“Check this out,” Mac said as he slid the bottle across the table in the private dining room at the Capital Grille.

Easing back in the leather chair, I turned the label toward me. Even if I could read what it said—which I couldn’t—I refused to show any enthusiasm.

From the rich, amber color of the liquor, I’d say bourbon. And knowing Mac, expensive as fuck. On the band’s first trip to LA, before we’d officially signed with Metro Music, Mac had wooed us with champagne that cost more than any of us made in a week—hell, a month. But that was a long time ago, and I couldn’t be bought for the price of a bottle of booze. I couldn’t be bought at all.

Then why the fuck are you here?

Ignoring the accusatory voice in my head, I gave Mac a bland stare. “I’m not signed with your label anymore. And I know you didn’t fly all the way out here a week before I’m leaving on tour to discuss overpriced hooch.”

Mac picked up the bottle and smiled. “This is Pappy Van Winkle Family Reserve. It’s rare and hard to come by. Like loyalty in this industry.” After that little dig, he twisted off the cap and poured three fingers into a crystal tumbler. “But you’re right. That’s not why I came.”

He set the glass atop a neatly folded stack of documents, then slid the drink and the pile my way.

Disregarding the papers, I picked up the bourbon, but before I could lift the drink to my lips, Mac tipped forward. “First, take a look at the offer.”

Offer?

Somehow, I knew that was the reason I’d been summoned. If Mac wanted to merely shoot the shit while he was in town we wouldn’t be dining at the Capital Grille. The restaurant prided itself on discretion. And plenty of backroom deals were made right here. But hearing Mac say the words with that smirk curving his lips turned my stomach.

Still, I set my drink aside and unfolded the paperwork. I’d signed many contracts, so I was familiar with the look of them, even if the contents remained a mystery.

Functionally illiterate.

That was the term for someone like me. Not that anyone would ever guess.

Rubbing a finger over my lips, I pretended to peruse the pages, skimming over words and letters I couldn’t decipher.

After a few moments, I tossed the mess on the table and let the games begin. “So?”

Mac chuckled and flopped back in his seat, shaking his head. “Look, I know you’re pissed at me.” With a sigh, he poured himself a drink. “But I’m really not to blame for any of this. Caged just got caught in the crossfire.”

If I hadn’t been a party to every sleazy legal maneuver he’d initiated over the past year, I might actually believe him. The conviction in his tone, the tilt of his head—all very convincing.

“Why should I listen to a word you say? Your legal team filed an injunction to keep my band from producing another album. And—”

“My beef is with Twin Souls,” he interjected, impatient. “Tori Grayson took my biggest clients. She may have had some luck as a manager, her and Taryn, but let’s not forget she started her career with Metro. I made her band a household name.”

Hearing Mac rewrite history reminded me of why I had a career to begin with. Nearly six years ago, Damaged was the only noteworthy client that Mac had. And when a bus crash took the lives of two of the founding members—Tori’s husband, Rhenn, and Paige Dawson, her best friend—Mac didn’t wait a hot minute to send every scout on his payroll to Austin to sign up their replacements. Caged was caught up in the wave, part of what the media now dubbed the Sixth Street Phenomenon.

I drained my glass. “Seems to me, without Tori you wouldn’t have had any clients to begin with.”

It was meant to be a parting shot. An inconvenient truth that Mac couldn’t deny. And maybe a way for me to redeem myself for meeting with this asshole to begin with.

But Mac just shrugged. “Doesn’t matter how I made it to the show. Point is, I’m here. You may not like me, Logan, but the deal I’m offering …”

With the trip down memory lane, I’d almost forgotten about the papers in front of me. But it didn’t matter. There was no way my bandmates were going to crawl back into bed with Mac. Hell, I needed a shower to wash off the stain from merely sitting across the table from him.

Shaking my head, I pushed my chair back. My ass wasn’t two inches off the seat when Mac added, “You can’t tell me the thought of a solo career never crossed your mind.”

It took a minute for the words to register. Solo career. I sank back into my seat, stunned.

A slow smile crept over Mac’s face. “You’re a lot like me,” he said, pouring us each another drink. “Friends are friends. But business is business. Do you think your new label’s going to give you the opportunity to strike out on your own?” He chuckled. “Of course not. Chase is going to look out for his brother. You may be the lead singer, but Cameron writes all the songs. And he’s almost as popular as you are.” Mac sat back, lifting a finger off his glass and pointing it at me. “I’d say it’s only a matter of time before Chase pushes you out.”

Taking a long swallow of the smooth liquor, I shifted my focus elsewhere so Mac wouldn’t know his words hit home. Signing on with the label my bandmate’s brother formed was a no-brainer. Chase was a brilliant musician and he knew the business. Plus, he’d supported the band from the beginning. Hell, we still played a show a month at his club on Sixth. But now that Chase had hooked up with Taryn, maybe he had a different plan.

I scoffed inwardly at the thought. Chase was family. He’d never sell me out.

Returning my attention to Mac, I pinned on a self-assured smile. “Not going to happen.”

He held his hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say. But it seems imprudent to put all your eggs in one basket.” His gaze fell to the papers. “Look, I think you’re the real draw in the band. And I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. All of Metro’s resources. You’re going to get lots of visibility from the tour. I could have you in the studio the day after your last gig while your current label is still tied up in legal proceedings. Without a new album, Twin Souls is the only one who benefits from the tour, since they’re doing this all themselves.” He tipped back his glass, then hissed air through his teeth. “And speaking of that … how smoothly do you think this tour is going to go without a major concert promoter pulling the strings?” His brow lifted for the hundredth time. “Just sayin’. Something to think about.”

After setting down his drink, Mac rubbed his hands together. “So what do you say? Shall we order dinner and discuss your options.”

Options? Did I have options? Was this even an option?

Right on cue, the waitress appeared at our table. “Have y’all decided?” she asked, glancing at our unopened menus. “Or do you need a few more minutes?”

Mac tipped his chin at me. The choice was mine.

Hands curving around the arm of the chair, I willed my legs to work so I could get up and leave. But they didn’t. Shrinking back against the leather, I took a deep breath.

“I’ll take the rib eye,” I told the server. “Make it bloody.”