No, I type back before I can stop myself. I don’t need your pity.
This isn’t pity. This is my manager keeping you quiet.
Well, at least he’s honest. But still a jackass.
I grit my teeth and flick to his first text, getting ready to delete every word he’s sent. A message screen pops up, asking, Send conversation thread to trash? Just as I’m about to press OK, another text appears.
8k. Final offer.
My throat goes dry. With eight thousand dollars, I could easily get a plane ticket to New York City and pay for a few months’ rent. And combined with the money I’ve saved up over the years, I’d have enough for a semester at a community college, which would give me a chance to improve my grades and get accepted into a nice university . . .
No. I’m not really considering this. Am I? Even though he’s the one offering the money, it’s still pretty much blackmail. And I’m above that . . . right?
More vibrations run through the tile floor from Avery outside the door. I wipe a sweaty palm on my jean shorts, darkening a small splotch of the denim.
I take a deep breath and text back, When do you want to meet?
Tonight. 8:00. Meet at the stadium stage.
I quickly select each of the messages and delete them. But there’s no satisfaction now. Instead, my stomach rolls, like I’d just swallowed a cocktail of antifreeze and boiling tar. I reach over and unlock the door, and Avery comes rushing in. “What did you say to him?” she demands, her agitation causing her to sign and speak at the same time.
“I told him to f-off and never text me again,” I say. I know if I told her the truth, Avery would insist on coming with me tonight, and I don’t want that. It’s going to be hard enough to stop myself from strangling Jace, without also having to hold back my overprotective best friend.
Her lips purse in a suspicious frown. “I heard your phone go off a few times.”
I force a smirk onto my lips. “He doesn’t take rejection well.”
That makes a smile spring onto her lips, and she nods decidedly. “Awesome. You gave him what he deserved.”
“Yup.”
She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers. “I’ve got to see this conversation.”
I shrug my shoulders hopelessly. “Sorry. I already deleted it. Didn’t want any trace of him on my phone.”
For a moment, Avery’s frown reappears, but she quickly replaces it with a triumphant smile. Then she runs over and envelops me in a hug. My bruised cheek presses against her shoulder, and I try not to cringe.
I hug her back, driving away whatever remaining suspicions she has. I try to push away my guilt over the lies I’ve just told. Jace Beckett, you’d better come through on your end of the bargain.
6
JACE
“I SHOULDN’T HAVE to do this.”
I’m not sure who I’m talking to; Tony isn’t listening to me, and I’m sick of hearing my own voice.
“You were an absolute asshole to her, Jace,” says Tony. So apparently he is listening. You never know with that guy; he always has his ear to a phone or his nose pressed against a screen, so it’s hard to tell if he’s paying attention or not.
He’s on the couch with his phone in his hand, clicking through emails. Probably all of them are about me or some event I’m about to participate in. As my manager/royal-pain-in-my-ass, it’s Tony’s job to keep my career in order.
Tony quickly types out a message before glancing back up at me. He looks nothing like a band manager should: short dirt-brown hair, pale complexion, wire glasses that sit on the end of his nose. He hardly looks professional, let alone stylish, like most people in the music industry try to be. But what Tony lacks in appearance, he makes up for in marketing genius. There’s no way Tone Deaf ever would have gotten off the ground without his skill.
“Jace? Are you listening to me?”
I ignore him and focus on the notebook in front of me. In my sloppy handwriting, the front reads, THE PERFECT SONG. Although, I’m beginning to wonder if that will ever be true; I’ve been working on this song for years, and it’s far from perfect.
Strong hands clasp on my shoulders, making me flinch. I still half expect those hands to cause pain, even though I know Tony would never hurt me. But the fear is ingrained in me, and it makes my words sharp as I growl, “Get off me, Tony.”
He keeps his hands right where they are, and even gives my shoulder a little squeeze. Bastard. He knows how much I hate it when he does emotional crap like this.
“Jace, listen to me,” Tony says, his voice surprisingly even. “You were terrible to that girl. She doesn’t deserve what you did, and you know it.”
I grunt in response and turn back to my notebook, reading over my revised first lines: When clarity’s gone and logic is done and love flees out the doorway,
When kisses hurt and your heart is cursed and so carelessly cast away . . .