Dissonance Page 5

  “Yeah, I got lucky.”

  “Do you come to the theater a lot?”

  He stops in front of me, leaving a good fifteen feet between us. He’s dressed in dark jeans, black leather boots, and a gray suit jacket over a simple but posh looking T-shirt. Since joining the theater, I’ve learned to spot expensive clothing. It’s all in the stitching. His eyes are guarded as he watches me. They’re interested but weary. Almost aggressive in their intent.

  “Not a lot,” he admits, tucking his hands in his pockets with a shrug. The move lifts his shirt in the front, giving me a tiny glimpse of his flat stomach beneath. It’s California golden. Dark and delicious.

  My uterus pings again painfully.

  “I know a thing or two about being on stage, though.”

  I laugh at the understatement. “And dancing and music, I bet.”

  “A little.” He steps forward, closing just enough of the distance between us to shake my hand. His skin is surprisingly soft. As he enters my space, his smell surrounds me, full and heady. Like clean citrus and warm wood. “Jace Ryker.”

  “I know,” I laugh again. I sound like an idiot. “Greer Madsen.”

  “I know.”

  “How?”

  “I looked it up on the playbill.”

  “That’s messed up.”

  His brow pinches. “How is that messed up?”

  “There’s no reason on Earth you should know my name.”

  “You know mine.”

  “Yeah, because you’re Jace Ryker.”

  “I remember.”

  “Sorry, this is just…” I take a breath, feeling lightheaded. I shake my hands at my sides as I fight another smile. “It’s messed up.”

  “You keep saying that too.”

  “I think I’m stuck on repeat. I can’t get my head around this. It makes no—why are you here?” I interrupt myself.

  “To see you.”

  “Shut up.”

  I shouldn’t have said that. Did I seriously just say that?

  Why are you here?

  To see you.

  Shut up.

  Yep. I did. I said that. I told my teen idol to shut up. I’ve lost my mind.

  Jace is watching me. His lips twitch faintly. It isn’t a grin or a smile, definitely not his sexy, signature smirk, but it does something to me. It’s a brief respite from the heaviness that surrounds him, dark like a cloak of shadow on his shoulders forcing him down. Muting him in a weird way I didn’t expect.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispers.

  “I’m freaking out a little.”

  “I get it.”

  I pause, leaning in closer. “Why are you whispering?”

  “Because you told me to shut up.”

  I laugh, unable to stop myself. It’s insanely loud from on stage, the sound projecting up into the cheap seats.

  Jace’s lips twitch higher. “I came to hear you sing,” he explains in a regular tone.

  “What do you want me to sing?”

  “Nothing. I already heard you.”

  I flush with embarrassment. “You heard me sing a kid’s song.”

  “And I loved it.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  He shakes his head, his face serious. “I’m not. I promise. Can you make it to an audition tomorrow?”

  I hesitate, my eyes flitting to the curtain separating us from backstage. We’re probably two of the last people in the building. Just me and Jace Ryker, rock star god. And that’s fine. That’s normal. This absolutely isn’t a cruel prank or bizarre fever dream at all.

  “What’s the audition for?” I ask curiously.

  “You gotta show up to find out.”

  “When? Where?”

  He pulls a small card from his pocket and hands it to me. His fingers are impossibly long, dwarfing mine as the small paper passes between us. “The details are here.”

  “Should I prepare anything?”

  “I wouldn’t say no to cookies.”

  I open my mouth to answer, not sure what the hell I’m going to say. I laugh on a breath, shaking my head. “No, I mean a piece of music or a dance.”

  “I know.”

  “You were joking.”

  “I was,” he answers somberly.

  “It’s hard to tell. Most people smile when they make a joke.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  “I look forward to it.”

  He looks me over slowly, his eyes igniting me like fire until I’m blushing all the way up into my hair. That’s when he brings out the smirk. The one on all of his album covers. The one that makes girls cry at his concerts. The one that looked back at me from a poster seven years ago when I flushed hotter than the sun, his name on my lips.

  I’m not blushing anymore. I’ve gone beyond that into a place where my blood is vacant from too much of my body and I feel faint. I might pass out. I can’t do that in front of him. My pride would never recover.

  “The auditions are closed,” he explains, his voice quiet. Intimate. “Invitation only. I need you to keep the information on that card to yourself.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “And you’ll need to come with a song to sing.”

  “Ba Ba Black Sheep okay?”

  “It’s one of my favorites.”

  “Perfect. I’ll bring my A game.”

  “And cookies.”

  I smile. “Any hint about what kind?”

  “Sugary. Deeply sugary.”

  “Is there any other kind?”

  “There definitely shouldn’t be. And I’m joking, by the way,” he explains straight-faced. “I’m not sure if that came across.”

  “It absolutely did not. Do you know why?”

  “Because you have no sense of humor?”

  “Yes,” I laugh. “It’s on me. I’m working on it. Please be patient.”

  “I’ll try, Greer.”

  “Thanks, Jace.”

  We stand there staring at each other, neither of us speaking or moving. There’s a strange push and pull between us, like two magnets thrown together. Only one of them is backwards, flipped around the wrong way and there’s this invisible barrier between them. Their polars pushing them apart.

