by Piper Lawson
“Huh?”
“You used to get nuggets. You said it was the sweet and sour sauce of the gods.”
I’m not telling my kid “because once you turn thirty, it’s harder to keep the six-pack they’re paying you for.”
Which puts us back in a standoff.
The silence is getting to me. I used to be able to take long trips alone. Hell, I craved them.
But the first-class flight from Dallas to Philadelphia and the ride from the airport in my rented Acura has been filled with a quiet tension.
For a moment though, I’m grateful she’s in her own world. I soak in the place—my emotions—as I drive through the streets of downtown.
The locals are still dressed in coats and a few boots. The trees are growing leaves. They look hopeful.
That makes one of us.
In the five days since I called Haley, I have run through a dozen responses.
To tell Wicked to fuck off. To ignore them. To unleash my lawyers in that snarling furor only expensive litigators can manage.
In the end, I lay awake staring at the ceiling and remembering the song I wrote. The thought of someone else taking it, making it theirs, and possibly ruining it?
I’m not going to risk it. I need to fix this in person.
We pull up to the valet at the hotel.
“I thought we were getting a house,” Annie says, peering out the window and looking up.
“I said I booked the Rittenhouse. We have a suite. You’ll be home by the summer.”
“Everything will have changed in three months. Why couldn’t I stay with Mom?”
Because she’d never let me live it down.
“Because you’re my kid. I said we were coming to Philly for a while, so that’s what we’re doing.”
My voice is sharp and she blinks at me. For a second I see her, the younger version. Before she wore shiny crap on her mouth and put her hair in strange ponytails.
I miss that version. But as quick as it appeared, it’s gone, and the indifference is back.
We get out of the car and the manager greets us. I hand the keys to the valet.
“Mr. Jamieson, it’s a pleasure to see you again. And who is this?”
“This is Annie.”
I glance back to make sure my daughter is following. Her sullen countenance lurks at my back as Rodney shows us upstairs before handing Annie and me each a keycard.
I open the door to the two-bedroom suite with a view of the park. “You’ve changed something.”
His brows rise. “The carpet and the drapes, Mr. Jamieson.”
The joke is on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself.
“You used to stay here?” Annie asks as he leaves.
It’s the first time she’s sounded interested, though she’s still looking out at the park. I saunter over and stop at her side, taking in the view.
“When we recorded Redline. And Abandon.”
“And now you’re recording the fourth. What’s it called?”
I hiss out a breath. “It doesn’t have a name, because I haven’t decided I’m going to do it.”
“Why don’t you want to?” Annie asks, her gaze sharp.
“That part of my life is over. I chose to come home. To be with you.”
“Awesome,” she says, like it’s really not. When she turns toward me, I expect her to launch into another tirade about our sudden trip, but she says, “My first memory of you was at one of your concerts. On stage, it was like no one could touch you.” Tingling runs through my body, not from the memory, but from hearing how she saw me. “You’re a different person now.”
I drop the curtain and cross the room, setting my phone on the table by the door. “It's on stage where I was different. Now I'm the same person I was before.”
Our luggage arrives, and the staff unloads four large suitcases. I slip the guy a fifty.
Annie grabs the handle of one and starts toward the door on the far side of the living room.
“Slow your roll.”
She stops and turns, her movements exaggerated. “What.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Bedroom.”
“Not the master.”
“It’s the least you can do for dragging me here.”
I try not to laugh. “You’re thirteen. I go, you follow.”
She enters the master and takes a look around. She lets out a little sigh at the soaker tub.
If I spoil her, it’s natural. I want to make up for everything she’s been through. Ten years of living in a dump with a man she never should’ve called her father. Who Grace never should’ve called her husband. Now he’s serving two years for domestic assault while my sister reclaims her life.
Grace’s job as a pharma rep is paying for the house he nearly lost with his drinking and drug habits. Nearly. I had my lawyer work out how to compensate them for some of their bills.
It was the one deal I ever made with her asshole of a spouse.
“So what? You need this for all your preppy shirts?” Annie looks up from the closet.
“I don’t have that many preppy shirts.” A few years ago, all I owned were T-shirts and hoodies.
Now I do charity auctions. Car commercials. Classy ads. A select few opportunities screened by my agent that pay well and don’t force me to play music.
Clooney and Nespresso have nothing on me.
I grab Annie’s wrist and tug her toward the second bedroom, where I throw open the doors. It’s got a king bed and a big closet.
“There’s no ensuite.” Her voice is flat.
“Adversity builds character.”
Okay, maybe she’s a little right. I have a lot of preppy shirts.
I stick sweaters and a few T-shirts on the shelf at the top of the closet. Most of what I used to wear is long since packed up in boxes.
The bathroom already holds the shampoo and shaving cream I like—at least some things never change, and Rodney has those on file.
I’m putting the suitcases under the bed when house phone rings. “Hello?”
“Mr. Jamieson, you have a visitor. I understand she used to tour with you.”
Haley? It can’t be.
“Mr. Jamieson?”
