Collide (Worlds Collide Book 1)

by Quinn Nolan

  I open my mouth but no sound comes out. I swallow hard before trying again. “Yes.”

  Somer nods. He already knew the answer to the question. “Once signed, the agreement became a legal and binding contract. In it, you agreed not to tell anyone of Mr. Anders’ presence and not to speak to the media about any activities that took place during his stay.”

  I gulp, a shiver coursing through me at the word media. He knows I did that interview—of course he does. I think back to the brief phone conversation with the reporter. I was careful when I answered her questions—I didn’t say where Everett was staying and I didn’t tell them anything about his time at the lake house. I merely admitted I knew him. “I didn’t—”

  “Is it true that you allowed your boyfriend, Graham Jordan, to walk the grounds? And that he saw Mr. Anders?”

  Heat creeps over my body, up my back and down my arms, into my ears and my cheeks. “He wasn’t my boyfriend—we were just dating—”

  “And is it also true that you gave an interview to a reporter named Trina Winters in which you discussed Mr. Anders?”

  My breath comes in shallow gasps. He’s taking things out of context, making everything sound worse than it is. “I—I didn’t say where he was. And I didn’t say anything about him—just that we met and—”

  Somer tramples over my words. “Now, Mr. Anders is being forced to cut his vacation short in order to avoid the kind of media circus he was escaping by coming here. You are in breach of contract, Miss Mackenzie.”

  My jaw drops and my wild eyes fix on Leo, whose gaze is trained on the table. “He’s right, Ashlyn,” he murmurs. “Now, Mr. Jennings has promised he won’t involve lawyers and he won’t pursue a case against you—or me—on one condition.”

  He doesn’t have to say it. I already know—in a way, I’ve known since I saw Somer sitting at the table. “I’m fired.”

  Leo meets my gaze only briefly. “You have to be out by Sunday.”

  Somer stands, nodding at Leo. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”

  He’s already to the front door before my body and brain sync up again. He has to catch a plane—the same plane Everett will be on. I spring up, the heat in by body gathering in the pit of my stomach. I can’t believe what just happened. I feel like I’ve been beaten and spit on. Why is he doing this to me?

  I’m out the screen door before Somer is off the porch. “Does Everett know you’re doing this?”

  Somer’s motions are slow as he turns, and I’m positive I know what I’ll see in his face—embarrassment, maybe, or fear that I’ll tell on him. But when he faces me, there’s only pity in his eyes. He reaches to the back pocket of his plaid shorts and pulls out a piece of paper. “He won’t care. He’s seen this.”

  He holds the paper out and I snatch it from his hand. With trembling fingers, I unfold it. My stomach drops as I realize what I’m seeing: Graham and me in the parking lot of the brewpub after my last shift—the night he demanded I do the Trina Winters interview. I thought it was strange when he kissed me, for sure, but it never crossed my mind he might be doing it on purpose. Did he know there was still a photographer poking around outside? It wouldn’t surprise me—just one more snippet of attention to add to the flame of his fifteen minutes.

  I didn’t tell Everett about Graham coming to see me that night, didn’t tell him about the kiss. Is it possible he thinks Graham and I are still together? How could he believe that?

  I hold the picture back out to Somer. “You have to tell him this isn’t what he thinks. You need to tell him—”

  Somer snorts, turning back toward his car. It’s parked across the street from mine, and only now do I recognize it: It’s been parked in the garage for weeks. Everett’s rental. “I don’t have to do anything. Everett will be better off without you. Toxicity will be better off without you.”

  Somer opens the door to the rental car and slips into the driver seat. I watch as he starts down the street. He’s barely around the corner when the tears come.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Everett

  A voice crackles through my headphones and the sound of instruments around me fades. “Everett, you’re a little sloppy on that chord change.”

  I slide my hand up the neck of my guitar. “Yeah, Stan, I know,” I say into the microphone. Stan, our sound engineer, is on the other side of the soundproof window, sitting at the sound board. In the two weeks since we started recording this record, he’s given similar feedback approximately once every three minutes. I’m flat, I’m sharp, the riff doesn’t sound right. The rest of the band is putting up with it as well as can be expected, but Stan is rapidly reaching the end of his rope.

