I pull out another piece of paper and start doodling a kitten. What I really want to work on is the lion I’ve been meticulously drawing for the past week. It’s actually turning out pretty well, even though half my room is now covered in charcoal-pencil dust, and I’m itching to finish it. But I left the drawing and all my art supplies back at my house, so binder paper and a mechanical pencil will have to do.
My sketched kitty is sleepy, with very closed, very non-Jace eyes. I don’t tell Avery what I’m thinking: that I can’t believe she wasted all that time, either. How many times did I tell her to lose the Tone Deaf obsession? Like ten thousand. But she wouldn’t listen. If she’d just listened, then I never would have gone to that concert, and Jace never would have . . .
No. I can’t blame Avery. It’s not her fault.
Avery sighs and, as if she’s reading my mind, signs, “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry, Ali. I never should have dragged you to their concert.”
I quickly sign back, “It’s not your fault. Not at all. You’re not responsible for that asshole’s actions.”
She turns away and scrubs at her face with her hands. It’s obvious she’s holding back tears, but I don’t have it in me to comfort her. If I tried, I’d just burst out crying myself.
“Look, Avery,” I sign. “Just forget about it, okay? It happened, and now it’s over.” I point to the pile of crumpled posters as proof.
She shakes her head and signs, “We should go to the media. He can’t just get away with treating you like that. He can’t!”
I roll my eyes and scribble out the cat. It looks all lopsided and pitiful, and I don’t have the patience to fix it. “If you heard Jace treated someone like that, would you have believed it two days ago?”
“Yes. Of course.”
I give her a pointed look. She lets her head fall back and reluctantly signs, “No. I guess not. Two days ago, I would have thought he was too good to do anything like that.”
“And that’s exactly what all the Tone Deaf fans out there would think. They wouldn’t believe me. Besides, it’s not like I have proof of what he said to me.”
Avery flops onto her bed and crosses her arms over her chest, her lips pursed in a pout. I can tell she still wants to try reporting Jace, and a small part of me wants to smile at her loyalty.
“He needs to pay for this,” Avery grumbles, although I don’t know if she means for me to see the words.
I shrug. “His attitude will catch up to him eventually.”
Even as I say it, I know it’s a lie. He’s a freaking rock star, a celebrity, a modern god with hordes of followers. He can do anything, and nobody will care. Well, as long as he does his shit to someone like me—someone who doesn’t matter.
“Eventually isn’t soon enough,” Avery says.
I don’t respond, and we fall into silence. I start sketching a sleepy puppy, and Avery sulks on the bed, glaring at the ceiling. Then I feel a buzzing in my pocket, startling me and making me draw a thick, dark line through my cute puppy.
Crumpling up the paper, I toss it in the corner with the others and tear my phone out of my pocket. A new text waits for me on the home screen.
Sorry.
I bite my lip, hiding a frown as I wonder which of my meager group of friends has heard about my run-in with Jace. I don’t recognize the number, which is weird. When you use your cell phone as much as I do, everyone gets programmed into contacts. Texting is one of the easiest ways to communicate with hearing people, so I use it all the time. Not that it’s made my small group of friends grow much; getting close to people is near impossible when I’m constantly hiding everything about my home life. But at least it helps.
I toss the phone onto Avery’s desk, not bothering with a reply. No matter who it is, I don’t want to take part in a pity party.
It buzzes again, and I reluctantly look at the screen: I was a jerk. Sorry.
What the . . . no. It can’t be Jace. He doesn’t know my number, and even if he did, I don’t think an asshole like him would ever bother with an apology.
Avery taps on my shoulder. I turn to find her standing beside me, hands on her hips, lips still in a pout. “We need to do something, Ali. We . . .” She trails off as she sees the text on my screen. “Who is that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Wrong number?” she asks, although her frown is just as suspicious as mine.
“Probably.”
The phone buzzes again. Alison. Come on.
My heart picks up its pace. So it’s not a wrong number. And, as far as I know, there’s no one else who should be apologizing to me.
No one other than Jace.
I reach for the phone, but Avery grabs the arms of the desk chair and spins it so I’m facing her. “No,” she says. “You are so not going to waste your time giving that douchebag a response.”
I nod in agreement, but I can’t form any words. How in the hell did he get my number? My heart keeps pounding, and I close my eyes, just wanting the whole situation to go away.
Avery grabs the phone and starts typing, but I snatch it away before she sends some insulting message. I hug the phone close to me and wag my finger at her. “We’re not going to get in a pissing war with him.” I say it out loud, so she can’t pretend to misunderstand me. “Like you said, he’s not worth our time.”
She throws her hands up and glares at me. I’m used to exasperating Avery, but I’ve rarely seen her like this; she looks genuinely upset with me. “Let me talk to him.”
“No.” This is something I need to deal with myself. He insulted me, he flipped me off, and so it should be me who deals with him.
Before Avery can protest, I jog into the hallway, clutching the phone close to me. I turn into the bathroom right outside her room and lock the door. Taking a deep breath, I sit on the edge of the bathtub.
