I stand at the railing, staring out at the haze blanketing the Los Angeles skyline as the sun slowly sinks toward the Pacific. There’s a party raging behind me on the hotel roof, two hundred people drinking and laughing and chatting, but I pay it no attention at all. I drain my glass in one gulp, barely tasting the whiskey as it slides down my throat. It’s the first drink I’ve had since we got here, but the four I downed on the plane to numb Lacey’s incessant chatter are still sloshing around in my empty stomach.

I don’t know why she thought I’d want to speak to her, after the shit she pulled last night. In fact, I tried two separate times to get the flight attendants to switch my seat before we boarded, to no avail. Lacey either didn’t notice my indifference or simply didn’t care, keeping up a running commentary for the entirety of the four and a half hours we were in the air.

I couldn’t tell you what the hell she said. Sipping my whiskey, I stared out the window with my mind fixed on only one girl — and it sure as shit wasn’t some peroxide blonde psychopath dressed head to toe in bubblegum pink.

Felicity flashes in through my mind in fragments.

Her mouth, parted on a moan.

Her eyes, flashing with heat.

Her fingers, clenching against my skin.

Turning, I cut a path through the crowd, heading for the bar. I need a drink if I’m going to last the whole evening at this gathering. Red Machine’s stocked the place to capacity with newly signed artists, social media influencers, and execs from the label. It’s supposed to be a pool party, but most of the people here aren’t even wearing bathing suits. If they are, they’re the type worn as a fashion statement, never to actually get wet.

Everyone seems just a tad too perfect as they glide around in sarongs and designer heels — their bodies too toned, their teeth too bleached, their tans too even, their enthusiasm too genuine. They eye my bruised face, black jeans, and faded tee with looks ranging from skepticism to outright distaste, as though someone’s let the hired help attend the party by mistake.

I’m almost to the bar when Lacey’s familiar shrieks pierce my eardrums like nails on a chalkboard. My head turns in time to catch a glimpse of some blond surfer type picking her up and jumping into the water. Three girls in barely-there bikinis and sky-high stilettos scowl when they’re hit with the resulting splash, shooting death glares at my singing partner.

Lacey Briggs, ladies and gentlemen. Making friends wherever she goes.

At the bar, I wait for an available bartender. They’re all slammed making complex cocktails for every girl in the crowd who wants some low-calorie, high-maintenance drink. I overhear someone ordering something called a Skinny Cucumber Cosmo — with a twist — and snort under my breath. Apparently I’ve left the shot-and-a-beer crowd behind in Nashville.

Shame.

A raven-haired girl in a hot pink dress props herself onto the stool beside mine to wait. She smiles and I nod politely in return.

“Hey,” she says after a minute of awkward silence.

My eyes slide over. “Hey.”

“So, should I see the other guy, or…?”

My brows go up. “Excuse me?”

“Your face,” she clarifies, indicating my bruised cheekbone and split lip. “Usually, when you ask someone about a fight, they say, you should see— Oh, forget it. A joke you have to explain isn’t worth repeating.” She laughs. “I’m Becca.”

“Ryder.”

“Pretty lame party, huh?”

I shrug. “Don’t really have anything to compare it to. It’s my first night in LA.”

“Promise me you won’t judge all of us by this crowd.” She grimaces. “I swear, it’s usually more fun than this.”

“How do you know I’m not having fun?”

“You mean besides the perpetual scowl on your face…?” She giggles. “Don’t worry, the group orgy in the pool should liven things up, later.”

I stare at her.

“Kidding!” She giggles again. “God, my jokes really aren’t panning out today, are they?”

“It might not be you. I’m in a particularly shitty mood.”

“Horny, heartbroken, or in need of a hit?” she asks, winking. For the first time, I notice how wide her pupils are, the black almost overtaking her pale blue irises. “If it’s the latter, there are plenty of people here who can hook you up.”

“Nah, I’m cool.”

“Suit yourself.” Becca sighs. “God, how long does it take to get a vodka tonic around here? These bartenders haven’t even glanced my way once.”

“If you flash them, it might speed up the process. Seemed to work for her.” I jerk my head to the left, where a blonde with huge fake tits is sipping her raspberry rum punch with a candied sugar rim.

Becca doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve tried that before. Rarely shaves more than a minute off the drink delivery time. Welcome to LA, where everyone either is a plastic surgeon or has one on standby. Boobs have no novelty factor.”

I crack a smile for the first time all day. “Guess you’ll just have to wait.”

