“Bullshit.”
“Gesundheit.”
“Cut the shit, Jagger. I want to know why. Because from where I’m standing, you have far more talent and skill than I ever had. A better ear for music, too.”
I use the glass as a cover to give me a moment to school my features. To slow my erratic heartbeat and breathe through the anger that’s building in my chest. “I don’t hide.Youare the one who wants to pitch this. I know they won’t like it because it’s not good enough.”
“Bullshit.”
“Are you set on repeat or just glitching today? Because what the fuck, dude? Trust me, I know who and what will sell. It’s my job, remember? This isn’t it, and neither am I.”
“If you believe that, why are you working on fucking songs?”
I smirk. It’s fake. I feel anything but arrogant or humorous. But I need to deflect. “I’m not writing anything. You are.” I toss in a wink for good measure.
My teeth clatter together when it’s obvious he’s still not letting this go. “Jagger, I only know one other person with an ear and talent like yours. He’d kick your ass if he knew you were throwing this away.”
My fists clench at my sides as I try hard to bite back my anger. There’s always someone with as much or more talent than the person at the top. It’s part of the line. But I’m not the one. “Maverick, you’re wrong.”
“If I’m wrong, then why does it matter if they know you wrote—”
“Goddammit, Maverick.” The glass in my hand flies across the room, zipping past his head and landing with an anticlimactic shatter on the floor. “Just fucking drop it. I said I’m not good enough. Trust that I have reasons for knowing that. Okay?” My hands won’t stop shaking, and I hate how good it feels to break something.
His tongue tucks behind his teeth, making an annoyed sound. His head shifts from side to side as he pushes away from the island. “Got it.”
But I wonder if he does. I’ve learned the last few months that Maverick isn’t one for letting shit go, whether it’s a grudge or some sense of duty. It’s annoying as fuck.
He starts to walk away. With each step, the tension in my muscles eases. Not by much, but enough that it doesn’t feel like tendons will snap at any moment. He doesn’t make it through the foyer to the door before he turns around. “Look, Jag. I know you’re a private person and a little secretive.” I want to roll my eyes because I’m not secretive. I’m just not a sharer. There is a difference. One implies I want to keep shit from people. The other means I don’t divulge my business. But I keep my snide comments to myself. “We all have parts of ourselves we keep private, but if you didn’t want someone to hear the songs—think they were worth showing—you wouldn’t have offered them to me. Or offered to write more.”
He’s wrong. The reason I agreed was to prove that to him when he wouldn’t shut up about taking it to Liam, my boss and stepsister’s dad. When I don’t say anything, he sighs. “Fine. Tell Thad I won’t make it tonight. I’m flying out in the morning to check on my sister. I’ll be back by Friday morning.”
I nod, still too wound up to speak without saying something I shouldn’t—refusing to let my anger and emotions control me. It’s why I haven’t moved from the kitchen despite there being broken glass across the floor.
When I hear the door click, my hands lift, and I press my thumbs into my eyes. The dark thoughts in my head swirl, my distraction long gone. All the negativity and anger. So much guilt and rage. It winds and weaves around my chest and my mind.
There are things about me no one knows, and even though nothing is a secret, it is all my burden and my problem. Why I won’t share my music…Why I know it’s not good enough is one of those. Do I love it? More than anything. There was a time when I thought I would play my own songs for millions, but I figured out quickly that I wasn’t and would never be good enough.
I continued writing formyself.
Then my meddling friend asked to borrow my computer one day and clicked a file he had no reason to click. Needless to say, he liked what he heard, and now I’m dealing with him pestering me like he’s my wife or something.
My fingers rip through my hair, tugging hard at the strands until pain pierces my scalp. Eyes closed, I force myself to breathe in, long and slow, for several seconds until I have no choice but to exhale. When I open my eyes, they land on my phone resting on the island. A message flashes, making my teeth grit as the urge to toss the device into the garbage disposal eats at me.
I need more than mental noise right now. I need todrown. To be numbed and consumed by anything else but the shit in mylife. And she can’t offer more than that.
I clear the few feet in less than a second. Pressing the button on the side, my generic wallpaper of some abstract bullshit appears. My thumb presses into the fingerprint reader, and I’m quickly tapping out a text. I set the phone down and lean against the counter, drumming my fingers against the granite as I chew my thumbnail, waiting impatiently for a reply. A few minutes later, I get a response to be atSlippery, a club on the East Side, in an hour.
I check the time, grab my jacket and keys, and head for the door as I shoot off a text to Thad.
Me: Change of plans. Slippery in an hour.
Thad: *thumbs up emoji*
Jagger
Moonlight streams in soft beams through my bedroom window, creating shadows and shapes on my walls and ceiling. I lay awake watching the silhouette of the overgrown oleander dance and sway, trying hard to keep the tears at bay. I’m ten years old. Too old to cry.
A soft tapping sounds at my door as if they’re asking permission to come in. No one ever asks my permission for anything, and Dad doesn’t allow us to lock our doors. Even Graham can’t lock his, and he’s fifteen. When he tried a few weeks ago, Dad removed his entire door.