  “Look, I was told you guys were ready to record.” Stan’s said this so many times in the last few days it wouldn’t surprise me if he recorded it on a track and just hits the playback button. “I cut my vacation short to get back here because Rena Adair herself told me—”

  “I know, I know.” I glance around the cramped box of the recording studio and try to catch Chase’s eye, but he’s shifting through some papers on his music stand. “Just—can I have five minutes?”

  Tristan mutters something about how five minutes isn’t going to change anything, but I ignore him. Without waiting for Stan’s go-ahead, I pull off my headphones and set my guitar in its stand.

  The air in the hallway is cooler and fresher than the air in the studio. Something about having four guys in an enclosed space for any length of time makes the room heavy and oppressive.

  Over the last two weeks, I’ve gone through the five stages of grief—drinking, heavy drinking, throwing things at the walls, making out with random hotties at the club, and more drinking. Still, I can’t shake this persistent sadness.

  Ash should be on her way to L.A. right about now. But that was never going to happen. She was in league with Graham all along, just using me, my celebrity, for his gain. It was all a lie.

  I’ve been presented with all the facts, and all the evidence points to the same conclusion. Still, I have a hard time believing it.

  I head for the bathroom, just to have a destination. So far, we’ve recorded two songs—the first two I sent from the lake house. They sound good, especially with the whole band behind them, but I can’t help hearing the echo of Ash’s critique in my head. Derivative. I even asked Logan and Tristan if they thought the tunes were too similar to the stuff on Adversity Corporation, but they just looked at me like I was crazy.

  Soon after returning to L.A., Somer showed me the proposed lineup of songs for the album. “Invigorating Hope” made the cut, along with “Stowed Summer,” which I finished on the plane. Even after Somer gave me the track list, I kept hammering out new tunes for him to consider—each one stemming from a memory of Ashlyn, of our time together. Although he was originally hesitant about the new songs, they’ve been growing on him. Last week, he had me do rough demos of half a dozen songs to play for the execs, trying to get clearance to change the track listing on the new record.

  I suppose at least something good came from my time in Michigan.

  I’m halfway to the bathroom when someone calls my name. Somer is power-walking down the hall, waving his hand. “Ever. Good, you’re on a break. I wanted to talk to you. I have some news.”

  I perk up. Could it be about Ash? Maybe he found out she didn’t actually give that interview. Or that the picture of her and Graham kissing was forged to look like it was taken after she and I got together? Or it was a fake altogether? “What is it?”

  The eagerness in my voice must be too obvious. Somer sighs, his shoulders slumping the way they do any time I bring up Ashlyn’s name. “It’s about those songs I brought to the execs. And it’s not good.”

  My stomach drops. “They don’t like them?”

  “They... They feel the songs are a bit too...sappy,” he says bracingly.

  I gape. I can’t help it. Were they actually listening to the music? I was so sure they’d love the songs, be
as excited about them as I am. They liked “Invigorating Hope” and “Stowed Summer” and these other tunes are in the same wheelhouse. “Wait—too sappy for Toxicity, or in general?”

  He shrugs, holding up his hands. I recognize the gesture. It’s the I-have-an-answer-but-it’ll-just-upset-you-more-so-I’ll-play-dumb gesture I’ve seen him use on other members of the band from time to time. “There’s more. And you’re not going to like it.”

  I steel myself. “What?”

  “Rena listened to the tracks you’ve laid down so far and, well, she’s—in her word—‘underwhelmed.’ I got the call today. She scrapped the track list and replaced it.”

  I gulp as his meaning sets in. “She’s going with the ghost-written stuff, isn’t she?”

  He nods solemnly. “I’m afraid so.”

  My fingers curl into a fist, and I strike so quickly Somer lets out a high shriek. My knuckles crack the drywall, causing the framed album artwork on the walls to shiver and leaving behind a gaping hole. Somer says something, but I can’t decipher his words through the rushing in my ears. “They can’t do this! I can’t do this! If I’m doing someone else’s songs, it’s not real. I’m no different than every cover artist in the world if I’m not doing my own stuff.”