“That’s all right. The company isn’t terrible, I guess.” She grins at me. “So, are you with the label?”

“Considering a deal.”

“Ah, so they flew you out here to woo you with pool parties and ex-porn stars in bikinis.” She shoots a meaningful glance at the big-breasted blonde. “Oh, jeez! Wait! Ryder Woods, right?”

I blink. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Your reputation proceeds you.”

“Wasn’t aware I had a reputation out here already.”

“Maybe not with the general public, but within Red Machine the name Ryder Woods has not gone unspoken. I’m Clay’s second assistant. AKA Chris’s assistant. AKA assistant to the assistant, as it were.” She smacks herself in the forehead. “Sorry, I should’ve put it together when you first introduced yourself.”

“No worries.”

“They put you up in the hotel for the night, right? Chris had me make the reservations a few days ago.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Great views of the city.”

“And convenient — when you have to locate your bed in a drunken stupor tonight, it’s right downstairs.”

“That all depends on whether I’m able to get another whiskey.” I spin the empty glass between my palms. “Two bartenders, serving about two hundred people? I’ll be stone cold sober by the time this thing wraps up.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Becca clinks her empty glass against mine, reaches into her purse, and pulls out a small bag of white pills. Grabbing my hand, she drops dozen or so into my palm. “For later. In case the whiskey runs dry.”

“What are these?”

“Oh, just a little pick me up.” She shrugs. “Nothing too intense.”

“Honestly, I appreciate the gesture, but I’m more of a whiskey man. They’d just go to waste on me.” I try to hand them back to her, but her hand curls around mine, closing the pills inside my grip.

“I insist! Consider them my welcome to LA gift.” She waggles her eyebrows playfully. “You can thank me later.”

Rather than fight with her about it, I shove them into my pocket to toss once she’s out of sight.

“Uh, thanks,” I mutter for lack of any alternative, wondering what the hell kind of Alice in Wonderland hole I’ve tumbled into where people hand out drugs like party favors within five minutes of meeting you.

“So…” Becca’s eyes dart to Lacey, who’s still splashing around with her new friend in the pool. “That’s your singing partner, right?”

“Sometimes.”

“She your girlfriend?”

“Definitely not.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

When I simply stare at her in silence, she throws her head back and laughs. “Oh, come on. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

I attempt a grin as I push Felicity’s face to the back of my mind.

She’s not my girlfriend. She never was.

So why can’t I stop thinking about her? Why can’t I stop wondering what she’s doing? Why am I picturing the little crease that appears between her eyes when she’s trying not to laugh, or the way she swings her hips to the beat as she hums a new melody under her breath? Why can’t I stop wondering what she’d say if she were the girl sitting beside me on that stool?

LA is not for me, she told me last night, grimacing.

She’d hate it here. She’d hate all of this. The pool no one’s swimming in, the flashy show of wealth, the snarky condescension being traded in every cluster of conversation. The drugs, the drinks, the superficial smalltalk.

It’s an introvert’s nightmare.

I’m pissed off that her opinion carries so much weight inside my head, when she’s not even here to voice it. I don’t know when her perspective started to matter so much to me. When she started to matter so much. I’ve never been the guy that has a problem cutting ties after sex. Leaving in the morning is practically my varsity sport. Hell, if I’m being honest, most of the time I don’t even bother to stay until morning — I’m out before the sheets are dry without so much as an I’ll call you or a kiss goodbye.

But last night… I didn’t want to leave. And this morning, when I woke up with Felicity wrapped in my arms, it took every goddamned ounce of strength inside me to climb out of her bed and pull on my clothes.

Walking away from her damn near killed me.

Staying away might just finish the job.

When the bartender finally appears in front of me, I shake myself back to reality. I order a double whiskey neat, and he glances at me with appreciation as he pours a few fingers of amber liquor into a tumblr and slides it over. I take a large swig the instant the glass hits my hand.

“I like this brooding James Dean thing you’ve got going on,” Becca says absently. “It’s a good act. Edgy. Sets you apart from everyone else.”

My brows lift. “Who’s acting?”

“You mean to say you’re actually this brooding?” She gasps in fake surprise. “How terribly non-zen of you.”

“Zen wouldn’t be in the top ten words I’d use to describe myself. Generally speaking.”

“That’s a shame.” Her head shakes. “LA is very big on zen.”

“Seems to me, LA is very big on making a lot of money and shoving it in other people’s faces while pretending to be zen.” I shrug and take another long swig of my whiskey. “Not sure anyone I’ve seen so far is zen for real.”

