
That’s our Reed.
But then, wait, maybe that’s changed as well? Because if Reed got his way with that Brinley chick, and chances are he did, then I’m guessing he’s in some kind of a relationship with her by now, and therefore maybe he’s not fucking around anymore. Another thing I’m totally in the dark about.
“We’re actually working on some new sounds at the moment,” Reed says, running his tongue over his lip ring, making it catch in the bright overhead lights of the studio. “There are a couple of singles almost ready for release.”
Singles?What?
“Can we expect a new album anytime soon?” the woman asks, leaning in a fraction closer.
Quinn elbows Reed playfully in the side. “Hopefully a new album won’t be too far off, if pretty boy here gets his head out of the clouds and actually gets back to writing us some hit songs.”
They all laugh, and Reed punches Quinn’s shoulder like he’s a lost cause. But I know who the lost cause is. There is no point in denying it. My laughter is brittle as I turn to look at Dr. Copeland. “What is this shit?”
“I’m not sure, Kael.”
“Nick never mentioned anything about a new album. And a European tour? What the ever-loving fuck is all that about? Did he mention any of this to you?”
“No.”
“Why wasn’t I included in any of these band discussions? I know I’ve been locked up in here, I’m not an idiot, but surely they could have made time to come and visit with me. Have me sign stuff, or at least contribute to some of the bigger decisions. Gone over things with the rest of them. They’re moving on without me.”
“No, I don’t—”
“You’ve got eyes, Doc,” I suddenly roar, making heads turn all around the room. I throw my hands out in front of me, pointing at the television screen. “It says so right there. Cold Neptune playing live in five minutes. How are they performing live on national television without a bass player?”
I look back at the screen again and listen as Jaxon answers the next question, the camera closing in tight on his face.
“Yeah, Kael’s having some well-deserved time off. He’s taking a break. God knows where he is, probably sunbathing on a tropical beach somewhere, sipping on cocktails while he works on his tan. Lazy bastard.”
More laughter ensues, the interviewer throwing her head back like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard.It’s not that fucking funny.
“A vacation?” I cut in, aggravation creasing my forehead. “Does this place feel like a vacation to you, Doc?”
“Not in the slightest,” he replies dryly.
“They’re replacing me,” I deadpan, still staring at the screen with eyes so wide I can feel them getting dry. I blink, twice in quick succession. “I don’t believe this.”
“I could arrange a visit with the band, if you like? I can contact Nick and organize for the guys to come in. I think it’d be a good idea.”
There’s a loud scream, cheering and clapping, and my attention is immediately snapped back to the television screen where I see Reed taking his place on the small stage that’s been set up to the left of the host’s desk.
There’s a swarm of fans behind the glass window that separates the studio from the bustling New York street beyond, and they’re all holding up handmade signs with love in their eyes and lust in their makeup-speckled faces.
