“It is simple. Not easy.”
“Same thing to you.”
“No. I’ve done hard. I just don’t dress it up like it’s more than it is.” I hold his gaze. “Like you do.”
“That’s your problem, you know that, Lou? You think you know everything because you drew some pictures. You have no idea the pressure I’m under for this fucking album! A five-year-old could do your job?—”
The front door opens. Voices.
Troy freezes, then bristles. “What the?—”
Knox Turner walks in first. Medium height, solid, brown hair a little shaggy with streaks of silver at his temples, deep brown eyes that miss nothing. Tattoo sleeves with edges that trail beneath his T-shirt.
Houston follows, tall enough to block light, sandy-blond ponytail, green eyes steady and watchful. Looks younger than Knox, but still has a dusting of gray in his roots. It just makes him look distinguished. More handsome in person than in his music videos.
Salem brings up the rear. Shorter than his brothers, still taller than me. Ripped. Black Caesar cut that’s turning to salt and pepper, sharp goatee, bright blue eyes that telegraph mischief as if he plans anything he does.
For half a second, I’m fifteen with posters on my shared wall in one of my foster homes, fighting with my roommate about taking them down. Then I’m here, twenty-five, with a boyfriend about to make a scene with either me or his older brothers.
“What are you doing here?” Troy snaps.
Knox takes in the tipped chair, the shut laptop, my face. Not surprised. “Recording. We’re booked for the hour.”
“I’m here now. Get out.”
Houston nods at me, a silent hello. “Troy, we can share the space.”
“I don’t share withyou.”
Salem’s mouth curves. “You never knew how to share in the first place.”
“Don’t start with me,” Troy says, moving like he’ll square up. He doesn’t get far. Houston’s stance shifts half an inch.
The threat is clear.
Knox clears his throat. “We’re not here to get into it. We’ll use Studio B.” He nods at me. “You must be Lou.”
I swallow. “Hi.”
“Want coffee?” Houston asks, voice low. “Machine works.”
“I’m fine, thanks.” My inner fifteen-year-old is squealing.
Troy cuts a hand through the air. “Don’t talk to her.”
I frown at him. “What did you just say?”
“We’re in the middle of something. They don’t need to talk to you.”
“We were in the middle of something, but then you were a dick to me, and I’m not having it.”
Knox exhales. “We can come back.”
“No,” Troy snaps. “You always come back. You kicked me out and still manage to be everywhere.”
“Wait, what was that?” I look at him. “Kicked you out?”
His gaze flicks over my shoulder. “It was mutual.”
