Out of everything he’d expected her to say, it wasn’t that. And, like a furious river overflowing its banks due to an onslaught unleashed by gray clouds overhead, his rage appeared out of fucking nowhere. “Of course, I fucking miss it.”
But it wasn’t the words that caused Raine’s face to blanch like it did right in front of his eyes. It was likely the force of his words, even behind the glass of the control room, and the tone of his voice.
Fuck. Why the hell—how the hell—had he lost it like that? It was just a simple question—and he’d acted like an unmitigated asshole. “I…think I need a few minutes to calm down. I’ll be back.”
And, with that, he left.
But he kept walking—and made his way out of the house. His fists were clenched at his side as he stomped across the desert along the fence line, those old ghosts swirling around his mind as if no time had passed. Because he hadn’t lied—yes, he missed those days. He ached for them. He missed creating music out of nothing with a group of like-minded friends; he missed the adoration of fans, the praise from peers, reviewers, and listeners; he missed belonging.
What he didn’t miss was waking up and not remembering how he’d gotten to a certain place or fighting with bandmates over things both trivial and important.
But he wouldn’t ever miss being second best again.
Jokers Wilder had started out so differently from the way they were when he’d left. They’d all been kids, but Quentin should have seen it from the get go: the media adored Elijah, the band’s namesake, constantly citing what a prodigy he was. But what about the rest of the band? They were equally young, equally talented—or, in Quentin’s case, he felt that he had more skill and aptitude than Elijah had in his right hand. But Elijah had charisma and knew how to charm the audience. That was what you wanted in a frontman, but it extended far beyond the stage. Elijah had the press bamboozled, and it didn’t matter that the entire band had writing credit. It was nothing more than Elijah this, Elijah that, and Quentin and the other guys were treated as nothing more than backup singers, bodies there to perform Elijah’s bidding.
Quentin had been the one who’d written and performed the guitar solo that made everyone decide Jokers Wilder was their favorite band.
But none of that shit mattered when he’d just destroyed the trust of the young woman he was working with. It had been hard earned and won and he’d broken it in a matter of seconds.
With a sigh, Quentin slowed as he approached the fence and took some time to look at the hills behind his property. As he continued walking the fence line, his mind wandered back again.
During Jokers Wilder’s second album, Elijah insisted upon writing more of the music. If he’d at least written good songs, maybe Quentin could have handled it, but they were pure pablum, garbage lyrics based on Elijah’s relationships. It got worse with his second wife. Instead of writing music from the heart, Elijah wrote fluff, having the balls to call it art. Even now, Quentin’s stomach filled with bile just thinking about it.
Leaving the band hadn’t been the worst plan and his intent was to prove to them all that he had been the true talent in Jokers Wilder, not Elijah. So he pulled together a band of amazing talent, and he was going to be the best guitarist and frontman he could be.
And when he realized that the complex melodies he wanted to wow the world with would need two guitars…he’d hired Natalie. She was impressive on the ax but also willing to take direction—perfect for his needs. He’d labored and toiled over his debut album, because so much was riding on it. He had to prove to the world that it was his music, not Elijah’s, that had made Jokers Wilder so successful.
So he spent way too much time and money in the studio.
He made sure every note was perfect, every riff exact. Whatever he could control, he did—and, although his manager and the drummer told him it was too perfect, he dismissed them.
But his album was lacking one thing…and they’d all called him on it.
While he’d made sure it was a technical masterpiece, he’d forgotten to breathe life into it.
And everyone saw it. They knew it upon first listen. He might have been able to fool himself, but he hadn’t been able to pull one over on his fans. They knew. And, while some loved him anyway, others moved on.
After that, Elijah was even more revered—and they believed Quentin was just a hack.
And, just like what happened to Raine, everything that happened afterward was watched and reported and, before he knew it, he was trying to figure out how to escape it all.
As he sidestepped a yucca, he breathed in the warm morning air, nodding his head. This place, his haven, had been a barrier between him and the fickle harshness of the world. It was supposed to keep him calm and controlled.
Instead, he’d completely lost his shit like a madman. Raine had made one innocent comment, and he’d exploded. Her face had said it all: he was scary, volatile, and thoroughly unpredictable.
He needed to apologize.
Although he didn’t rush, he turned back toward the house and walked past the rocks, shrubbery, and occasional Joshua Tree to make his way back there. Once in the house, he made a beeline to the studio.
But she wasn’t there—which meant she was probably in her bedroom.
Walking back down the stairs, he paused—and then he thought he heard her voice behind the closed door of her bedroom. As he quietly walked down to the lower level, he focused, trying to make out if she was singing or talking on the phone, but her voice was too soft. It wasn’t until he reached the door that he knew for sure she was singing. There was no instrumental accompaniment—just her words and a mournful tune carrying them.
* * *
If you were a faucet, I’d adjust the temperature,
You’re usually cozy warm but I never know for sure.
