Mason ordered pizza and we took a quick break to check our phones. Disappointment kicked me in the gut that Hailey hadn’t texted or called me. Since returning to L.A., I’d received one text from her, thanking me for letting her know I’d arrived safely. All my other attempts to contact her went ignored.
Alyssa was a different matter. Now that I had returned and the media were talking about our relationship (from what I’d heard), she sent me regular texts. I’d already warned her the band and I were in hiding while we worked on the album. So other than her movie premiere tomorrow night, which the label insisted I attend with her, I wouldn’t be in contact with the outside world until the album was completed.
What she didn’t know was that Hailey was the exception. If Hailey went back to acknowledging my existence, I’d be on the phone faster than you could say foosball champion.
While my phone had been turned off, Brandon had texted me: Call me ASAP. Important.
I called him. My heart pounded something fierce, each rapid beat spreading fear through my body like poison.
He answered on the second ring. “Hailey’s fine,” he said before I could say anything, “but I figured you’d want to know that someone she works with was found murdered yesterday.”
“Who?”
“Chris Witterholm.”
I could barely breathe. I remembered chatting with him a few times. He was a good guy. Why the hell would someone want to kill him?
“The police haven’t released any details,” Brandon continued, “other than he was in Westgate when he was shot.”
My body turned to ice at his words. “Did it have anything to do with Hailey?”
“I have no idea. All I know is what I’ve told you.”
“Let me know if you hear anything else.”
“Will do.”
We ended the call, and I began typing Hailey a text: Heard about Chris. I’m sorry. Call me. I love you. Then I deleted the final three words before hitting send. Given the situation with Alyssa, those three words would only screw things up more than they already were. I didn’t want a long-distance relationship. I wanted Hailey in L.A. with me.
I contacted the detective who’d been assigned to Hailey’s case. “All I can tell you,” he said, “is that we’re looking into the possibility they’re linked.” His tone was all business, and nothing I said would convince him to reveal anything more, especially to someone who was constantly in the media spotlight.
After getting nowhere with that, I returned to the guys, who were eating the pizza as if it were their final meal, especially Mason. I grabbed a couple of slices before he could devour them all. We quickly finished up, then went back to work.
But as much as I tried to concentrate on the music and lyrics, memories of my last time with Hailey crept into my head. It didn’t help she’d been the inspiration for my songs. A bit of Hailey was in all of them. The loneliness that had kept itself at bay while I was with her returned with a vengeance.
An hour later, after I’d screwed up on my part for the tenth time, Mason exploded, “Fuck, Tyler—or Nolan, or whatever your freakin’ name is. Are you gonna get with the fucking program or not?”
Jared tensed, ready to throw himself between me and Mason if necessary. Kirk and Aaron glanced between us. Unlike Jared, I couldn’t see either of them jumping in front of the bulky drummer, any more than they would have jumped in front of a speeding semi.
“Hey, look, I’m sorry.” Though I meant what I said, exhaustion, frustration, and anger pushed through to my words. “I never claimed I was perfect. I’m pretty screwed up, actually. Have been for years thanks to my craptastic dad.”
Mason’s features softened at the reminder of what I’d been through. He nodded, indicating we should get back to work.
“No,” Jared said, “we need to talk about this.”
We all threw him a look that clearly said, What the fuck are you talking about, you *? Guys didn’t talk about their emotions. We drank beer and got laid. Which would be great if the woman I wanted to have sex with lived in the same city as me. After being with Hailey, no one else would do.
“Yeah, I get it,” Jared said. “We’re cavemen assholes who are only capable of grunting at each other.”
Kirk chuckled. “But at least they’re musical grunts.” He threw me a glance that was part amusement, part frustration. “Most of the time.”
“Shit, you’re not gonna make us hug, are you?” Mason’s arms were folded, emphasizing his huge, tattooed biceps. “Otherwise I’m gonna need some serious therapy.”
Aaron smirked. “Given that you won’t even hug a woman, I’d say you need serious therapy either way.”
That earned Aaron a harsh glare. Aaron shrugged it off.
“Can we just play the song again?” I said. “I promise I’ll do better.”
“You better,” Mason huffed.
Kirk chuckled. “Someone needs to get laid.”