Rubbing at the pair of wings inked on my left wrist, I sigh, readjusting the guitar in my lap. “Did the label listen to the demos I sent?”
“They did. Two of the three tracks were approved, but they think the last one is a little dark.” My father cocks an eyebrow. “Even for you.”
“We branded my entire act around grit. Now they don’t like it?”
“It’s not that, it’s just… very niche. Harder to market. I think they want to make some tweaks, is all.”
My fingers tighten on a tuner, and I frown. “I’m not interested in reworking the song.”
“Aiden, be reasonable—”
“Complete creative control is written into my contract.”
“Yes.” Sitting back, he smooths a hand over his red tie and pushes his reading glasses higher up his nose. “And so is the clause about Symposium having final say on what gets put out.”
Violence swims through my veins, but I bite my tongue, not in the mood to negotiate. Besides, when my father’s made up his mind about something, there’s very little that can be done to change it.
One of the only reasons he’s still on my side through all of this.
While that should be a comfort, I can’t help wondering if the tepid support is worth everything I’ve given up in exchange.
We end the meeting, and I evade his attempts at getting me to promise to review the lyrics. I haven’t been able to write anything in years, and the first time I do, the product is met with criticism.
Too dark, my ass.
As if damn near everything I’ve ever written isn’t a thinly veiled call for help, backed by catchy hooks and upbeat pop music.
But people will believe anything they’re told, as long as it fits the narrative they have of you in their mind.
For the people who just want to enjoy my music, or my celebrity, I guess the lyrics don’t really matter.
They see exactly what my PR team wants them to.
Walking into the kitchen, I place one palm on the countertop and run the other down the side of my face.
Massaging the ache flaring up behind my brow bone, I look around the thirteen-hundred square foot cabin; it really isn’t anything fancy, with its worn hardwood floors and the floral wallpaper in every room, but it was the only one available in town.
Its proximity to Riley was just a bonus.
Now that I’ve inhabited it for longer than twenty-four hours, it’s beginning to show signs of Aiden James wear and tear; the floors and drawers are littered with peppermints, discarded clothing, and every scrap of paper with a lyric or musical notation I’ve written down over the last few days.
Candy wrappers, Post-it notes, a worn copy of Metamorphoses that I found in the upstairs bedroom and ripped the pages from. Whatever I can get my hands on when the muse speaks.
The faster I get it written, the easier it is to pretend my muse doesn’t have any relation to her.
Grabbing the bottle of Jameson from one of the glass cabinets, I pour a finger into a glass and walk to the window, studying the cabin across the lake.
Snow blankets the ground and clings to tree branches, effectively smothering the outside world in its brightness. It sparkles as I cast my gaze over it, tracking up the pine log siding to the massive windows that face mine.
The sun is setting, the sky getting darker by the minute, but her lights are still off, and I can’t help wondering where the fuck she is. If not for the meeting with my father, I’d have been tailing her all day, but part of the deal in what I’m here to do is that I have regular check-ins.
Because careers don’t wait for revenge, and neither does my father.
Finally, a yellow glow emanates from the front porch, and I sip my drink, my cock hardening just at the thought of her. I’m expecting a cab to pull into her elevated drive, but instead I see a Jeep.
My grip on the glass stiffens, my rings digging into the skin on the inside of each finger.
I watch silently.
Seething.
She gets out the passenger side, and then starts up the front walk, but not before Caleb darts around the front of the vehicle, catching her elbow. He escorts her to the door, his hand dropping to her waist, and pulls her in for a hug when they reach their destination.
Rationally, I know he probably only helped her because the driveway is slick. I know I haven’t seen her put any salt out.
Irrationality, though, is what embeds itself in my chest. It’s what incinerates all logic, razing it to the ground the second he puts his hands on her.
And she doesn’t flinch away.
As she disappears inside, her pink hair the last thing I see, I stand there for several beats, my heart beating so fast that I’m afraid it might pop free from my chest.
Caleb lingers in front of the door for a moment, and then he’s turning, glancing out at the trees that surround the cabins, and landing on me.
I don’t make a move to hide. Don’t really care if he sees me watching.
Maybe if he does, he’ll know better next time.
As volatile as Riley may be, as much as I may despise the little liar for what she’s done, I’ll be fucking damned if someone else ruins her before I can.
Or worse.
If they heal her, before my darkness can sink its talons in.
Caleb’s hand lifts, though I’m not sure he knows who he’s waving at. Probably just trying to be nice, like the little all-American boy he is.
My pulse thumps heavy between my ears, and I try not to envision his broken body lying bleeding on the snow-covered ground. Try not to think about how good it would feel to split my knuckles open on his bone, to maim him to the point that he could never touch her again.
I’ve never really been a violent man. Growing up, there was always a bodyguard or a security team around, and I never wanted to damage my hands and risk not being able to play anymore.
But right now, as bitterness coats my heart, hardening around it like a wax mold, I would love nothing more than to hurt him.
Knowing I can’t, though, as he returns to his Jeep and drives off, I slip into my shoes, pull on my coat, and head over to the person I know will put up with it.
28
I’m not sure how I can tell, but I know the second I’m no longer alone in my house.
There’s just the slightest shift in temperature, like when a window’s left open. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up first, prompting goose bumps to rise on my arms, and then my gut folds in on itself, warning me to flee.
Other than that, though, there’s no change.
No floorboards creak, no thudding ensues as they come upstairs, and no one lurks in the shadows. It’s just a feeling I have.
One second, I’m sitting at the vanity across from my bed, removing my makeup, and the next, Aiden’s standing behind me, glaring at our reflection.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stares, storms raging in his gray eyes.
The kind of storms you lose yourself in. That destroy without discretion, obliterating everything in their paths, leaving behind worthless terrain.
My hand shakes where I hold the makeup wipe to my chin, but I don’t move it, too afraid to see his reaction to my scarred skin in the daylight, with no barrier to hide behind.
He reaches up, brushing some of the pink hair from my shoulder.
“So, that’s why I didn’t notice your face before.” His fingers are rough, new calluses sprouting overtop old ones, and he drags the pads across the back of my neck. “You were hiding.”