I hesitate. Annie’s gone down to swim, her favorite activity that we share now. “Send her up.”
I glance at the door, remembering when I’d been in the Ritz in Dallas and answered the knock to find Haley standing there looking indecisive and beautiful as fuck.
More than once since we parted, I’ve had a weak moment and thought of her.
Seeing her on the phone last week…
The red color on her lips it had me focusing on her mouth.
The things I did to that mouth.
The things I never got a chance to.
When Haley told me she’d move in with me two years ago, it was the best thing I’d felt since getting off tour. Maybe I’d been living in a dream, expecting everything would be simple once I stopped playing three cities a week. But it wasn’t.
She was the bright spot in all of it.
Then she sided with Cross, with Wicked, and the floor fell out from under my world.
Shannon Cross screwed me from beyond the grave, a final act that would have had him laughing in delight if he’d known.
I would’ve fought him for her. I would’ve fought anyone, anything, for her.
But there was nothing to fight, because she made the choice freely. She walked away first.
The knock on the door has me taking a steadying breath before I swing it wide to reveal the last person I expected.
A tall woman wearing a denim jacket and designer jeans with aviators perched on her fire-red hair is parked in the doorway holding a bottle of bourbon.
“So the rumors are true.” She flashes her teeth. “Shannon Cross’s prodigal son has returned.”
“Damn,” I drawl, resting an elbow on the frame. “A real live rock star at my door. How’d you find me?”
; “We have the same manager, remember?”
The tension in my chest eases a few degrees as she wraps her arms around me. There are a handful of people I’ll take a hug from. After touring nearly a year together, Lita’s one of them.
I take the bottle of bourbon, and she follows me inside. I pour two glasses before we sit on the low couch.
“Heard your last album went gold in two weeks,” I say, passing her a glass. “I’m sure you got my card.”
“Hmm. Must’ve got lost in the mail.”
She looks good; Like she’s gotten her share of the limelight and it suits her.
“You’re selling out,” I state.
Lita smirks into her glass. “Wicked has been good to me.”
“I meant arenas.”
“No, you didn’t.” She takes a sip. “What do you call what you’ve been doing, hmm? Giving the camera sexy eyes as you fake drive a fake car down a fake road in front of a green screen?”
“I call it keeping the bills paid.”
“Bullshit. There are a lot of ways to keep the bills paid with that beautiful voice. You didn’t run from music. You ran from Wicked.” Her words have my spine stiffening even before she goes on. “You been back since the funeral?”
“Nope.”
Haley and I haven’t spoken either.
Sure, she texted me a couple of times the first winter and left a voicemail asking me to call her back.
I couldn’t deal with it. The wound was too fresh.
“She’s not a kid anymore,” Lita says softly.
It’s as if she can read my mind. I hope it’s because we’ve spent so much time together, not because I’m getting transparent in my advanced age.
“She never was, and that’s the problem,” I reply. “The first time she set foot on tour, she was her father’s daughter. She wanted an empire. She got one.”
“Come on. You might’ve been hiding out in Dallas, but you’re not living under a rock. You know she sold most of her share of the company over a year ago.”
I grind my teeth. “Makes you wonder why she went to the trouble of taking it over to begin with.” I don’t care what Haley’s reasons were, but Lita’s tone has something occurring to me. “Are you here for me or for Haley?”
Saying her name sends prickles through my body.
“She’s had my back. You know Derek and the other guys can be every bit as fickle as Cross. She’s not like them. Or like him. Haley cares about the work, Jax. But more than that, she cares about the people.” Lita glances around the room as though she’s debating what to say. “When are you starting?”
“Meeting Monday.”
“Good luck.”
I toss back the rest of the bourbon, set the glass on the table with a clink. “You can tell her that.”
Lita’s laugh is light, tinkling. “Damn, I wish I could see that meeting. You’re going to kill each other. Or—”
“I’m not here for her.”
“Never said you were.” She rises. “Thanks for the drink.”
“You brought it.”
“I did, didn’t I?” With a grin, she slips out the door.
I can’t resist calling after her. “Baseball season’s right around the corner. Hope you had time to do your homework in between headlining.”
She flips me off as she saunters away.
What Lita says doesn’t change things one bit. Haley and I aren’t friends. We aren’t lovers. The only thing we are is at war.
Haley Cross may have lasted two years at Wicked…
But she won’t last an hour with me.
4
Haley
One of my requirements when I gave up control of the company was that I kept my father’s office. There have been changes since then, but some things—the fur rug in the conversation set, the big cherry desk, the Ireland picture on the wall—haven’t moved. Changing the pieces that seemed most like him felt wrong.
“Haley.”
Derek’s voice has me looking up from my desk Monday morning. Derek’s been around the block, and while he’s not bold, he understands this place. He knew my father better than I did, having worked at his side for nearly ten years.
He steps inside, pulling the door half-closed behind him. Where Shannon Cross was always dressed for the red carpet, Derek favors slacks and sweaters.
“Jax Jamieson’s coming in today.”
