Deacon stumbled to the bathroom, the room still spinning. He landed hard on his knees gripping the toilet bowl in desperation. His stomach had to be empty, for fuck’s sake. His ribs screamed from the dry heaves. He rested his forehead on his arm, the chlorine and bleach smell from the toilet bowl activating another round of retching.

He crashed onto his back, the cool tile sizzled along skin, but God it felt good. He curled onto his side, hissing when he clunked his throbbing head into the bathtub, which caused a chain reaction to his queasy stomach.

With a groan he sat up, then held his breath and put his face into the bowl again. When the last of the bourbon came up, he wished for death. He stood, the room tilting as he grabbed the counter. He knocked over the shampoo and conditioner bottles, pushed away the soap, and found the little bottle of mouthwash. After rinsing his mouth of the first layer of foulness, he stumbled back into the room he’d been staying in for the last two days and collapsed onto the unmade bed.

A few minutes later…or was it hours? His phone keened out a whistle at top volume.

“What in the fuck?”

He fumbled the phone and it landed on the floor. The FaceTime app popped on his screen. Hell no. The only one that FaceTime’d him was Jazz, and he didn’t have the energy for that.

He squinted as he leaned off the side of the bed, expecting to see Jazz in all her pink glory, but it was a blocked number. He reached down to hit ignore and missed.

“Shit.” He tried to get his hair out of his face to see and a stunning blonde filled the screen.

“Have I caught you at a bad time, Mr. McCoy?” Her wide, full mouth twitched, but remained impassive. Her eyes, however, danced.

He frowned. That face was familiar.

Oh, God, no.

This was not happening.

Deacon scrambled up and scooped the phone off the floor. He turned to see the two bottles on the bedside table as well as an open pizza box.

Holy fuck. He bounded off the bed to the small chair beside the window. “I’m sorry.” He pushed his hair back and prayed there wasn’t puke on his face. “Ms. Shawcross?”

“In the flesh. I took a chance that you were calling from an iPhone since it seems to be your media of choice on the web.”

Her shrewd eyes took him in, but if she was judging, he couldn’t read it.

“I’m sorry.”

“So you’ve said.”

He swallowed down the need to apologize again and realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He wasn’t sure which would be better. More of his face close up or showing off his shoulders. “Do you think I could call you back when I’m presentable? Or maybe switch to just audio?”

“I like to see my potential client’s face when I talk to them. And I only have five minutes Mr. McCoy. Tell me I didn’t waste my time calling you.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Give me thirty seconds.” He dropped the phone and grabbed a shirt out of his bag. He did a quick spot check to make sure he didn’t have eye-crust or lip crust and picked up. “Okay. I’m—”

“If you apologize one more time, I’m hanging up.”

He lifted the phone so his face was straight on. “I’d like a meeting to discuss possibly working with Ripper Records for Oblivion’s first full length studio album.”

Her blue eyes assessed then she nodded. “Direct. I like direct. What’s your agent’s name? I’ll set it—”

“No agent.” She opened her mouth, and he knew the standard rejection was coming. He hurried on. “I’d like an informal meeting. No contracts, no band, just you and I.”

One slim blonde brow rose. “Why?”

Taking a gamble, he said, “I got a shit deal from another label and I’m looking for options.” When she didn’t say anything, he took a steadying breath. “I want better. And I want to prove to my bandmates that we deserve better.”

“And you think you’ll get it with Ripper Records?”

“I do. I’ve done my homework. I know that you’re a smaller label, but you’ve already signed two up and coming bands that have been lighting up the charts. The production is flawless, but not overdone. The media campaign is smart, but I think Jazz—our drummer and marketing guru—could take it to another level. I think we’re perfect for a growing label. We have an established sound and fan base, but we’re ready to push ourselves for even better.”

“Quite the elevator pitch.”

Deacon swallowed down the bile that threatened to climb up his throat. Nerves and a hangover were not a good team. “I believe in us and our music.”

“Is that why you’re hungover, or possibly still drunk, Mr. McCoy?”

He leveled his gaze on hers. “My deadline is October first.”

“So you’re desperate?”

He tightened his hand on the phone. “I’m not desperate enough to sign a shitty deal, Ms. Shawcross. Wouldn’t you lose a day to a bottle if you thought you were going to toss a contract away in hopes that you could find another one?” She didn’t need to know that more than half his bender was over a woman. It was too pathetic for words.

“So you’re turning down Trident?”

Deacon drew in a breath. “It’s not just me that has to make that call, but I’m leaning that way, yes.”

