Maddox gestures for us to sit on the couch across from him. He never uses the damn desk. Just sits in the corner like a king in his den. I wonder again how five grown men share this space.
“How’s everything been, Jag?” he asks, sitting on a sofa, gesturing for Poppy and me to sit.
I swear the desk is for decoration. I’ve never seen any of them behind it.
And who the hell shares an office with four guys?
For a second, I consider the generic answer, but it’s time to be honest with people. “It’s been hard, Maddox. Exhausting and hard.”
He chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, I know. It’s an odd question, don’t you think? But propriety. The fact is withdrawal is a bitch. Cravings are a bastard. Therapy is the cunt cousin of withdrawal. And AA…that little motherfucker lives to make your life hell.”
“Yeah,” I laugh, combing my fingers through my hair. “All of that.”
“But it’s necessary to get…to get through the day. Then through the next. Hang in there, yeah?”
“That’s the plan.” I shift in my seat, then shift again when I realize he’s watching me.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll put you out of your misery. Jagger, I’m relieving you of your duties.”
My stomach drops. Bile races up my throat. But my anger is faster. I fight to swallow it down. Focus on Poppy’s hand in mine. On her thumb, stroking back and forth. It soothes the flames, but it doesn’t extinguish them. “And you needed me to come across town to tell me that,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’ve known me for how long?” He shakes his head. “You should definitely know me better than that.”
“Then what? You just told me I’m fired. What else could you possibly have to say?”
“I never said fired.”
“Stop splitting hairs, Maddox. That’s literally what relieving someone of their duties means.”
“Okay, fine.” He laughs, taking too much pleasure from my misery. “You’re not fired, though. For now, someone else will handle your regular job because in two weeks, I need you in the studio.”
If I thought hearing I’m fired made me nauseous, it’s nothing compared to what I feel now. My stomach twists and knots like I’m in a dinghy in the middle of the Atlantic. “Why would you need me in the studio?”
His head tilts. An amused brow lifts. “Now, who’s playing games?”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, I know what you told me. I chose not to listen. If my wife can get in there and record, get on stage, no matter how infrequently, then you can too. I’ve always said I’m not in the habit of watching people waste their talent. Do you think I wanted this place to sell albums or to create good music? Because the two don’t always go hand in hand.”
“The songs aren’t that good, Maddox. You’re letting our friendship make you biased.”
His blue eyes narrow, and his left eye twitches. I’ve struck a nerve. “No. I’m not biased, Jagger. But you’re still letting Maxwell in your head. Time to get him out. You’ll record the songs, not Maverick. In six weeks, we’ll begin dropping singles. By concert season, you’ll be on tour with Lily, Maverick, and Mercury Rising.”
“I can’t do that. I have Noah, remember?”
“And I have a shit ton of baby ready buses and a list of nannies on speed dial. It’s either this or I will fire you because I’m not watching you give up something you clearly want because your douchebag daddy fucked with your head.” He leans forward, looking me right in the eyes. “And you do want it, Jagger. Stop being afraid and grab it.”
“He’s right, Jagger. I don’t know much about music, but I do know you are talented. I also know how much you love it.”
“That brings me to you.” He turns his attention to Poppy.
My brows leap, and so do hers. “Me?” she squeaks. “I’m just here for moral support.”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“That I told him to bring you.”