  Somer’s hands close around my shoulders and he gives a firm shake. “You are still who you’ve always been—Ever Anders, international rock star. That’s what Rena and the others are working so hard to protect. You’ll see. Just give it a chance, and you’ll see—”

  I shake him off. What does it even matter, really? Maybe he’s right and I shouldn’t care so much. I already got my ass handed to me last time I took a chance and cared for something. Maybe it’s better to just let the label take over. Somer’s right—I’m a goddamn rock star. I better start acting like one.

  “Fine, Somer. Get me the other songs. I’ll learn them.” I rake my hand through my hair. “You’d better be the one to tell the engineer we’re scrapping everything, though. I’m pretty sure he’s about ready to kick my ass.”

  Somer nods. “Of course. I’ll take care of it. I’ll have all the music for the new songs to your place by this afternoon.”

  “Awesome.” I turn on my heel, heading toward the nearest exit.

  “Wait—Ever. There’s one more thing.”

  I pause and wait for him to catch up. “Yeah?”

  “Well, I convinced the label that even though we’re not using your songs, you should get compensated for your time.”

  He pauses and I wonder if he expects me to thank him. After a beat, he continues.

  “They’ve agreed to a pretty fair amount and a standard purchase agreement. The provision for royalties is... well... scant. But since there are no plans for the songs to actually be recorded—”

  I wave my hand to cut him off. “Whatever. Have the paperwork drawn up and I’ll sign it. I just... I’ll need a couple days to be ready to record again.”

  “Of course.”

  I’m halfway down the hall when Somer’s voice reaches my ears. “I’m sorry things worked out this way.”

  I snort but don’t slow. I’m sorry too.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ashlyn

  How is it that Graham Jordan is suddenly a big fucking deal?

  In the weeks since Everett left, Graham’s name is popping up all over the internet. But it’s not until I see him on TV that I lose it.

  It’s Friday night and I should be working at the brewpub, but I’m still on a forced leave of absence. Kevin finally got sick of photographers that kept lurking around, waiting for what, I’m unsure, and decided that until my name’s been out of the media for at least a week, I’m not to come to work.

  Teresa is working, but Reagan, in solidarity, has eschewed her usual Friday-night outing and sits beside me on the couch in her apartment. Her couch, also known as my bed: All my things are in storage—there’s no way they would fit here. Since my job situation is so tenuous, Reagan insisted I stay with her until I get my feet under me.

  She and Teresa have been hovering over me like mother hens since Everett left. It started as lighthearted man-bashing coupled with bottles of wine. It hit its expiration date and I figured things would go back to as normal as possible under the circumstances, but that has yet to happen. I’m never alone. It’s like Teresa and Reagan don’t trust me to be by myself. Besides eat my weight in chocolate, I’m not sure what they expect me to do if left to my own devices.

  I catch a glimpse of Graham’s face as Reagan flips through the channels. She’s convinced channel-flipping is faster than reading through the guide listings. Even though I know she recognizes him—she sucks in a breath—she keeps flipping.

  “Rae, turn it back.” I reach for the remote.

  She tenses like she’s going to put up a fight but quickly blows out a breath and does as I asked. When she’s back at the channel, she mutters something about Graham’s smug face before crossing her arms and leaning back into the cushions.

  The entertainment reporter smiles into the camera and sweeps her curtain of brown hair over her shoulder. “If you haven’t yet heard the name Graham Jordan, you must be living under a rock. The musician, local to the Detroit-metro area, made headlines recently when his girlfriend cheated on him with rocker Ever Anders.”

  “They didn’t say your name,” Reagan offers. “That’s a good sign, right?”

  I don’t bother to reply. By my count, I haven’t been mentioned by name in any new articles in four days. Even the phone calls and MyFeedMe requests for interviews have stopped. I’m old news.