“Good. They’re sharks and they’d chew up Oblivion until you were less than the paper flakes I use to feed my fish.” She smiled. “Meeting done, Mr. McCoy. I think you need to clean yourself up and bring you and your band down to the studio at 9:00 AM sharp. Oh, and you’ll be meeting Mr. Lewis. A hangover is not advised.” Then the screen went blank before fading to black.

Deacon slumped back into the chair. His hand shook as he tossed his phone onto the bed. He tried to process everything that had just happened and couldn’t think over the roaring in his head. He crossed the room and unwrapped a glass, re-filling it and gulping down the contents three times before his jittering stomach let him take a breath.

A meeting.

Finally.

He scraped his hands through his hair and turned to find his phone. He needed to call Harper and—his breath stalled.

No.

No, he didn’t have Harper to call.

His chest ached and his guts cramped. He leaned forward and put his head between his knees. Christ, how the hell was he supposed to pull himself together enough to convince everyone to go to this meeting?

How was he supposed to fight for his band when he couldn’t even fight for her? He could still hear the words that came out of his mouth running around his brain. No amount of alcohol had been able to shut those memories down. Even now, he wanted to reach for the bottle.

Which is why he wouldn’t.

He stood and shook off the cycle of words. He couldn’t fix what happened between him and Harper, but he could fix his band.

If he could get them to listen. He picked up his phone and flicked it to life. “Jazz?”

“Deak? Oh, thank God. Where the fuck have you been? Don’t you ever do that to me again. Do you hear me? I can’t take that kind of heart attack.”

“I’m sorry, Pix. I needed some time.”

“I get it. Are you okay?”

He sighed. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“No, I mean really okay?” She hesitated, then made a little sound of distress. “Harper was here. She cleared everything out and left.”

Deacon pinched the bridge of his nose. Part of him had hoped that she’d be there at the penthouse. He knew she wouldn’t be. Not after their blow-out. The chances of her staying for him were slim to oh-hell-the-fuck-no, but he’d still kept a tiny piece of hope alive in the back of his head.

“By your silence I’m going to say you fucked up?” she asked.

“Did she say anything?”

“No.” Jazz’s voice lowered to a husky whisper. “She’s too classy to badmouth you.”

“Fuck.”

“Deacon, you gotta come home. I can’t take this alone. Nick and Simon are in full on party mode. Like we’ve been given the keys to the kingdom with sacks full of money.”

“Where’s Gray?”

“He’s always going out and won’t let me go with him. I’m going bonkers here by myself.”

There was no accusation in her tone, but he felt it anyway. He’d left Jazz to field this alone. And he’d wallowed in a pity party that was a lesson in stupidity. Everything was falling apart around him.

But now he had one chance to make things right.

One chance to see them through the end of this tunnel of suck and find an alternative.

“See if you can round everyone up tonight. Ask them to stay in until I get home at least.”

“Nick and Simon haven’t even come downstairs yet. I’ll see if I can find Gray.”

“Good.” He stared at the ceiling, pushing back the useless worry. He had a game plan and a shot at fixing this clusterfuck. He needed to focus on that. “I’m back, Pix. We’ll figure it out.”

“I sure hope you have something awesome up your muscle-stretched sleeve.”

He laughed. “I think I just might.”

“Get home. Pronto.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

Her voice gentled and cracked. “Thanks for not leaving me, huh?” He could hear her swallow, then she whispered, “I couldn’t take that.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Jazz. I promise. Go take one of those epic bubble baths, and I’ll be home before you’re through.”

“I can get on board with that plan.”

“See ya soon, midget.”

Deacon moved to the dresser and plugged in his phone. He made quick work of stacking up the proof of his two-day descent into asshattery. By the time he was finished, the shame weighed as much as he did.

Disgusted, he headed into the bathroom to shower off his mood. Ten minutes later he was stuffing the last of his meager belongings into his duffel bag. He left a twenty on the bedside table to make the cleanup less growl-inducing for the maid and hit the ground running.

He stopped for a drive-thru burger to calm his hungover stomach. The trip from downtown to their penthouse ate up another half hour. By the time he pulled up to the valet, he felt marginally human. The only good thing about his solitary bender was that no one else saw him fall apart.

Will opened the door for him with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. McCoy.” He ducked down, his smile bright. “No, Miss Pruitt today?”

Deacon’s chest tightened. “No. No Harper today.” His voice didn’t crack. Even if his entire rib cage felt like it was going to.

“Well, tell her I said hi.”

“Right.” Deacon forced his lips into a smile and gathered his things. He was on auto-pilot to get through the lobby. A few faces he recognized got half-hearted smiles, and then there was blissful silence in the elevator. He had a band to worry about, a contract to figure out, and asses to kick. What he didn’t have time for? His love life.

