I drive the van back to the warehouse so fast, I nearly wrap myself around a telephone pole twice. I chain-smoke half a pack of cigarettes, hoping it might calm me down, but it does nothing to dissipate the simmering frustration inside me. My hands curl around the steering wheel so tight, I’m worried I might break it.

Lacey.

I swear, the girl is one of the seven signs of the apocalypse. A plague worse than locusts, famine, and pestilence combined. When she called me at the Elmwood, I should’ve known better than to answer. I should’ve let the damn call go to voicemail. Instead, I pressed the phone to my ear and got to spend five long minutes swallowing my rage as I listened to her prattle on about the arrangements she’s made with Clay, never bothering to consult me, of course.

“They’re flying us out for a showcase on the Fourth of July — isn’t that great? All the major Red Machine executives will be in LA for the holiday. We leave Saturday morning. They’re throwing a massive rooftop pool party for all their artists that night… It’ll be an ah-mazing introduction to the LA music scene!”

When I reminded her we couldn’t be in LA on the Fourth, seeing as we agreed to play at the Let Freedom Sing festival, she simply scoffed.

“I’m talking about a record deal here, Ryder. This is about the rest of your life, not some little festival on the riverfront.”

I tried to stall her, to tell her I needed more time to talk to Aiden and Linc. Deep down, I still thought there might be a chance to bring them in on the deal, that maybe together we could come up with a plan to change Clay’s mind. But Lacey had no interest in that — she’s already cut emotional ties with everything still binding her here.

“Playing one last gig with them isn’t going to change things,” she snarled through the receiver. “Don’t mess up our only shot over a little guilt. Opportunities like this don’t come around every day, Ryder. Do you really want to be stuck in this town forever because you were afraid to hurt the feelings of two guys whose names you won’t even remember in ten years?”

I hung up on her in a blind rage. I’ve always known Lacey’s about as loyal as a paperclip in a room full of magnets — just ask Adam and every other guy she’s screwed over — so it doesn’t surprise me that she’s so apathetic about breaking up the band we’ve spent the better part of two years playing music with. What really gets under my skin is that, deep down, even if I don’t want to admit it…

I know she’s right.

Playing one last gig with the guys won’t change a damn thing. If I can’t get Clay to bring on all four of us… our friendship is over. I can avoid the loft as much as I want, put off telling them till the last fucking minute before I leave for the airport… but I’m just delaying the inevitable moment when they realize what a shitty person I am for choosing my dreams over theirs.

After that phone call, normally I would’ve drowned my sorrows at the bottom of a bottle. Since I was at a nursing home at the time, that wasn’t exactly an option. Despite my efforts to compartmentalize all the guilt and anger swirling around inside me, when I walked back to Felicity’s side and saw her gazing up at me with pure trust in her eyes, I thought I was going to lose it completely.

Don’t give me your trust, I wanted to warn her. I don’t deserve it.

Don’t place your heart in my hands, I wanted to scream at her. I’ll only break it.

Instead, I tried to tell her the only way I could.

It ain’t me babe, I sang to her, begging her to understand. It ain’t me you’re looking for.

But singing with her was my biggest mistake of all. Sitting there, our voices harmonizing perfectly, staring into her eyes… feeling that gravitational pull between us… everything changed. Because out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning, I was hit with the horrifying fucking realization that if this girl — this gorgeous, mysterious, funny, broken girl — asked me to stay here with her… If she asked me to walk away from Lacey, from Red Machine, from the goddamned dreams I’ve been chasing for as long as I can remember…

I might just do it.

That scared me far worse than any confrontation with my roommates or discussion with my dad about my looming resignation. My dreams are the only thing I have. My dreams, my voice, and these two hands to play with.

Take that away…

I’ve got nothing at all.

I pull the van into the warehouse, hitting a button to close the garage door behind me. I unload the equipment from the back, wincing when I see Felicity’s guitar still sitting there. She was in such a rush to get away from me, she forgot it. I don’t blame her; I was a total dick.

I am a total dick.

At least now she understands that. Now, she’ll stay away.

Now, she’ll be safe from me.

The light is on in the office, which means my father is still here. I approach, already dreading the encounter, and pause in the doorway. He’s sitting at his desk, head bowed over a ledger, a half-empty tumbler of scotch clutched in his right hand as his left turns the pages. I suck in a steadying breath and rap my knuckles against the frame.

