Page 38 of Deliverance

“Sable needs supervision during her cooking?” I joke.

“Nah.” Avery swings the door of my Jeep open. “It’s Cole, my cousin.”

“I didn’t know your cousin was on the force.”

“Yeah, he went to the academy with my sister. Didn’t I tell you?”

“What the fuck happened to you?” I scowl.

“Every family has that one member.” Mischief flashes in his eyes. “Always dreamt of dating Miss Switzerland. Sadly, cover girls aren’t into men in uniform.” He steps outside and sidles around to get his surfboard. “My offer still stands. Stop by whenever you want.”

“Okay. I will. Tell Sable I said hi.”

“You got it.”

Two minutes later, I’m driving back to my place.

“I got you on the list for the premiere ofDouble Platinum,” Ian says, then slurps his coffee.

I grimace at the prospect of attending a social function. “Do I have to go?”

“What am I, your mother?” Ian gives me a blank stare. “You’re thirty-seven years old. You pay me to make business decisions on your behalf, not babysit you.”

We’re on the patio of a small beachside restaurant a few minutes away from my house. Our waitress, a young gal with bright orange hair and an Eastern European accent, sets a sizable breakfast plate in front of me and asks if I need a refill on my orange juice.

“I’m good. Thanks,” I tell her politely and shift my attention to the food while Ian is trying to convince me that tracking for Bleeding Faith is a perfect opportunity to seize the moment and do some serious PR, and apparently, dragging me to every music industry related event is his idea of serious PR.

Sometimes, he can be a goddamned overachiever.

“Fuck the press,” I say, stabbing my fork into the pile of steaming hot eggs.

Being on the front pages of various magazines doesn’t appeal to me anymore. It was different back in the day—when we were just starting out and when social media wasn’t a wasp nest full of dumb millennial dicks hiding behind their computer screens. I remember, the first time we made it on the cover ofRolling Stone, I had all the guys in the band sign the issue so I could mail it to my parents. We were in the middle of the tour, and our single had already been topping the Billboard charts for five consecutive weeks. I truly believed I was living a dream.

Turned out, it wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.

“I mean you’re the boss,” Ian drawls, snapping me back to the present. “But I would still give Robbie an exclusive. He’s been good to us.”

“Okay,” I croak after a moment of contemplation, my mouth full. “But I don’t want anything scheduled during those three weeks we’ll be in the studio.” Tracking an entire album that hasn’t even been written yet in twenty-one days is an ambitious undertaking and I don’t need any distractions.

“You got it.” Ian makes some notes on his phone and switches to his omelet, his dark brown curls, unraveled by the breeze, falling into his eyes.

Once we’re done talking shop, we fall into cordial silence, and I allow myself to relax and actually enjoy everything an August morning in SoCal can offer to a rich motherfucker like me. The sweet rumble of the ocean, the rough feel of salty air inside my lungs, the stunning view of the sandy beach, and the throngs of beautiful women strolling along the promenade in their tight shorts and see-through tanks. Just because I haven’t been giving much thought to sharing my bed with someone these past months doesn’t mean I don’t find pleasure in simply looking. Although ever since Drew entered my life, things have been sort of wack in that department.

I’ve been desiring. Badly. Secretly.

When the waitress returns with the check, I’m reclining in my chair and staring at the waves, my mind running wild.

Ian’s on the phone with my publicist and looks awfully distressed, as if he’s deciding the fate of the world and trying to make sure I don’t have to leave my house to do this damn interview he thinks I need to give so much. But his enthusiasm is endearing.

If you’re going to pay crazy money to have someone run your life, you better be certain that someone knows what the fuck he’s doing, and Ian’s definitely a guy who has his shit together. I trust his instincts more than I trust my own.

“Your interview with Robbie is next Wednesday.” He finally ends the call and waves the waitress over for more coffee. “I’ll have Clover update your calendar.”

“Sounds good.” I stand up and gesture at the check. “You cool? I have to bounce.”

I’m off to practice six more Bleeding Faith songs from their last album that I fucked up during both tries yesterday.

“You get the next one.” Ian gives me a wink.

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