Page 10 of Worth the Fight

DYLAN

“How are you?” Jett’s voice rasps through the line like a fine whiskey over ice—smooth but with a burn to it.

I fight the threatening tears. I refuse to let his sudden concern for me make me fall back into the black hole being in Sunnyville is trying to pull me out of.

“Do you like the lyrics so far? I think they work well with the track you laid down.” I try to sound all business and wonder if he can see right through it.

“Dylan . . .” His voice is part apology, part concern, and I don’t want to believe either is sincere. “It feels like it’s been forever since⁠—”

“Weeks. Not forever.” Twenty days to be exact.

“Too long.”

“The bridge sits perfect with the riff you have on there⁠—”

“I didn’t call to talk about the songs,” he says.

“Then I guess I’ll be hanging up about now.”

“No. Please, Dylan. Don’t⁠—”

“You’re going to show up for your scheduled session in the studio on Wednesday, right?”

“Of course, I am.”

“And you’re going to be on your best behavior? No tantrums. No⁠—”

“Christ, Dylan, I’m not a kid.”

Then stop acting like one. The thought rushes through my mind. Why did it take me so long to see how immature he is? How his temper tantrums were not artistic frustration but rather him being spoiled rotten?

“Don’t screw this up for me, Jett. I need the label to think everything is good. I don’t need them worrying if the album will be completed in time. From the get-go of this contract they threatened to table it if you weren’t behaving, and I can’t risk that. I need the⁠—”

“Money. I know, I know. And I told you I’d give you the goddamn money to help your mom. It’s not a problem.”

“I don’t need shit from you,” I say through gritted teeth. “All I need is for you to do your job and not screw up.”

The quiet vibrates across the connection.

“And if I don’t? If I miss the studio time, maybe that will force you to come home and actually talk to me face to face.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” My hand fists on my phone, and I hate knowing that I wouldn’t put it past Jett to pull a stunt like that. His threat is real.

“I wouldn’t.” There’s amusement in his voice, and I can all but see the cocky smirk on his face. “I don’t need the money. I’m more than good. Then again, we do need to talk.”

“Actually, we don’t.” Images flit through my mind like the snap of a camera: the light under the closed bedroom doorway, Tara straddling him, their mutual moans, their shocked faces when I gasped. How he shoved her off him and chased after me. The words, the promises, the apologies. Her stalking after us in all her naked glory. And then the nasty words she said that fed every insecurity I feel about myself.

“I made a mistake. I don’t know how many ways I can apologize to you before you believe it.”

“Apologizing doesn’t take the hurt away.” Neither does the photo I saw of them in People Magazine sitting outside at Starbucks where they knew the paparazzi would snap a shot of them.

“Have you seen her again?”

“I miss you, baby. I miss—” I’ll take that as a yes. His change in topic is classic Jett Kroger. If he doesn’t want to admit to something, he shifts gears without a second thought.

“Let’s focus on the song I sent you earlier. I’m still not sold on the opening verse, but⁠—”

“I stopped by our place the other day⁠—”