He was a good guy, mid-forties, three kids he adored, a wife he adored more. Not many people had that kind of integrity in this industry.
Hell, not many people had that kind of integrity at all.
“I’m not asking you to. You think I don’t know why you did it?” he asked, his voice coated with empathy, and I knew in my gut the guy completely understood. He tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes to prove a point. “But do you really want to broadcast that to the rest of the world?”
I attempted to swallow around the lump wedged at the base of my throat. “No.”
He pushed off the island and began to pace, his dress shoes echoing on the marble floor. “You know I’ll do everything in my power to put enough pressure on this guy to drop the charges, but in the meantime, you guys need to take advantage of the quiet. Write some music…do some recording. That’s why you’re here. You don’t have to think of it as any other reason.”
Looking to the high ceiling, I rubbed under my jaw, trying to keep my shit together. Right. Like this was just some kind of awesome retreat. Like we weren’t here hiding away at Anthony’s seaside mansion when we were supposed to be on our way to France for the start of our European tour.
Scheduling conflicts.
That’s what we’d tweeted to the world to announce the cancellation.
And our fans were pissed.
No, we weren’t the biggest band in the world. Our style was too dark and gritty and loud for the mainstream airways, but we had a huge-ass following, our shows selling out city after city, our songs downloaded at a rate that blew my mind.
We played and people listened.
But now even that was being threatened.
When I got slapped with assault charges and they yanked the tour sponsorship, Anthony had convinced us to come here. The bottom floor had a state-of-the-art recording studio, plus Anthony figured the place was so secluded and we were so far away from L.A., there was little chance of anyone recognizing us.
The rest of the guys knew why we were here.
Austin didn’t.
The last thing he needed was another cross to bear.
Anthony pulled on his suit jacket, straightened his tie. “All of you just need to lie low for the next few weeks. Fitzgerald doesn’t want you anywhere in the public eye. Not until Mylton Records decides if they’re going to pull the label or not.”
“Thought they ate up the punked-out drama.” It was all a sneer.
It was good for image. That’s what that greedy bastard Fitzgerald had said when he signed us, practically salivating at the mouth when he found out I had a record about ten miles long, and not the music kind.
Anthony curled up his own sarcastic grin. “Oh, you know how the saying goes, Baz…it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. You start beating on industry execs and the industry is going to take note.”
Yeah, and I’d do it again. Without hesitation. I’d always protect my own just like I always had. Scum like Jennings didn’t deserve their next breath.
“You know this band has taken on a lot of heat, Baz. First your father, then Mark, and now this.”
I tried not to flinch with the impact of hearing Mark’s name, but it was there, like a bolt of fiery lightning. I ground my teeth against the pain. Couldn’t even begin to go there. Not yet.
It was too raw.
Too fucking raw.
After Julian, I knew that kind of wound didn’t heal.
On an exhale, Anthony set an almost pleading expression on his face, like he knew whatever he was getting ready to say was going to be met with resistance. “Just do what I ask for once, Baz. Stay here and pretend like this is exactly where you want to be.”
This was the last place I wanted to be.