“And you’re afraid.” My mouth twitches at the corner. After two years, I feel as though I can tease him a little. He has kids of his own and a sense of humor.
“Cross used to deal with Jax personally. I figured that might run in the family.” He arches an eyebrow. “Given our unique deal, we agreed that you can call the shots on production, but I need to keep Todd involved since that’s his department. ” He glances at the clock. “See you in fifteen.”
As he disappears, I let out the breath I was holding. Sometimes I forget so few people know Jax and I go back.
Wicked’s rule about staff and artists not mixing hasn’t changed since Cross’s tenure. Not that anyone could fire me—I’m still part owner, and I don’t take a salary—but Derek wouldn’t be over the moon to learn about my history with Jax.
It’s moot, because Jax and I are nothing, I remind myself.
I go over my plan before I collect Serena. “You coming?”
She looks up from her desk, a gleam in her blue eyes. “Let’s see. The first and only guy who’s ever got you hot and bothered is back and you’re going to stick it to him. Plus,” she amends with an eye roll, “I think I’m doing the release plan for the album, so yeah. Be there in two.”
I make my way to the conference room.
Jax will be late. Although he had a near-photographic memory for the business side of the gig, he also knew that everyone here catered to him.
I expect him to put us off as long as possible. So I set down my things before taking a minute to look out the window, using the reflection to touch up my lipstick.
For the past five days, I’ve been wondering if this was even going to happen. I kept expecting to hear that Jax had called to tell us to go to hell. It wouldn’t be entirely unfair. But the fact that he’s in town does more than make my heart race.
It gives me hope.
“If I’d known it be the two of us, I would’ve brought drinks.”
The low, familiar voice drags down my spine like a caress.
I cap the lipstick and turn, careful not to wobble on my heels. They’re not what Serena would call “fuck me” shoes. No. These are “eat me” shoes—almost as high and pointier at the toe.
Jax fills the doorway. His shoulders are broader than I remember. His face is tan for April, and his jaw still a square angle. His hair is shorter at the sides, but still long enough on top to bend toward his forehead. He’s too many steps away for me to stare at his mouth.
Small mercies.
Jax looks good. Better than good. In a collared shirt, and… Jesus, are those chinos?
“Wasn’t sure I’d see the day,” I tell him, my voice surprisingly level.
“When I walked back in here? Me either.”
“I meant that you’d wear a belt without studs in it.”
Jax rounds the table, his amber gaze sending shivers down my spine. Never once does he break my gaze as he spans the distance between us.
He stops inches away, his attention skimming down my dress, lingering on my legs. Then it drags back up.
Jax Jamieson is still walking sex. I can’t tell if he’s thinking about me or music or what he had for breakfast, but his firm lips and bedroom eyes threaten to destroy every piece of armor I’ve put on.
He hasn’t aged, either. His face is strong and unlined, his nose straight, but as he leans, there’s a tiny bit of gray in his sideburns.
It shouldn’t be hot.
It’s totally hot.
“Nice lipstick,” he says, and I have to fight the urge to press my lips together.
I’ve watched him in the media an
d can’t remember a mention of him with someone. But then, Jax has always been good at keeping his private life private.
His mouth skims my cheek as he leans in to whisper, “If you wanted to fuck me, Hales, all you had to do was ask.”
My swallow fills the room.
“Am I interrupting?” Serena chirps from the door.
My eyes flutter shut for an instant, grateful for the reprieve.
Jax turns. “Skunk girl.”
Serena drops her folders and phone next to mine on the table. “Pretty boy.”
I take a seat next to Serena.
Jax drops into the chair facing our side of the table, looking around at the empty seats. “Let’s get this over with.” A knock sounds at the door, and Jax’s face clouds with suspicion. “What’s going on?”
Derek strides in with Todd. They’re followed by a guy with long red hair, a blond, and one with dark hair, twirling drum sticks.
Jax stares at them as though he’s seeing a parade of ghosts.
“Didn’t I tell you, Jax?” My voice is light. “We got the band back together.”
The look he shoots me is a mix of disbelief and incredulity, and it almost gets me back on even ground.
They say hello, exchanging bro hugs, except for Jax and Mace, who hug properly. Mace murmurs something I can’t hear, and Jax replies. They drop into seats next to him.
Derek starts. “Thank you for coming.”
“You didn’t give me much choice.”
“Music’s changing, Jax,” Todd, Wicked’s head of production leans in. “We don’t want to let more time go on before finishing the contract we agreed to. Which is why we’re cutting an LP.”
Normally I don’t give Todd a second look. He’s narrow-minded and chauvinistic, but I can’t help staring at him.
Jax beats me to it. “Full-length? Since when. I heard this would be an EP.”
“It is.” I shoot Todd a look, because we talked about this already.
The chance of going platinum—what I’d promised Derek—is higher with a full-length album. But I don’t think I can keep Jax here long enough to get that out of him. It could take months. Years.
“We need to remind people who you are,” Todd goes on. “Put you back on the map. That takes more than four tracks.”