  It’s the most awkward and awesome moment of my life. I could live in it forever, but Jace has a life to lead.

  Eventually he offers me his hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I put my hand in his, watching it disappear. Feeling myself fade away into the warmth of his palm against mine. “See you tomorrow.”

  He hops effortlessly down from the stage, heading back into the darkness.

  “The front doors are locked,” I call after him.

  He turns around, walking backwards as he looks up at me on the stage. I’m surprised to see him smile. “Not for me they’re not.”

  When he’s gone, or when I think he’s gone, I look down at the small card in my hand. The details are hand written and signed simply ‘Jace’ at the bottom. I stare at it, at the words and the meaning, and I run through the encounter over and over again in my head. I commit it to memory and I try to figure out if it’s real or a dream or a delusion brought on by stress. Maybe dehydration. I need vodka to deal with it, whatever it is, because the only thing scarier than the idea that it might be a joke is the thought that it could be real.

  “Holy shit.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jace

  “Did you talk to everyone?”

  Grant nods, leaning back into the supple black leather seat of the car as it tears through the busy streets. “I talked to the other one from Rendezvous and cards were delivered to the five from Surrendered and Incidental Intersection. I don’t have a lot of hope for those. They’re in solid commitments with their current shows. Depending on their contracts, they might not be able to take on any other projects. Rendezvous is your best bet.”

  “I know,” I concede reluctantly. “That’s why I picked two from th
at show.”

  One of which looks like she could be the entire package. Greer Madsen is a solid dancer, a good singer, and, to top it off, she’s gorgeous. Long auburn hair that looked vibrant during the show and deadly in the dark auditorium. Her skin is smooth, her eyes fiercely green. She laughs a lot. That’s what’s still with me the most after meeting her; the sound of her laughter. The warmth of her smile. Even in the dark, she was a shining star on that stage. A lightbulb burning softly without hesitation or expectation. It was beautiful to see. Addicting to touch.

  Most importantly, she wasn’t all about her sex appeal. Off the stage, she was dressed comfortably in snug blue jeans ripped down the front, a pink tank top, and a simple white hoody zipped halfway up the front. Hot but almost hidden, making me wonder what it would be like to find the body underneath. There’s a reserved nature to her, something she definitely holds back, and that’s the kind of person I need behind me on stage in Washington. Someone who takes the job seriously. Someone with their shit together.

  Someone who will make it look like I have my shit together.

  And does it hurt that I wanted to taste every piece of her tiny body right there on that stage? That I had to fight the urge to pull her to me, kiss her darkly, and make her moans echo through the auditorium?

  Yeah. It hurts a lot. Just ask my balls.

  “We tapped two from Surrendered,” Grant adds. “Long shots, all of them.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Their star, Eve—”

  “No,” I reply immediately.

  Grant glances up in surprise. “Why not? She’s talented.”

  “Yeah, but she has that look, you know?”

  “What look?”

  “That look. The kind we’re trying to avoid.”

  “You mean the Lexy look.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The sexy look.”

  I sigh, running my hand up and down the back of my neck. “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Hey, I get it. You want to keep the divas out, that’s your decision. I’m guessing that’s why you didn’t talk to Samantha Cole in Rendezvous?”

  “She’s all sex and she knows it. I don’t wanna deal with it. Plus, she’s blond, and I just… I don’t know. I don’t want any blonds. I’m done with blonds.”

  “You’re not dating them, you remember that, right?” he asks slowly.

  I look at him impatiently. “Yeah. I remember.”

  “Try to keep it in mind. Meanwhile,” Grant pulls a sheet from his stack, balling it up in his fist. “She’s out. No blonds.”

  I look at him sideways, gauging his mood. It’s too hard to tell. “You think I’m acting crazy.”

  “Nope. I think you’re making decisions so I’m not rocking that boat. I waited too long for it to pull into harbor.”

  “I make decisions.”

  “Bad ones.”

  I chuckle despite myself. “Don’t pull any punches. I can take it.”

  “I don’t know that you can,” he replies seriously, his voice tired. His eyes intent on mine. “All year I’ve been afraid to bring you anything because you shut down. You’re on autopilot lately and that shit is broken. The tanks are empty, the engines are sputtering, and we’re going down soon if we don’t pull up, Ryker.”

  My heart is thumping in my throat. Grant doesn’t do dramatic, so where is this doom coming from?

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head, turning away to look out the window.

  I turn in my seat to face him. “Grant, man, come on. What are you hiding?”

  “Your dad,” he answers quietly.

  I can barely hear him but his words resonate in my head like he shouted them. Like they were blown in by speakers pressed tight to my eardrums.

  Your dad.

  I lick my lips. They’re dry. Rough. I’m dehydrated, which might explain the headache throbbing between my temples. Or it could be a hangover. Or stress. Or a tumor, who knows?

  “What about him?” I ask carefully.

  Grant looks at me, his face unguarded and anguished. It’s a blow already. Whatever the truth is, it sucks. “He’s suing you.”

  The air in my lungs escapes in a rush like I’ve taken a hit. “What?”