He firmly shoved Harper to the back of his mind as he strode off the elevator. As soon as he walked over the threshold of the living room, a bundle of purple and teal leapt into his arms.

“Shit, Pix, let me put my stuff down.”

Jazz wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held on. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

He walked to the sectional carrying everything, including Jazz, and sat down with her on his lap. She curled into him, and he could feel tears against his neck. With a sigh, he rubbed her back. ‘I’m sorry, Pix. I didn’t think.”

“It’s okay. I know you had stuff to deal with.” She sat back on his lap, her arms still looped around his neck. “Where’d you go?”

“Long story.”

She glanced over her shoulder to the stairs. “No one is awake yet.” She turned back to him. “Did you and Harper break up?”

He scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped back against the cushions. “I don’t know, Jazz. Honestly.”

“If you don’t know, that’s not a good sign.”

“I know. I fucked up.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was true. He’d held on too hard. He heard himself saying every stupid thing he could possibly blurt out during their fight, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. All he could focus on was that she was leaving.

“I can read it all over your face.” Jazz tapped his cheek. “Beard, blood shot eyes, with circles under them, I might add. Let me see.” She caught his chin in her hand then let go and tapped him none too gently on the forehead. “You pulled a stupid card. A stupid guy card, didn’t you?” She climbed off of him.

He pushed his bag and laptop down the couch then folded his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “Deacon, you moron. I expect these things from Nick. Simon generally doesn’t keep a girl around long enough to actually learn their last name.”

“What about Gray?” Deacon grumbled.

“I don’t even know what Gray is doing. I never see him with a girl. Fuck, I never see him, period.”

Deacon leaned forward. “What do you mean?” Gray was definitely living up to his nickname of Ghost lately.

“Oh, no. We are not getting off topic to talk about Gray. He’s just off working at his old job again.”

“Why would he go back to transport when things are going well with the band?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe just to fill some hours. Or he misses his old crew.”

Deacon wasn’t sure she actually believed what she said. Not with her eyebrows all frowny when she was usually all smiles. He sat back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “All right, what’s really going on, Pix?”

She plopped into the middle of a cushion, sitting cross-legged. “I already told you. And I’m not going to let you throw the healthiest relationship this freakshow of a band has away on something stupid.”

“It’s not an easy fix.”

“Why?”

“Because her job takes her on the road, just like mine.” He dropped his hands onto his lap with a slap. “And I won’t see her for the next five months.”

“Nope, that’s not an easy fix.” She covered one of his hands. “But it’s not an impossible one, either.”

“It is when I shoot off my mouth and tell her my career is more important than hers.”

Disappointment lit her tired blue eyes. “Oh, you didn’t.”

Deacon squeezed her fingers back. “Oh, but I did.”

One perfectly arched dark brow rose. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

“No, of course not. I just…” he trailed off. I’m a moron. I’m a fuckhead. I’m an idiot. I’m a selfish bastard. “I just haven’t figured out how to make it work yet.”

“Good, because then I’d have to kick you in the junk in the name of womanhood. I wouldn’t want to, but there’s these rules…”

“Gee thanks.”

She shrugged. “Just sayin’.” She leaned forward and laughed when he covered his crotch. “Your boys are safe.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You are going to have to grovel. Probably with jewelry.”

“Harper’s not really the jewelry type.”

“True. Maybe buy her a super expensive mixer or some shit.”

He laughed and dragged her in for a tight hug. “I love you madly, Pix.”

“Yeah, I know.” She laid her cheek on his chest and fisted her hand under her chin. “One person I’ve never doubted, is you.”

Deacon smoothed his hand down her hair. A week ago, he’d have said the same thing about Simon and Nick. Now, nothing made sense. He wished he could blame everything on Snake’s reappearance, but there’d been a fissure within the band long before that. It had been covered up with the fun of their first tour and a growing fanbase.

Whether Nick and Simon had asked for the percentages to be changed in the contract or not, they were there. The fact that they didn’t view the rest of them as an equal partners in the band needed to be addressed.

Deacon looked up at the scrape of metal over the railing. Simon’s mishmash of silver bracelets jangled as he came down the stairs. “If it isn’t the prodigal son.”

Jazz sat up. “Get some coffee, Simon. Your asshole is showing.”

“Morning to you too,” he said with a wry smirk. Simon shuffled into the kitchen, plucking a pod out of the racks beside the coffee maker and setting a cup to brew. He leaned on the counter and pushed his sunglasses up his nose to shield his eyes. “Are you done pouting, Deak? Heart all bwoken?”