Vibrations run through the tile, and I know Avery is outside banging on the door, trying to get me to come out. I pull out the phone and erase the part of the message Avery already typed. Once the last swear is cleared from the screen, I start my own message.
How did you get my number?
The response comes almost instantly. Ticket sale records.
I groan. Avery was the one who saved up for the tickets, but she’d had me make the actual purchase, since I’m better at scrounging up online deals. I’d been certain the info I gave the ticket site was private, but Jace probably isn’t the type to care about confidentiality. He’s got the money to get past any kind of barrier. Lucky bastard.
Another text pops up on my screen: I’m really sorry.
No you’re not.
But my manager thinks I should be.
I squeeze my eyes closed just as my phone vibrates again. I clench it tight, resisting the urge to chuck it across the room. After a long minute, I stare back down at the screen. I’m not about to drop the conversation now and let Jace think he got the better of me.
You need money?
I’m slightly surprised at how articulate his texts are. Most guys use as many abbreviations as possible when they text, which drives me nuts. But not Jace. Well, that’s one thing about this conversation that’s not infuriating.
How is that any of your business? I text back.
I’ll give you 3k if you let me make up for being a jerk.
I rub my temples. This is so not how this conversation was supposed to go. I was supposed to tell him off, say he was an asshole and that he can’t just go around treating people the way he does. Money was never supposed to be a factor in this.
How does he even know how broke I am? How desperately I need cash? For every second Avery has spent daydreaming about Tone Deaf, I’ve spent a minute dreaming about escape. To get away from this city, away from the air that’s strangely hot and dusty. To run back to NYC, where beautiful chaos rules and no one notices you unless you want them to.
To escape to a place where my dad could never find me.
“Damn you,” I mutter, clenching the
phone tighter in my hand. I hesitantly type back, What do you want from me?
Just finish the tour. Take a couple pictures with me. I promise I won’t even talk to you.
I laugh as I read his reply. Jackass. Like ignoring me is some type of gift? Seriously, what’s his issue? Sure, he’s made his living off music, but that’s no reason to hate anyone who can’t hear his work. I think of all the people I’ve seen posting on the DeafClan forums about his music, and suddenly wish I had my own account, just so I could warn them that Jace doesn’t deserve his fans.
And why is he even offering this to me? Probably to keep me from going to the media, like Avery suggested. After all, Jace doesn’t know for sure that I don’t have any evidence of what he did. I’m sure some girls would have tried to discreetly film their encounter with a celebrity, which is probably what he’s worried about. But if Jace gets a couple of pictures with me, both of us smiling, then no one can claim he’s done anything wrong.
My breath catches in my throat as I realize these texts would probably give me enough evidence to convince a news outlet of what an ass he was to me. But . . . damn it. The number he’s using has a local area code, probably from a phone he borrowed. There’s nothing to prove it’s actually him. Which leads me back to the impossible issue of getting the media to believe me over a celebrity.
No, I type back before I can stop myself. I don’t need your pity.
This isn’t pity. This is my manager keeping you quiet.
Well, at least he’s honest. But still a jackass.
I grit my teeth and flick to his first text, getting ready to delete every word he’s sent. A message screen pops up, asking, Send conversation thread to trash? Just as I’m about to press OK, another text appears.
8k. Final offer.
My throat goes dry. With eight thousand dollars, I could easily get a plane ticket to New York City and pay for a few months’ rent. And combined with the money I’ve saved up over the years, I’d have enough for a semester at a community college, which would give me a chance to improve my grades and get accepted into a nice university . . .
No. I’m not really considering this. Am I? Even though he’s the one offering the money, it’s still pretty much blackmail. And I’m above that . . . right?
More vibrations run through the tile floor from Avery outside the door. I wipe a sweaty palm on my jean shorts, darkening a small splotch of the denim.
I take a deep breath and text back, When do you want to meet?
Tonight. 8:00. Meet at the stadium stage.
I quickly select each of the messages and delete them. But there’s no satisfaction now. Instead, my stomach rolls, like I’d just swallowed a cocktail of antifreeze and boiling tar. I reach over and unlock the door, and Avery comes rushing in. “What did you say to him?” she demands, her agitation causing her to sign and speak at the same time.
“I told him to f-off and never text me again,” I say. I know if I told her the truth, Avery would insist on coming with me tonight, and I don’t want that. It’s going to be hard enough to stop myself from strangling Jace, without also having to hold back my overprotective best friend.
Her lips purse in a suspicious frown. “I heard your phone go off a few times.”
I force a smirk onto my lips. “He doesn’t take rejection well.”
That makes a smile spring onto her lips, and she nods decidedly. “Awesome. You gave him what he deserved.”
“Yup.”
She holds out her hand and wiggles her fingers. “I’ve got to see this conversation.”
I shrug my shoulders hopelessly. “Sorry. I already deleted it. Didn’t want any trace of him on my phone.”
For a moment, Avery’s frown reappears, but she quickly replaces it with a triumphant smile. Then she runs over and envelops me in a hug. My bruised cheek presses against her shoulder, and I try not to cringe.
