Page 7 of One Last Song

“We trusted you with everything when you found us,” I say, my voice wavering slightly as I shove the dismissal contract away from me. “You said you were going to make us famous, and you did, but now I don’t fit the fucking image?”

“These things happen, Cassie.” Tony crosses his arms and fixes me with a hard look. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but the band will have a better career without it. You don’t scream sex appeal. Not the way that the band needs to on this tour.”

The words sting. What he means is that I refuse to wear nothing but a bra and a skirt that could be a belt on stage. Even though Ihave no problem showing off the body I’ve worked hard for, it’s still not enough.

This industry wants every piece of me. Body, mind, and soul. I’m unwilling to tear myself down and become entirely what they want.

And in this world that means that I don’t belong.

“The three of you knew about this and you agreed to it?” I turn on Ben and Matt. Tyler has made it clear that he doesn’t give a shit about me, but I thought that the others were still my friends. They didn’t even bother to give me a warning about this.

Instead, they let me walk in here and be humiliated.

Did Tyler know when he slept with me last night? Is that why we finally slept together?

My stomach roils. Bile rises in my throat as I glare at Ben, waiting for an answer. He sighs and runs his hands down his face.

“I don’t know what you want us to say, Cassie,” Ben says, his tone hollow. He looks at me, guilt swirling in his gaze. “I should have told you that this was coming but I couldn’t. Not when we spent the night looking for Tyler and then you had to talk to him. It was too much at once.”

“Because you think I’m weak. You think that I’m not what the band needs and you give more of a shit about your career than you do me. Don’t worry. I understand.” I spin on my heel and head for the door. “Fuck all of you.”

CHAPTER 4

TYLER

EIGHT YEARS LATER

When I wake up, the lingering headache is nothing new, but the tattoo on my chest is. I glare down at the black ink, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be. It’s only once I rub my eyes and look back down at it that I recognize the handwriting.

Cassie’s handwriting.

The lyric on my chest is from one of the songs that we first wrote together. We had been sitting in a booth at a seventies-style diner. Cassie insisted that it was to hear the jukebox; something about the artistry that went into making music back then. I didn’t care. I just wanted to bask in the passion she had and make music.

Oh, how the times have fucking changed.

I run my fingers over the clear layer covering the tattoo, wondering how the hell I’m going to hide this. The last thing I need is a picture of it spreading across the media where she can see.

These ties that bind are shackles to my heart.

The lyrics are on my body now and there is no taking them back, but I wish I could. If it was possible to go back in time and walk out of that tattoo parlor, I would have. Now, I’m stuck with another reminder of Cassie on my skin.

With a groan, I get up from the pile of blankets I’ve made on the floor and look around my room. Dim light streams through the crack in the curtains. Several women are sprawled out on my bed and the floor, their makeup smeared and their hair fanning out around them.

At least all of them are dressed.

As I stoop down to grab my phone and wallet, one of the women in my bed sighs and rolls over. I stand still, not wanting to get caught sneaking out. One of my security guards will take care of kicking them all out later. It’s nothing that I have to worry about doing right now.

Hell, it’s the part of the night I hate the most.

When the alcohol wears off and the high is gone, all that’s left are a bunch of people I don’t know and a mind full of regrets I barely remember.

I swipe my phone from the floor and unlock it, wondering what else I got up to last night. Instead of pictures from whatever club I was at, Cassie’s face stares up at me. It’s a picture from right before she was kicked out of the band.

She’s sitting in the living room with her guitar in her lap. Her legs are crossed, and notebooks circle the floor around her. Her hair is stacked on top of her head, dark tendrils falling around her face. Back then, she didn’t know the picture was being taken. She was too lost in the music to see anything else happening around her.

I always wanted to have the same passion for music that she did.

That’s in the past, though. I hold down the picture until my options appear. There’s no point in holding onto the past when I doubt she is.

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