  Graham’s face fills the screen. He sits on a sleek, white couch, several potted plants around him—an interview setup. My stomach twists as he gives an easy smile, gazing at someone just off screen. “Yeah, you know, it tore me up. I mean, of course it did. But, you know what? Some of the best writing? It comes from—” He closes a fist over his heart, nodding. “—right here. Right here. So, that’s what I’m doing. I’m making music. Turning all this pain into something, you know. Beautiful.”

  Reagan makes a scathing noise. “Douche.”

  I wave my hand at her, leaning forward as the reporter returns to the screen. “His heartbreak just might become the best thing that ever happened to him. While there’s no official word, rumor has it that Jordan is in talks with several record labels, including Sonic Thunder, Toxicity’s label.”

  The screen goes dark and Reagan tosses the remote toward the TV. It lands with a thud on the carpet. “Sonic Thunder? Can you imagine? If they sign him, it’ll just be a publicity stunt. Just think of the press they could drum up, having Graham and Everett at the same events—maybe staging a couple fights to keep their names in the papers. You really dodged a bullet, not moving to be a part of that madness.”

  I flop back against the cushions, not bothering to reply. Although they know exactly how things went down, Reagan and Teresa have taken to talking about my current situation as a choice—like I decided not to go to L.A. after all, not that the option was taken from me. It’s sweet, I guess, but not exactly helpful. And not at all true.

  I tried to contact Everett. I scoured the lake house for something that might let me get in touch with him. I appealed to Leo, who, mostly out of guilt, avoided eye contact, but his only contact had been with Somer. I sent private messages to the band’s MyFeedMe page, reached out to some slightly stalkery fangirls, and went so far as to actually call Somer, who apparently refuses to pick up from any Detroit-area area code. I know. I tried calling from four different numbers.

  I can’t help thinking that if I could only talk to Everett, tell him the truth about the picture, that we could get things straightened out, that everything would shift back to normal. But how do you get in touch with someone as untouchable as a rock star?

  The idea is so simple when it arrives in my mind that, at first, I’m too dumbstruck to act on it. Could it really be so easy?

  I stand and head to the apartment’s door, stopping to slip on
a pair of sandals.

  Reagan sits at attention, peering over the back of the couch. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yeah.” I scan the room for my car keys.

  “Where?”

  I grab my keys off the end table. “I have to talk to Graham.”

  Reagan’s on her feet in seconds. “What? I thought we hated Graham?”

  “We might be the only ones,” I mutter, swinging my purse onto my arm and heading for the door.

  “Wait—I’ll drive.”

  I round on her, holding up a hand. “Look, I appreciate it—I do. But I’m doing this alone. I have to do this alone.”

  She opens her mouth like she wants to disagree, but closes it again, shaking her head. “Okay.”

  I offer a tight-lipped smile. “Promise I won’t drive off a bridge,” I call as I walk out the door.

  ***

  To ensure Graham will be at his apartment when I show up, I call in advance, and—while I don’t exactly lie—I word my responses in such a way that he could believe I want to do some more interviews to bolster his burgeoning career.

  But I couldn’t care less about his career. It’s my own life, my own happiness, that concerns me when I buzz his apartment.

  Graham grins, wide and relaxed, as I ease past him into his apartment. “I knew you’d come around,” he says, closing the door. “I figured once your named dropped out of the media, you’d come looking for a way to get it back.”

  I suppress a shudder as I perch on his couch. He really never knew me at all, did he? “I really don’t care about all that.”

  He snorts as he sits beside me, like he can’t believe that could be true. “I’m actually surprised they dropped your story so fast. Bloggers loved you—regular, everyday girl lands rock star.” He smiles ruefully. “I guess once Ever Anders was back in L.A., interest in you dried up. Without the rock star, you’re just some girl. But maybe that’s why you’re here? You wanna stage a reunion? People’d love that. We could wait until right around the time my first album launches—leak the story that you heard all the songs and realized what a fool you were to drop me for Anders...” He stares off across the room, lost in his own idea. “Yeah, I bet that’d work. Give a good buzz just before the album—”