He’d heard from his agent. Then he’d heard from the attorney his agent had hired for him. Then he’d heard from the label. Linx had been told in no uncertain terms, making music publicly with Tanner and Mach could, technically, be considered a breach of his Dimefront contract. They couldn’t prevent him from playing with them in private, but the consensus had been that he needed to not do anything to tick off the label. It’d look bad for him, and it could affect their shot at a deal later on.
That fucking sucked.
On top of that, Knox fought the dissolution of Dimefront. Which made no fucking sense at all, given thathewas the one who always talked about leaving so he could do other shit. After a long chat with Hans, it became abundantly clear—Linx’s escape clause wasn’t aGet Out of Jail Freecard. He couldn’t just call it quits without owing many people a shit ton of money.
He didn’t like owing others a shit ton of money, so he was going to have to go back to the studio with Knox and Bax. But he would hold out on a tour. Too close. Too much time with these assholes.
Linx did his best to block Knox out of his mind. He bit on the blue guitar pick between his teeth to free his hands up so he could write a few notes on the pad he’d been filling.
A tap on the door drew his attention away from the music.
“What?” he asked.
Uh huh, he was being unreasonably grouchy. Fuck it. He’d earned this mood.
The door pushed open, and Knox strode through like he wasn’t in the midst of threatening to sue the hell out of Linx.
“The fuck do you want?” Linx asked, moving his gaze to the yellow pad of legal paper where he’d been making notes about the song.
Knox crossed his arms. “I know you’re pissed.”
Oh, yeah? He knew that. Good.Linx said nothing in return. Knox hadn’t fucking earned a response.
“I’m sorry.” Knox uncrossed his arms and shifted on his socked feet.
Mom must’ve caught him at the door and made him take off his shoes. She had a whole thing about that. Linx didn’t get it, but he rolled with whatever made her happy while she visited.
Linx still said nothing.
Knox held out a finger and began counting, “One, I’m sorry for sayin’ I wanted out of Dimefront. Two, I’m sorry for not tellin’ you we were coming to Denver before we showed up. Three, I’m sorry for that time I hooked up with London. Four, I’m sorry I threw out all of your guitar picks in Belgium and replaced them with peanut butter M&Ms. Five, I’m sorry I didn’t give you a heads up about what went down with Bax and Courtney when I found out.” He knelt in a squat, ass to heels so he was at eye level with Linx. “I miss anything?”
Linx set aside his guitar. He ran his palms over his face. “No.”
“You have something you want to say to me?” Knox asked.
Given that Linx hadn’t fucked with Knox on any of the tours, and he didn’t keep secrets, he had nothing to say. Still, it took a pair of brass balls to walk in here and apologize. “Apology accepted. Now fuck off.”
Accepting the apology didn’t mean that he was ever going to go on tour again with—
“Good enough.” Knox tossed a business card on the ground in front of Linx.
Then he stood. “See you there.”
He left, saying nothing else.
Linx went back to playing and writing his song, not looking at the card. But the pull of whatever the hell it was finally overtook his desire not to know. He looked.
The business card of a music studio near LoDo. On the back, someone—not Knox, the handwriting was way too easy to read to be his—noted a time.
4:30.
That’s all it said.
They had summoned him. He hated that.
Fine, he’d show. He’d show, and he’d make music.
But he didn’t have to like it.
