“What’s going on?” I ask as Kai walks into the conference room behind Callum and shuts the door. “Where’s Jett?”
There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“We wanted to talk to you about something,” Kai says. “It doesn’t pertain to Jett, so we decided to keep him out of this.”
“Okay.” I draw the word out.
“I want you to listen to something,” Kai continues as Callum sets down his laptop on the center of the conference room table.
A few seconds pass as nerves rattle around inside me, that sense that I’ve done something wrong all too present. Especially since Jett isn’t here.
And then without warning, my voice fills the room. I close my eyes to escape it, but I can’t help but be moved by it.
It’s the last song I worked on in the studio. I remember it clear as day. Jett on the couch. Kai and Henry in the booth. The song I wrote about how I felt about Grady.
I feel like I’m not breathing the entire time the song plays. My eyes eventually open and stay locked on my hands as I listen to myself sing about love and loss and hope and want. All the things Grady made me feel. That I still feel.
And when the song ends, the room is quiet. Riddled with discomfort, I finally lift my eyes to see both Callum and Kai staring intensely at me.
“What’s going on here?” I ask. Although, the thunder of my pulse in my ears tells me I already know.
Callum looks over to Kai and nods.
“When you sang that song in the studio, Dylan, every person in that booth, including me, had chills. It was that stunning. What you just heard was that one take with a few tweaks to the background. Jett was on the couch, so absorbed in himself he didn’t even lift his head, and I remember wondering why he couldn’t recognize that a number-one hit was being sung when the rest of us did? But not a hit for him, no. A hit for you, Dylan. With your vocals. So raw and haunting and emotional. Christ. I knew you were going to be mad at me, but I had to turn it in to Callum. I had to let him hear what I heard.”
I stare at Kai, every part of my body feeling like it doesn’t belong to me as I listen to his words, hear his praise, and still want to ask if he’s really talking about me.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally stutter out.
“Say you’ll let me release that single on our label.” Callum enters the conversation for the first time. I start to speak, and he holds up his hand to stop my protest. “I know you hate the limelight, Dylan. That’s more refreshing than you could ever imagine, but I can’t let that demo go without begging you to keep it first. Is it a great song for Jett’s album? Yes. Will it be a hit? Yes. But it won’t be the same without your voice sounding like it just did. It will be good, but it won’t be that.”
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?”
“I sang a song. For me. The label wants to record it and release it as a single.”
“You did?” There is so much pride in his voice, and in lieu of what he’s facing now, I almost feel guilty for talking about me. But I have a reason. “You actually went into the label and asked for studio time and recorded a song for yourself?”
“Yes.” The white lie rolls off my tongue. My need to give him encouragement is more important than the semantics of how it all went down.
“God. I’m so proud of you, Dyl. You did it. You really did it.”
“And I know you can do it, too.” I wipe the tear away that slips down my cheek. “This is what you love more than anything, Grady. Your job. Your calling. This is the last step you need to take to get back to the new and improved Grady Malone.”
“I wasn’t aware I needed improving.” His chuckle this time is warmer.
“I’m a fan of you however you are.”
“Malone. Gear up. We’re heading out in five,” a voice calls in the background, and I want to beg for just one more minute.
“You gotta go.”
“I’ve gotta go.” He sighs.
“Be safe, Malone.”
“Always.” I’m not sure who he’s trying to convince more, himself or me.
“Grady.” I’m not sure why I say his name, but I can’t let him go just yet.
I miss you.
Come back to me.
I love you.
“Two-in. Two-out. Promise me that.”
“Two-in. Two-out,” he murmurs. “When this is over, McCoy, you and I need to have a talk.”
And then, before I can say another word, before I can tell him I agree, the call drops.