Page 48 of A Love Song for Dreamers

The exec drops onto the arm of the couch. “You’ve been posting onsocial.”

“You proud?” Idrawl.

“The venue you tagged is in Dallas.” He frowns. “There’s a strict competition clause in your contract. You can’t record for any otherlabel.”

“I was visiting an old friend. Remember, I’m on the first vacation I’ve had in two years. Once I get through this surgery, I’ll be back in the studio to finish thealbum.”

“You know your career has nothing to do with yourhand.”

I shift back in my seat, a humorless smile pulling across my face. “You’re saying that day Jax and I went to your house senior year, if I hadn’t been able to play, you still would’ve offered me adeal.”

He narrows his gaze. “Two hundred years ago, men figured out how to make music with machines. The player piano. The music box. Everyday people could have music when they wanted—accurate, predictable,perfect.

“Being proficient in playing doesn’t make you a good musician. Being proficient in feeling—in believing what you’re doing so much it makes someone listening, someone watching, connect with it—that’s what it’s fuckingabout.

“That’s what I saw in you that day. A quiet, gives-zero-shits kid who came alive the second he picked up aguitar.”

His words are unsettling, though I’m saved examining them too closely when my phone buzzes with an incoming call fromAnnie.

“Regardless of the outcome of your procedure, I expect you back in studio the next week or you’ll be paying for missed time out of your royalties,” Zeke tosses as he heads for thedoor.

“Always apleasure.”

Zeke and I have always had a rocky relationship, but my relentless focus on being the best I can clashes with his “make money first”approach.”

He disappears down the hall and I go back to my phone, hittingAccept.

“Everything okay?” I answer,concerned.

“Yes. Fine,” Annie says, a little breathless. “I just called to say good lucktonight.”

I’m still on edge from Zeke’s threat, my hand tightening on thephone.

I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday in the studio, and the sound of her voice has every part of me tightening as I remember the way she fell apart under my hands and mymouth.

But despite my physical response to her now, I can’t help thinking of all the times she didn’t call to wish me good luck when I was on tour. The times I didn’t text her because I knew she wasbusy.

She’s callingnow.

Which means nothing. Tell her goodnight. Getmoving.

“How was your day?” I ask instead, shifting out of the chair and leaning over the bureau, pressing my bad hand on the surface. The fingers won’t straighten all theway.

“Less exciting than yours. Took Sophie to daycare. Met Pen for coffee before she headed back to New York. Worked on the musical. Went for a swim. With the bathing suit this time,” she addslightly.

I turn over my hand and inspect the tangle of black vines and thorns and roses, the white lines beneath. Layers upon layers of ink and scars, like the layers of lies and feelings and decisions that litter ourpast.

I should be hanging up, both to get on with my prep and because talking to her like this feels too good, too much like something I could look forwardto.

“I was listening to a demo Shay sent in the car today,” I hear myself say. “She’s good. I’d love to cut the punk loose and put Shay in the studioinstead.”

“Then doit.”

Her direct reply takes me by surprise. “This isn’t my fight. It’s not mymusic.”

“Diving into someone else’s mess can be the best way to get out of your own. Maybe you need something bigger than yourself to believein.”

My bassist sticks his head in the doorway, calling my name and jerking his head toward thestage.

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