“Oh, man.” Becca laughs again like I’m the funniest person she’s ever met. “I can’t wait to see what Clay does with you. Like oil and water. Bette and Joan. Tay and Kanye. This is gonna be great. Come on, let’s go find him.”

I make sure to ask the bartender to top me off before I follow her deeper into the party.

* * *

“There he is! Ryder!” Clay exclaims when we walk out onto the terrace. “How are you? Good? Oh, I’m so glad to hear it.”

Apparently, we’ve had a full conversation without my having to say a damn word. In his mind, at least. Clay is seated on a plush white sofa with a wine glass in one hand, his phone in the other. His brown hair is buzzed on the sides into a trendy undercut more popular with teenagers than most men in their early forties. Chris is sitting across from him, typing rapidly into his phone.

Of course.

I nearly snort — it’s the second time I’ve met this guy and we’ve yet to make eye contact.

“How was the flight? Good?” Clay lifts his glass in a toasting manner, grinning wide. “And I see you’ve already met Becca. By the bar, no doubt. She’ll drink you under the table, watch out! Hollow leg, that one.”

She throws her head back and giggles like a hyena. I thought her amusement was genuine the first time she did it, but the move is beginning to wear thin.

“I had to rescue him,” she says, plunking down beside Chris. “He looked absolutely miserable!”

“Well, we certainly can’t have that. Come, sit, sit.” Clay gestures to the free loveseat on the other side of the sleek glass coffee table. There’s a gas fire pit running through the center, spark-less flames burning in a low, orderly line. “Ryder, I’m just so thrilled to finally have you out here, where the real action happens! No more hiding in the sticks, playing dive bars, am I right?”

“It’s great to be here,” I say as I settle in, wishing like hell that I meant it. “Thanks for having us.”

“Us? Is your lovely partner here as well?”

“Yeah, Lacey’s…” I glance across the deck and sigh. She’s waist deep in the pool, wrapped around the blond guy like an octopus.

“Enjoying the party, it would seem.” Clay’s teeth flash brightly in the growing darkness. “Not to mention the bassist from Hot Shot.”

My brows lift. “I didn’t know Hot Shot was signed with Red Machine.”

“One of our few remaining punk bands. Unfortunately, I can’t sell Emo anymore. I keep trying to get them to transition to a lighter sound, but…” He shrugs, as if he can’t fathom why an artist would be averse to completely revamping their entire musical identity. “Anyway! You’re here. Have a drink.”

I lift my full glass of whiskey.

“Oh, you’ve got one already. Good, good. That’s excellent.”

“Listen, Clay.” My throat clears. “I’m grateful to be here. Really. But there’s one thing I’d like to discuss with you before we start.”

His brows lift. “Oh? What’s that?”

“I tried to get in touch with you before I left Nashville. Several times, in fact. I don’t know if you received my voicemails, but I wanted to discuss my bandmates—”

“Sure, sure. Of course! But we don’t need to talk business right now!” He laughs and settles back against the couch cushions with a sigh. “You need to relax, Ryder! Have some fun. This is a party.”

“Oh, I’m having a great time,” I lie. My teeth grit in a smile that feels more like a grimace. I take another gulp of my drink.

“Glad to hear that. We certainly want you happy!” He’s so energized it’s almost off-putting. Granted, I only met him that once, at The Nightingale, but his eyes are a bit more wild than I remember, his whole demeanor more frenetic. It doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s been indulging in something stronger than the white wine in his glass.

“Are you excited for the showcase? Nervous? Don’t be.” He leans in, as if to confide in me like we’re the closest of friends. “You’ve got tomorrow to yourself to explore, but we’ve got you and Lacey booked in the studio bright and early Monday morning for some sound checks, followed by headshots in the afternoon. Don’t worry about those bruises — our makeup department could make you look like Gwen Stefani given enough time and resources, and what they can’t cover up can be airbrushed out.”

Clay’s habit of asking questions and barreling on without waiting for answers is enough to set my teeth on edge. He does it so seamlessly, it’s hard to realize you’re being handled.

“Clay, about the showcase—” I interject, but he cuts me off.

“Oh, don’t stress over the showcase. Merely a formality. You’ll swing by our annual board meeting on Tuesday, sing a song for the big wigs, and they’ll give the green light for us to officially make you an offer. They like to feel like they’ve still got their hands in the shit, so to speak, though truth be told they’re figureheads. We’re the ones who make all the decisions when it comes to talent.” His eyes shift to Becca abruptly. “Speaking of, did we hear back from the new girl’s agent yet? Who’s she using for representation? God, I hope it’s not Cynthia Firestone. I swear, she’s half woman, half pit-bull. Total ballbuster…”

Chris, Clay, and Becca begin to discuss another artist they’re hoping to sign, the runner-up from the latest season of America’s Got Tunes, the most popular singing competition in the country. I find myself tuning out after a few seconds, looking around the party in vain for any signs of intelligent life.