I hug her back, driving away whatever remaining suspicions she has. I try to push away my guilt over the lies I’ve just told. Jace Beckett, you’d better come through on your end of the bargain.
6
JACE
“I SHOULDN’T HAVE to do this.”
I’m not sure who I’m talking to; Tony isn’t listening to me, and I’m sick of hearing my own voice.
“You were an absolute asshole to her, Jace,” says Tony. So apparently he is listening. You never know with that guy; he always has his ear to a phone or his nose pressed against a screen, so it’s hard to tell if he’s paying attention or not.
He’s on the couch with his phone in his hand, clicking through emails. Probably all of them are about me or some event I’m about to participate in. As my manager/royal-pain-in-my-ass, it’s Tony’s job to keep my career in order.
Tony quickly types out a message before glancing back up at me. He looks nothing like a band manager should: short dirt-brown hair, pale complexion, wire glasses that sit on the end of his nose. He hardly looks professional, let alone stylish, like most people in the music industry try to be. But what Tony lacks in appearance, he makes up for in marketing genius. There’s no way Tone Deaf ever would have gotten off the ground without his skill.
“Jace? Are you listening to me?”
I ignore him and focus on the notebook in front of me. In my sloppy handwriting, the front reads, THE PERFECT SONG. Although, I’m beginning to wonder if that will ever be true; I’ve been working on this song for years, and it’s far from perfect.
Strong hands clasp on my shoulders, making me flinch. I still half expect those hands to cause pain, even though I know Tony would never hurt me. But the fear is ingrained in me, and it makes my words sharp as I growl, “Get off me, Tony.”
He keeps his hands right where they are, and even gives my shoulder a little squeeze. Bastard. He knows how much I hate it when he does emotional crap like this.
“Jace, listen to me,” Tony says, his voice surprisingly even. “You were terrible to that girl. She doesn’t deserve what you did, and you know it.”
I grunt in response and turn back to my notebook, reading over my revised first lines: When clarity’s gone and logic is done and love flees out the doorway,
When kisses hurt and your heart is cursed and so carelessly cast away . . .
. . . And then nothing. I’m stuck on the next line, and even though I have three dozen previous drafts of this verse, nothing seems to fit.
Tony sighs and lets go of me. I slowly release a breath and unconsciously flex my shoulders, checking for damage.
“I’ve told you before,” he says, “stunts like this could ruin you. We’ve all seen it happen before. One bad media story can flush a music career down the toilet.”
“I don’t care,” I mutter, knowing I sound like a three-year-old.
“And what about the rest of the band? Are you willing to ruin their careers, just because you’re too petty to make things up to this girl?”
Damn it, I hate it when he does this. He’s pulled the think-of-your-bandmates card plenty of times before to convince me to act like a nice little rock star. He knows our band is a family, and that I could never hurt any of them. Never.
I raise my hands in exasperated defeat. “I’ll give her the tour. Just don’t expect me to suck up to her or anything.”
Tony rolls his eyes. “I’d never expect you to suck up to anyone.”
“Good.”
A knock comes at the RV door. Before I can even respond, the door whips open and Killer pokes in his head. “The deaf girl is here!”
I rub my eyes with my palms and bite my lip to hold back a yell of frustration. “Thank you for announcing that to the entire neighborhood, Killer.”
“Dude, she’s deaf. You really think it matters how loudly I say it?”
I sigh and stand from my chair, stretching to work out the kinks in my neck. This is the part of the job I hate: the people. I got into this business because of the music. Not for the fans, not for the attention, and definitely not for the socialization. Unfortunately, all
those things are necessary if I want to keep the band alive.
Tony gives me a pat on the back, which I shoot him a glare for. How hard is it for him to keep his hands to himself?
“Thirty minutes,” he says. “That’s it. Give this girl thirty minutes of your time, take a couple of smiling pictures with her, and then you can forget about her forever.”
I walk out of the RV, silently chanting his words: thirty minutes, thirty minutes, thirty minutes.
And then forget about her.
Forever.
7
ALI
I CROSS MY arms over my chest and gaze around, taking in the empty stadium. One of Tone Deaf’s tech crew members greeted me at the entrance gates and led me here to the base of the stage. Then he ran off to fetch Jace, leaving me to wait.
It’s been hardly one day since the concert, but everything looks different. The giant screen is off, and the only lights on the stage are the dim backup ones. There’s no audience, no sound vibrations or packed bodies. Just plain old silence.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and tap out a beat with my foot, driving my frustration into a steady rhythm. I guess I should just be happy I’m getting eight grand out of this. But I’m not happy; no amount of money is worth the sort of humiliation Jace flung in my face. A soft breeze ruffles my hair, but it does nothing to cool my flaming temper.
I look over the seats in the stadium, toward the lot in the distance where I parked. My dad let me borrow his old Pontiac tonight, like he sometimes does. My feet itch to run back to the car and drive away. This was a mistake coming here. I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be giving in to Jace’s bribe. It’s not right.
Before I can convince myself to leave, I see Jace coming toward me. He emerges from one of the hallways right beside the main stage, moving like he has a lead ball chained to his leg.
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