  “He brought it up after your mom’s funeral last year. I told him not to hassle you with it, that it wasn’t the time for that shit, and he only agreed because I told him I’d work with him. I thought I could talk him out of it. I’ve been trying all year, but I failed. I’m sorry.”

  “What the fuck is he suing me for?”

  “Song rights.”

  “To which one?” I demand incredulously.

  “Twenty-three of them.”

  I laugh. It’s the only thing I can do. The only reaction I can manage. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, and so is he.”

  “How the hell would he sue me for rights to my songs?”

  “He says he helped write them.”

  “Bullshit!” I cry, my face flaring hot and angry.

  “He has notes,” Grant tells me reluctantly. “I’ve seen them. They’re in your handwriting, but some changes and adjustments are in his. He has them for most of your songs.”

  I chuckle, the sound echoing hollow in the cab of the car. “You have to be kidding me.”

  “Did he help you?”

  “My mom told me to let him! She thought it would bring us closer or some shit. I wrote the songs, showed him the lyrics, and he offered suggestions. She was dying! What was I supposed to do?!”

  “You took his suggestions?” Grant asks calmly in the face of my rage.

  I take a second, slowing myself. Lowering my voice. “Some of them, yeah. A word or chord change here and there. Definitely not all of them. He doesn’t know shit about rock music. He’s a country freak. That’s all he’s ever played with that band of losers he’s in.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he knows. For every song you took his help on, no matter how small, you’re going to owe him royalties.”

  I breathe in deep and slow, telling my body not to lash out. My fist clenches in my lap over and over again, impotent and angry. My eyes fall closed, my head collapsing onto the back of the seat. “Shit,” I whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Ryker,” Grant tells me, his voice deep with empathy.

  “What can we do?”

  “We’ll fight it in the courts, but with those notes in his hands, he has us over a barrel. I’ve been talking to him for months, trying to convince him to drop it and take an allowance, but he wants more than I offered.”

  “What’d you offer him?”

  “Ten thousand a month.”

  My eyes snap open. “For how long?”

  “Until he dies.”

  “And he said no to that?”

  Grant spreads his hands helplessly. “He wants more.”

  “How much more?”

  “We haven’t gotten there yet. I think he’s keeping that number to himself, hoping we’ll make an offer to settle and overshoot his goal.”

  “You’re giving him too much credit. He’s not that smart.”

  “Someone talking to him is. Probably a lawyer looking at this as a slam dunk.”

  “Is he right?”

  He shrugs sadly. “I’ve talked to Greg. We don’t know anything for sure yet, he’s still sifting through contracts and looking for loopholes, but it doesn’t look good for us.”

  The car pulls up to the entrance of the hotel. I look at the ornate façade through the dark window, remaining perfectly still. “What can I do?”

  “Greg and I agree that we should try to settle. Save ourselves a trip to the courts. With everything that’s going on right now, this is the last thing we need hitting the press.”

  “He’s gonna get greedy.”

  “He always has been.”

  “How long did he wait?” I swallow thickly, pulling down the bile rising in my throat. “How long after my mom was dead did he wait to start reaching
into my pockets?”

  Grant is quiet for a long time. He doesn’t want to tell me. That’s not a good sign.

  “We were still at the cemetery,” he answers reluctantly. “Her casket… it wasn’t in the ground yet.”

  I want to throw up. I want to punch the window out. I want to kick the sparkling crystal glasses at my feet until they shatter into a million diamonds on the dark floor like stars across the sky. I want to leave this place, leave this body, leave this planet. I want to feel weightless. Less like I’m drowning in expectations and more like I’m free. It’s a feeling I haven’t known since I was a kid. I miss it.

  “What do you want to do, Jace?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Whatever.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Whatever you think we should do, do it. That’s my answer.”

  “You need to figure out what you want to do.”

  “What I want to do is put my fist through this window.” I point to the tinted glass. To the paparazzi waiting on the other side. “Do you want them to see me do that?”

  Grant’s face is hard. “No. I don’t want that.”

  “Then you don’t want me to do what I want to do, so don’t ask. Just make it go away. And keep his ass quiet about it. He doesn’t want the songs or the money, he wants the fame. Whatever else he gets, don’t give him that.”

  “I’ll make sure Greg knows you want an NDA. It’s basically a gag order.”

  “Good. Get it done.”

  “I’ll contact him tonight.” He pauses, the silence pregnant with more good news.

  “What is it?”

  Grant clears his throat. “I think we should settle.”

  “Fine.”

  “It’s going to be a big sum. He’ll want it all at once if we want him to go away for good.”

  “Don’t I have it?”

  “I’ve already had Meagan call your accountant. You have it, but it could make things tight. And with no new album on the horizon—”

  “Jesus Christ,” I groan, rubbing my hands over my face. “Not this. Not right now.”

  “You have to hear it. You need to do something new to refill the coffers. Something he doesn’t have a hand in.”

  “Something like Internal, you mean.”

  “It doesn’t have to be sellout shit like Internal, but it needs to be something,” he insists, his own temper flaring. “You need to figure out where you’re going from here.”