“Dad.”

Kip Woods looks up, his disappointed expression as familiar a sight as that glass in his hand. “Where the fuck have you been all day?”

“I was helping a friend with something.”

“I expected you back hours ago. Where the hell are your priorities?”

My jaw locks, trying to stay calm. I know better to pick a fight with him when he’s drinking. “I’d already finished up my site visits for the day—”

“Save it. I don’t want your excuses.” He rises to his feet. Despite his age, he still cuts an intimidating figure at six-foot-two. When I was a kid, I thought his hands were the size of hams. Truth be told, they don’t look all that much smaller now. “I needed you back in the office. What if one of our clients required urgent assistance, and you weren’t here?”

“You could’ve called me. I had my phone.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, if there’s an emergency, I need you to handle it immediately — not in the hour it takes to get back from whatever joyride you were on.”

“Was there an emergency?”

His teeth grit. “No.”

“Well, I can’t solve problems you don’t have. I’m not all-knowing or all-powerful.”

His fists clench — a warning. “You watch your fucking mouth.”

I lift my hands defensively. “Sorry.”

“Sorry what?”

“Sorry, sir,” I grit out, biting down a less flattering name I’d like to call him.

His eyes are glazed, a bit unfocused on mine as he comes around the desk. His lumbering gait tells me that’s not his first glass of scotch tonight.

I refuse to shrink back from him, even when he gets right up in my face. He may be built like a truck, but I’m taller than him now. And even without that inch, I stopped letting him use brute force to intimate me when I was fourteen.

“When are you going to stop messing around with music and start giving a damn about the things that matter?”

“Music matters,” I retort before I can stop myself. “Maybe not to you, but it matters.”

“This company is all that matters. It’s your future.”

“No. It’s not my future.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he growls.

“It means, I’ve got a real shot at a record deal.” My voice is emotionless. My heart feels like stone inside my chest. “I’m flying out to LA on Saturday to finalize things.”

“So that’s it.” His chest puffs up as rage swells inside him. “This is the thanks I get after everything I’ve done for you. Paying for college, giving you a seat at the company table, grooming you for success—”

“That’s the thing, Dad. Staying here, taking over this place—” I gesture around, desperate to make him understand. “That’s your version of success. Not mine. And I know you’ll never understand it. I know you’ll never understand me. But my dreams are still my dreams, even if they disappoint you. Even if you don’t support them.”

“You ungrateful little shit.” His jaw is ticking with fury. “You think you’re going to last out in LA? You won’t. You don’t have the the stomach for it. The truth is, your mother coddled you. You’re soft. And when you slink back here with your tail between your legs after the real world kicks you in the nuts, don’t expect this job to be waiting for you. As far as I’m concerned, you and I have nothing else to say to each other. Ever.”

I rock back at the blow straight to my heart. “Dad—”

“Don’t call me that.” He’s never been a warm man, but right now he looks colder than I’ve ever seen. “You walk out that door, you’re no longer my son.”

The air crystalizes. Time slows to a crawl.

His red-rimmed eyes narrow. “And don’t bother calling your mother, appealing your case to her. We’re a united front on this. You leave, you lose us both.”

Frozen, I stare at the man who raised me, eye-to-eye, feeling my heart pound against my ribcage. There’s so much I want to say. I want to scream until he hears me. To make him understand that this is something I need to do. That it has nothing to do with him, or his company, or the way he raised me.

But I can see in his empty eyes that nothing I do is going to make a damn bit of difference.

Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the keys to the van and set them down on his desk with a soft clink. I clear my throat, just once.

“You and I haven’t always been on the same page. But you raised me to make my own decisions, to think for myself, to take the right road even when others try to steer you wrong.” I walk to the door, pausing at the threshold for a beat. “I’ve got a chance at the life I’ve always wanted. I have to take it.”

Grabbing Felicity’s guitar from the hallway, I walk away from my father, from my inheritance, from the only security I’ve ever known.

I don’t look back.

* * *

The phone rings twice before kicking over to her voicemail. Again.

“Hi, it’s Lacey! I’m not here right now. Obviously. Leave it at the beep! Or, ya know, text me, because it’s not 1995.”

