I nod, unsure how else to respond. “Yeah. I sign.”
His lips curve into a tight smile that looks more like a snarl. “Then read this.” Jace holds up both his middle fingers, points them at me, and then turns away. He strides off without another word, his fists still clenched and his shoulders stiff with tension. Arrow pauses just long enough to give me a pitying look, then hurries after Jace.
I stare after them in shock. For a second, warm relief floods me as Jace disappears around the corner. Then the warmth rises into heat, and my face burns with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Tony places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I shrug him away.
He shakes his head, a mortified expression widening his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry about that.”
“What the hell is his problem?”
How dare Jace treat me like that? I don’t even know him, and he’s just going to act like I’m a freak? That’s not right. Not right at all.
“He can be, um . . .” Tony nervously shuffles his feet and clears his throat. “Touchy.”
“He’s a total asshole,” I snap. I point to Tony. “I want out of here, okay? Forget the tour. Take me to the closest exit.”
I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose, trying to keep from exploding. But, seriously, what just happened? Jace puts up with dreamy girls who are completely obsessed with him, yet he refuses to offer even a shred of respect to me. A normal, non-obsessive girl who just happens to be deaf.
“Here,” Tony says, and he nods toward the stairs we’d used before. “Let’s go.” He walks toward the steps and then falters. I almost bump into him, and a curse erupts from between my gritted teeth. Tony bites at his lip. “Maybe . . . maybe one of the other band members could give you a tour? Arrow is a nice guy, and I’m sure he’d love to do it.”
I shake my head. “No. Thanks, but definitely not.”
Tony opens his mouth in a sigh and guides me away from the stage. Away from the humiliation, the hurtful words, the obscene gestures.
But the anger stays.
3
JACE
I BLAST THE latest Fall Out Boy album through my headphones, letting the pounding bass beat down the dark memories clawing at my mind. I force a couple of deep breaths and try to focus on my laptop, clicking through Twitter and reading the messages left by fans:
Rocking out downtown at the @ToneDeaf concert! Still can’t believe I scored tickets!! #biggestfan #truelove
i’ve got the new @ToneDeaf album on repeat. #love i’m sooooo jealous of every1 at the LA concert!
Maybe if I tweet @ToneDeaf, Jace will reply . . . ;) #hopeful #futurehusband #love
I scoff at the last one and mute the girl’s profile. It’s strange how often I hear that word thrown at me—“love.” Fans love my music, love my lyrics, love my looks, love everything about me. Everything except the actual me. They don’t know me, and that’s how I like it.
Of course, that doesn’t let me off the hook when it comes to Tony’s strictly enforced marketing efforts. Successful bands require fans, and fans require attention. It’s a simple equation that forces me to spend at least a couple hours every week answering messages on social media.
I still haven’t figured out if Tony is a genius at marketing or torture, but whatever you call it, Tone Deaf owes its fame to his skill. If it weren’t for that, I’d ignore his advice and stay away from social media like the plague that it is. I got into this industry for the music, not for the vapid comments about my hair and fashion choices.
The RV door slams open, and Killer comes prancing inside. He looks like he always does after performing a concert—all smiles and light footsteps and happy-rainbow attitude.
I yank off my headphones and pin him with a glare. “Killer, what the hell? Have you ever heard of knocking?”
He walks over to the couch across the room from my desk and collapses in it. “Yeah. I think that’s the word in the dictionary between oh-my-god-dude and get-over-it.”
I turn back to my laptop screen and roll my eyes. On first inspection, Killer looks pretty harmless: super thin and kind of tall (but he still totally sucked at phys ed), nerd glasses that he’s convinced are cool (he’s blind without them), and skin he says is “a shade between cocoa and burnt umber.” But, in reality, he’s not harmless. Far from it, actually. He’s a gigantic thorn in my side.
“You on Facebook?” Killer asks.
“No, Twitter.”
“Then tweet Arrow. Tell him to get his pretty ass over here.”