Page 178 of The Ruthless Note

“You.” One of the bouncers points me out of the group.

The crowd parts.

I press two hands into my chest. “Me?”

He glances at a little clipboard, holds it up to my face and closes one eye. Then he nods. “You’re in this class.”

“I am.”

“Show me your ID card.”

I hold it up to him.

He scans it and steps aside, admitting me into the room. Sol is behind me. The class is buzzing with quiet whispers, laughter, and excitement. Every eye is pinned on someone who’s standing near the front of the room.

I stumble in my tracks when I see him.

Jarod Cross.

With his messy hair, twinkling eyes, and arms full of tattoos, he looks as out of place as a nun in a strip club. What is he doing here?

“Cadence. Sol.” He crosses the room with a big smile. “Sorry for the fuss at the door. I thought it was important to keep some structure. We’re not trying to disrupt your learning time here.” He leans close and winks. “But it’s a bit of a hassle, isn’t it?”

“Uh…”

He flashes me another smile and I can tell instantly that the Cross boys got their charm from their father. He might be pushing fifty, but the rockstar still oozes charisma and sex appeal.

“Take a seat. We’re about to begin.”

“Begin what?” I ask.

“Class.” He steps back and tilts his chin up, reminding me of Dutch when he feels particularly pleased with himself. “I’m your new music instructor.”

My jaw drops.

A round of whoops and applause breaks out from the rest of the class.

Jarod extends his hand, biceps rippling. “It’s only for two months.”

A chorus of groans resound.

“But,” he lifts a finger, “I’m going to stuff five years’ worth of information in these short few weeks. So get ready.” His eyes slide over the class and land on me. “I won’t go easy on you.”

It’s not an empty threat.

Jarod moves at warp speed, jumping through music theory to practical assessments and finally to tips about performing on stage.

“It’s all about drawing the audience in with you,” he says, prowling the class like it’s his own sold-out stadium. “You’re selling them something. Selling them a dream. And it’s your job to believe that dream first.”

The melody chimes, signaling the end of class.

Jarod eases into a lopsided smile. “Well, that’s it for now.”

Groans break out in the room.

I’m equally disappointed. There’s no denying Jarod Cross’s artistry. He’s the hope of every musician—being able to make money living off your art. Not everyone can do that. Not everyone can evendreamof that.

I stuff my notebook into my bag and rise. When I look up, I notice Jarod Cross motioning to me.

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