Page 117 of Worth the Fight

I stare at him, my eyes blinking, my rationality warring with my insecurities. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Kai pleads. “Jett doesn’t deserve this song.”

“Look, think about it. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll send the contract to your agent. I’ll work with whatever terms you want. You want to release the song and never perform? That’s fine. You want to release this single and write more to release a full album? That’s even better. The song is so incredible, your voice so perfect for it, that I’m willing to work with you. You know I’m not one to budge on many things.”

“I’m flattered.” Stunned. The world is spinning off its axis. “But I’ve never wanted the spotlight. I do better behind the curtain.”

“We know,” Kai says with a reassuring smile. “But, God, Dylan . . . this is worth it.”

I leave the conference room feeling like I’m in an alternate reality. I have to be. And yet, I can hear the song in my mind. The clarity of my voice. The raw emotion threaded through it. The possible creation of texture, the layering of harmonies. And I know they’re right.

It’s a hit.

Not with Jett’s voice.

But with mine.

It looks to me as if I owe someone a phone call.

* * *

“Dylan? Is that you?” There’s what sounds like a flood of relief in his voice and every part of my body reacts to him saying my name. The swell of my heart. The widening of my nervous smile. The ache in my lower belly. The way my fingers grip the phone as if I let it go he’s going to slip through my fingers.

“Hi.” My voice is shy, quiet, but some of the nerve it took me to actually hit send dissipated as soon as he picked up.

There’s silence. Then we both try to talk at the same time. Then we laugh as we both say, “You first.”

“The connection is shitty. Is that you?”

“I’m here. Can you hear me?”

“Fuck, it’s good to hear your voice, Dylan. Really good.”

“Same here. You’re well?” I ask, uncertain what to say but knowing I will recite the phone book to prevent him from hanging up.

“Yes. Yeah. Kind of.” His chuckle sounds as nervous as mine. There’s a loud roar overhead that’s almost deafening.

“It’s a borate bomber. I’m on scene. The Santa Rios fires. We just got here and are about to gear up.”

The exhilaration I felt calling him comes crashing down and shatters all around me when I recognize the fear in his voice. The uncertainty tingeing its edges.

I know about the fires. They’re all over the news, their rampage devastating. Maybe I was just being naïve to think Grady was at the station, covering the other units that had been dispatched like he had all summer.

“Grady.” A sudden surge of panic reverberates through me.

“God, I needed to hear your voice.” Chills race over my skin, and the way he says those words tells me all I need to know. He’s struggling. Every part of me wishes I could race to his side, look him in the eyes, and reassure him . . . but I can’t. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . . I can’t let the guys down, Dylan.” His raw honesty is heart-wrenching.

“You aren’t going to, Grady. I know you won’t. You’ve changed so much since I’ve met you. You’ve grown. You’ve faced your fears. You’ve realized⁠—”

“I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can. I have faith in you.” And then my synapses fire all at the same time and my thoughts align. “Grady, we made a deal.”

“Yeah?” He sounds distracted.

“I fulfilled my end of it. That’s why I’m calling you. I wanted to tell you I did it.”

“Did what?”