Page 67 of Wild

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My leg bouncesrestlessly in the studio and I chew on the side of my nail. I’m never like this, but replaying every moment between Mia and me this morning has me on edge considering her father is in the same room as I am. If he knew what I’d done to her … I’d be a dead man right now.

Beside me Rush bumps my leg with his and grinds out, “Stop looking like a guilty motherfucker,please. You’re going to get us all in trouble.”

I let my finger drop from my mouth. I know he’s right, and if Rush—Rush who’s the biggest manwhore of all of us—is calling me out, then I know I look bad.

This feeling of guilt is strange for me. All of this is new for me and I don’t know how to handle it yet.

Rush gives me a look and then eyes my restless leg. I groan and force it to stop bouncing—not an easy task might I add.

At least Hayes is distracted enough not to notice my odd behavior since Cannon is in the recording booth laying down some bass guitar.

He nods his head along, tweaking things on the board, muttering to himself. If my thoughts weren’t so distracted by Mia, it would be entertaining to watch. He gets so in the zone nothing else exists.

“Chill,” Rush reminds me, and I curse silently in my head when I realize my leg is moving yet again. I put my hand over it, literally holding it down.

Pathetic.

The door to the studio opens and like a fucking dog waiting for its master my head whips in that direction, a smile already lighting my face as I expect Mia, but instead my mouth falls open in shock as the other three members of Willow Creek stroll in like musical gods.

“Holy shit,” Rush mutters beside me.

We’ve never met the rest of Hayes’s band before. We knowofthem, but we’ve never actually met them in person.

In the front is Maddox, wearing a shirt with a printed hedgehog on it—and if the rumors are true, he’s hiding a live one somewhere on his person—and in his back pocket, his ever-present drumsticks. I don’t know what it is about drummers that they refuse to go anywhere without them—Rush himself always has a set with him.

Next through the door is Ezra, his black curly hair hanging past his ears and his eyes crinkled with smile lines. He’s the bass guitar player for their band and he stops, watching Cannon in the booth, arms crossed over his chest and his head moving to the music.

Pushing his way into the room behind Ezra is their singer Mathias, Maddox’s identical twin. He wears a perpetual frown—having been dubbed themoody bastardby the media. I’ve always thought there was more to him than the media portrays—something haunting in his gray eyes like a man who’s weathered a nasty storm, seen things no one else should.

Hayes holds up a hand for Cannon to take a break and swivels in his chair toward his bandmates.

“What brings you guys here?” he asks, crossing his hands behind his head.

Maddox tilts his head. “Thought we’d come check on our replacements—see how they’re fairing.”

Mathias snorts. “No one can replace us. We’re the best for a reason.”

Maddox shrugs. “True.”

Hayes shakes his head. “This is Cannon in the booth, Hollis, Rush, and Fox.” He points us all out.

Cannon steps out of the enclosed room, not wanting to be left out, I’m sure.

“What have you got so far?” Ezra asks, eyeing all the controls and instruments.

Hayes pushes a few buttons and one of the songs we’ve almost completed begins to play.

The three guys listen, their faces betraying nothing.

“Not bad,” Ezra says when it ends.

“It’ll do well,” Maddox adds.

“It was okay,” Mathias mutters, and coming from him that sounds like a glowing endorsement to me.

“Still think I’m crazy?” Hayes asks with a smirk.

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