I stab my finger angrily against the screen as the sharp beep tone sounds through the receiver. This is the fifth call she’s dodged since we spoke on Tuesday night. I’ve left three messages with Chris, Clay’s assistant at Red Machine, but he’s not calling me back either. My stomach has been a pit of nerves for the past three days and it’s only getting worse, the closer Saturday creeps. The plane ticket that arrived by courier yesterday leaves at noon tomorrow.

Less than 24 hours from now, I’ll be in Los Angeles.

I can’t screw up this deal. Not now that I’m essentially unemployed and excommunicated from my family. But I also can’t screw over my friends. Not until I’ve expended every other option. That includes begging Clay — and, if necessary, even Lacey — to rework our deal so Aiden and Linc aren’t cut out.

It’s risky. I could lose everything. But I don’t have much of a choice if I want to keep my friendships and my integrity intact.

When I walk out of my bedroom into the loft, the guys are sitting on the couch drinking beers.

“What’s the word on Lacey?” Lincoln asks, absentmindedly twirling a drumstick in his fingers.

I shake my head.

“So she’s not coming to the gig tonight?”

“Highly doubtful.”

“Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

Aiden takes a healthy swig of his beer and sets it on the coffee table before chiming in. “I didn’t want to mention this until I knew it was actually going to pan out, but I talked to a few guys who work at Route 66 Records the other night, schmoozed over a few beers. Fuck if I know why, but they actually agreed to come hear us play tonight.”

“Dude!” Lincoln yells.

My jaw gapes. “Are you serious?”

Aiden grunts in grim affirmation.

“God dammit.” Lincoln’s eyes are wild. “Of all the fuckin’ nights Lacey decides to bitch out on us, she had to pick this one…”

Aiden finishes off his beer, his eyes locked on my face. He’s never exactly chatty, but he’s been staring at me with that strange look since I got home from the confrontation with my father the other night. Perceptive motherfucker. It’s like he somehow knows I’ve got bad news to break before I’ve opened my mouth.

I need to tell them about Red Machine. All day, I’ve been trying to find the right time. I take another swig of my beer, steeling myself. “Guys—”

“I just can’t believe Lacey pulled this again.” Lincoln is muttering under his breath, running his hands through his short crop of blond hair. “I’ve been waiting for our shot to play at Tootsie’s since we first started jamming together. It’s not fucking fair.”

My guilt rears its ugly head again.

Aiden sighs deeply. “We should call the bar, tell them to give away our slot.”

“What?” Linc explodes. “There are record execs coming to see us! Us! Do you realize what a big deal that is?”

“Seeing as I’m the one who convinced them to come, trust me when I say that I do.” Aiden’s eyes are serious. “That’s exactly why we should cancel. We can’t go up there and play cover songs.”

“No,” I agree. “We can’t.”

“You want me to call?” Aiden asks, already pulling out his phone.

“Nope.”

They both look at me. I drain my beer in one long swig.

“Fuck Lacey,” I say succinctly. “We’ll do our set without her.”

“We can’t do it without her,” Linc sounds incredulous. “She’s our whole act.”

“No, she’s not,” I snap, an edge to my voice. I’m so sick of Lacey Briggs, I could spit. “I wrote those songs. You guys can play them backward and forward.”

“Your point…?”

“If I tweak some of the lyrics to fit our style and move the octave down a few steps… I’m thinking you guys can manipulate the tempo so we sound less Taylor Swift, more Tim McGraw…” I shrug. “We might be a disaster. Or, we might just salvage the night.”

“He has a point,” Aiden mutters. “We won’t play ‘Liar’ or ‘Warn Ya’ or any of the candy confection pop-princess songs. But ‘Hurts Like Hell’ and ‘Burning Stars’ are solid, especially if we strip away all of Lacey’s god-awful gyrating. And even ‘Told You So’ can work if you take out the lines about your boyfriend doing you wrong.”

I laugh. “Yeah, those need to go.”

Aiden grabs a pencil and starts scribbling down notes, rearranging things. “If we switch from a major key to a minor as we come out of the chorus…”

I walk over and join him, watching with interest over his shoulder.

“Let me get this straight. You two want to revamp our entire setlist.” Linc’s eyes dart between me and Aiden like we’ve both gone nuts. “You realize the show is three hours away.”

“Then we’d better stop wasting time debating about this and get to work,” Aiden mutters.

He laughs. “You crazy ass motherfuckers.”

I grin. “Does that mean you’re in?”