How the fuck did I end up here?

This isn’t how I imagined it would be. Not at all.

Of course, when I imagined it, I always assumed I’d have Aiden and Lincoln with me to enjoy every moment. I try to tell myself it’ll improve once we actually get into the studio. Once I have that record deal in my hands. Once I get up on stage and start doing the only thing I’ve ever been halfway decent at: putting on a show.

I hold onto that thought with both hands, because it’s all I have left to clutch. My only lifeline. I’m drowning in a storm of shame and self-loathing so strong, it’s threatening to drag me under.

Record deal.

Los Angeles.

Freedom.

I’m living the dream.

Why am I so fucking miserable?

* * *

Two hours, three whiskeys, and four cigarettes later, I’m staring to feel better. Or, if not better, at least… numb. I watch vacantly as Chris finally puts down his phone. I was beginning to think the damn thing was surgically affixed to his hand. He pulls out something that looks almost like a Zippo lighter from his back pocket and spins off the cap. I watch as he shakes out a pile of cocaine onto the glass table and starts cutting thin lines with the edge of a credit card.

“Yo, boss!” he calls, signaling Clay from the terrace railing. “Need a bump?”

Clay walks over, a girl in a bikini trailing after him. She’s about half his age — closer to a daughter than a conquest — but no one bats and eye as they both sit down, snort short rails, and start making out on the couch.

Becca indulges as well, making a pithy joke about powdering her nose before pinching a rolled dollar bill and inhaling deeply. Her whole body shivers as the hit rolls through her.

“Ryder?” Chris jerks his head at me. “You partake?”

“Nah, I’m good with this.” I lift my glass, drain the rest of its contents, and stagger to my feet. “In fact, I think I’m going to head to bed. Been a long day.”

He’s already back on his cellphone.

“Prick,” I mutter, turning and walking toward the exit. I look around for Lacey, but she’s vanished with her newest boy-toy. Inside the elevator, I close my eyes and lean back against the wall as it descends down to the tenth floor, happy to leave the noise of the party behind. I must be drunker than I realize, because it takes a few minutes of stumbling through the maze of hallways to locate my room, and a few more after that to get my electronic key into its slot.

Finally in my dark hotel room, I strip down to my boxers, toss my clothes into a pile on the floor, and collapse onto the bed. Maybe it’s the whiskey, but this palm tree paradise feels more like hell on earth as I stare out the window at the LA skyline, the never-ending spread of lights swimming before my bleary eyes. The city seems to ramble on forever in the darkness, the air hanging heavy with pollution even at night. The only stars visible here are the celebrities — the haze is so thick, there’s no chance in hell of ever laying eyes on an actual constellation.

Orion or Scorpius, chasing each other across the sky…

Fuck.

I’m officially drunk. The alcohol is coursing through my system like a train with faulty brakes. There’s no stopping its effects, at this point. Stripped of my ability to lie to myself, I’m forced to face facts.

I’m wasted. I’m lonely. And, I fucking hate this place. I fucking hate these people.

I miss my friends. I miss The Nightingale. I miss her.

Her face, her smell, her smile.

Without thinking about the fact that she doesn’t even own a phone, I stagger over to the pile of discarded clothing in the corner, grab my jeans off the floor, and reach into the pocket to find my cell. As I fumble with it, there’s a small clatter. Becca’s pills rain down against the carpeted floor, bouncing and rolling in all directions. I stare at them for a second, blinking slowly to clear the fog from my brain before shifting my gaze to my phone.

Zero missed calls.

Zero messages.

Not that I was expecting any. That’s what happens when you burn every bridge that ever mattered to you. There’s no going back.

“FUCK!” I yell, hurling my phone against the wall where it shatters violently into pieces. Breathing hard, I bow my head down to the carpet and close my eyes, trying to regain my composure before I lose it completely.

Get it together, Ryder.

This is what you wanted. What you worked for.

Time to start enjoying it.

When my breathing slows and my eyes open, the first thing that swims into focus is a small white pill sitting innocuously at my feet. A little pick me up, Becca said.

I don’t think as I bend down and pop it onto my tongue.