“You could just say shirt, you know,” she snaps, but at least she’s moving toward her closet. I bite back more inappropriate language when she grabs a hoodie instead of a new top. Whatever. Small victories.
“Thank you,” I mutter as she pulls the ripped black fabric that’s four sizes too big over her head. Yes, we bought it that way. Yes it matches perfectly with the black lipstick she insists on wearing. Her long blond hair is also dyed black. I’m still cleaning that shit out of my shower. I’m a rocker by trade and don’t get the choices of an eleven-year-old girl. Is this goth? Is that even still a thing? God, I have no clue what I’m doing.
“Is it true you’re going to be playing in a band with Genevieve Fox?”
I glance at her sharply. Damn, I guess she picks up more than I think. Have to remember that.
“Yeah, but she’s not a popstar anymore and has a whole new identity. She goes by Viv Hastings now. She’s kind of a badass, actually.”
I brace for the retort. The drama. The stark reminder that I’m not her—anything—except another inconvenience in her life.
“Cool,” she says, brushing past me.
Now that I think about it, the dance-pop from yesterday was vintage Genevieve Fox.
My nervous energy shifts from familial conflicts to something more invigorating when we pull into the lot of the studio that will host our first official rehearsal as a band. To say my former band fell from grace is an understatement. No label or manager would touch us after that fiasco. Not that there was anything left to touch once the copyright lawsuits drained our bank accounts and reputations. Forget the fact that our lead singer ended up in prison for sexual assault.
When I joined Eastern Crush shortly after they got signed by a major label, I had no idea any of this shit was on the horizon. I certainly didn’t know they’d screwed over the founder of the band, Mason West. There was a point over these past months that I honestly thought I’d never perform again. My life would be anonymous studio gigs and indie solo tracks, scratching out riffs behind the scenes for other artists at a contract fee—if I was lucky. Then I ran into Mason… and well, let’s just say Karma knew what she was doing when she picked him as the winner in that battle. The guy is a saint, the fucking king of redemption, and here we are.
I stare up at the warehouse-looking building, excited and completely terrified.
“Doesn’t look like a studio,” Naomi says, shielding her eyes from the sun. Is that a hint of a smile on her lips? Not sure I’ve ever seen one of those.
“No, but it will inside. Come on, let’s find a lounge or something where you can hang out while I work.” I grab the handles of my cases but stop moving when I realize she’s not following me. “What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders droop, and for a split second I think I see something new in her face. Sadness, maybe? Disappointment? But it’s gone so fast I don’t even have time to brace for the familiar scowl.
“Nothing. I just thought I’d be… whatever,” she mutters, stalking past me toward the entrance.
I stare after her in silence, as usual having no clue what I did wrong or why she’s upset. Is this still about the shirt thing? Grunting, I adjust the weight of the cases and follow my niece.
Once inside, my sour mood lifts. I was right. This place may look like a warehouse on the outside, but the converted space inside is any artist’s wet dream. A sleek, comfortable reception area gives way to a line of glass-faced studios. Alcoves weave throughout as well, probably leading to artist lounges and conference spaces. This place was designed to be a musician haven, and I’m positive it’s our lead singer Viv Hastings whose clout hooked us up with this musical wonderland. Yet another thing to put us in debt to our newest bandmember. At least she kept her word now that she’s finished her farewell tour as Pop Barbie.
Freaking weird twilight zone I’m in.
Was I happy when I found out Viv Hastings, the new solo artist we drooled over after her underground indie single went viral, was actually Genevieve Fox, iconic pop goddess? Actually, no. It was Sam, our new manager who talked me into a sit-down with the pop queen. I still don’t fully understand why she threw away everything for nothing, but she seemed legit when we met a couple of months ago.
I glance around the lobby, already losing sight of my niece, and drop my equipment to go on a search. A flash of black catches my eye to the left, and I follow to find her peeking into an empty studio. Wait, is she actually interested in this shit?
“Julian Campbell. That you?”
I don’t get a chance to find out at the call from two doors down in the opposite direction. Spinning around, I spot our drummer and my only remaining Eastern Crush bandmate, Wyatt Maxwell.
“Max. What’s up, man?” I say, stalking toward him. We exchange hand clasps, but I’m pulling away to go after Naomi at the same time he seems to be dragging me toward the door.
“Been a minute. Hey, we’re all in here. Waiting for you, actually.”
“I know. Sorry, man. I gotta take care of something quick. See you in a few. That’s my stuff if you don’t mind grabbing it.”
I totally feel the annoyed scrunch of his brow, but I have to make sure Naomi is settled first. No one in the band knows about my weird situation yet. We have enough obstacles and trust issues to overcome as a new band forming from the muck like we are. The last thing we need is me dropping fresh doubts about my commitment by introducing a kid to the mix. I’ve seen what kids do to careers through Mason’s experience. I don’t need that headache right now when I’m about to get back on my feet.
Gonna be hard with an eleven-year-old who keeps running off, though. Shit.
I check a few more rooms, resisting the urge to call out like I’m combing the deep woods, not a high-end studio building. There are other artists hard at work, and now I’m worried she’s going to crash their sessions as well. How many people can I piss off in one day? After the Eastern Crush disaster, I thought that record could never be broken.
“C’mon, Naomi,” I mutter to myself. “Just this once, you could’ve helped me out.” We were already late, thanks to her. Now I’m going to be unforgivably tardy.
I finally find a pair of combat boots dangling over the armrest of a couch in an artist lounge and flip on the light. A glare fires back at me when I approach.
“Can I trust you to stay here?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“Can I trust you to…” I take a deep breath and point to my ears.
She rolls her eyes and jerks an earbud from her head. “What?” she snaps.
“Will you just stay here? You’ve got your backpack and some snacks. If you need anything else, text me and I’ll find you on a break. But please, Naomi, I’m begging you. Just this once, can you do me a favor and cooperate?”
She blows a lock of hair from her face as she moves to re-insert the earbud. “Stay out of your way, got it,” she mutters.
I bristle at the venom in her voice and know I should let it go, but… “What do you want me to do, Naomi? I have to work. In case you didn’t know this, food and rent take money. I have a chance to get back up, and I’m doing my best. What do you want me to do here?”