Jazz stalked into the kitchen and socked Simon in the arm. “Did we rub it in when violin girl stomped on your ego?”

Simon’s smirk slid away, his face going stony.

“That’s better,” she said sweetly.

“Violin girl was a one-time thing. She wasn’t even that memorable.”

Jazz peered up at him. “So, you haven’t given Madeline a thought?”

“Margo,” Simon corrected.

“Right.” Jazz patted his cheek. “Not a passing thought.”

Simon angled his face away from her touch. He turned and put two pieces of toast into the toaster.

Deacon stood and joined them in the kitchen. "Is Nick moving?"

He paused with the mug at his lips. “Do I look like his mother? Isn't that your job, St. Deacon?"

Deacon folded his arms. "What the hell is your problem?"

Simon put his mug down and grabbed the toast as it popped. "Oh, I don't know. Our bassist falls off the grid for nearly a week. What could be the problem? October first is literally days away." Simon slammed down his butter knife. "Are you so fired up to fuck up this deal?"

“I don’t know, Simon. What made you think you could fuck us over with that contract deal?”

Simon’s jaw snapped shut as he tossed his sunglasses to the table. “Christ, we were protecting—”

Deacon sliced his hand through the air. “No, you were covering your asses. Did you really think we wouldn’t figure it out?”

Simon’s eyes blazed, but he remained silent.

“Did you just think we were going to roll over and say…yeah, that’s fine? That it’s okay that my two best friends don’t give two shits about me, or Jazz, or Gray?”

“We were doing what was best for the band.” Simon tipped up his chin to meet his gaze.

Deacon stepped closer. “What you thought was right for the band. Or…wait, you weren’t thinking.” The words kept tumbling out. Everything he’d been stewing about for the last few days. He’d tried to quiet it with reason and even alcohol, but now the anger was out of the box. “Or maybe you were. Thinking about the fact that you and Nicky would have controlling interest in our band?”

“That is not what it was about.”

“Oh, really? Would you feel the same way if you were me?”

“You didn’t start the band,” Simon snarled.

“You were barely a band when I joined. You, Snake, and Nick were just banging out songs in the Fluff & Fold. You barely got enough money on the pier to cover a six pack of beer each night.”

Simon’s fingers fisted at his sides. “Me and Nick wrote those songs. At the very least, the copyright on the lyrics were ours.”

Deacon took a step back before plowing ahead. “So the compositions that I worked on for weeks—hell, for fucking years—don’t count for anything?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“What about all the work Gray and I put into the studio?” Jazz broke in, her voice brittle. “And the new songs we worked on? This new album will be all of us. Not just the older songs.”

Simon tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you get it? That contract was the best way to make sure the band stayed true to its roots. Why can’t you understand that? We would never fuck you over.”

“The math sure as shit doesn’t say that to me.” Deacon’s chest heaved as he tried to tamp down the need to start swinging. "I'm trying to find us an alternative. That's what I’ve been doing. Though I hear you and Nicky are busy partying all over Los Angeles as if the deal's already done."

Simon waved his piece of toast. "It is a done deal, you just haven't accepted it yet.” When Deacon barreled forward, Simon held up his hand. "It's just for the one—"

"So help me God, Simon, if you tell me one more time that it's just the one album, I'm going to smash all of your teeth into the back of your head. It’s more than just the contract that’s wrong."

Simon didn’t say a word, just bit through his toast insolently and chewed.

God, Simon could be so infuriating. Nick would argue him into the ground, but Simon could wait him out with a bored look. The only one that incited Simon to violence was Nick. Then again, Nick pretty much had that effect on most people.

Deacon tried to down the anger. It wasn’t helping this situation. “I have an option. And a proposition.”

"And here I thought you were just playing house with Chef Girl. Oh, wait...you fucked up that relationship, too."

"Honestly, do not test me, Simon."

“What are you going to do?” Simon calmly put his food down. “Pound my face in?” He came around the granite island to the living room until they were nearly chest to chest. Simon tipped his chin up, his icy blue eyes blazing like the center of a flame. “Will that make you feel better?”

Deacon looked down at him. And for a moment he wanted to do just that. To keep driving his fist into Simon’s pretty boy face until it was broken and bleeding. Then maybe the ugly anger inside of him would recede. But he knew it wouldn’t. It would only surge higher.

And then he saw a flicker of something else in Simon’s cocky gaze. Guilt.

Deacon’s shoulders heaved with the seething anger banked inside of his chest and his fists slowly unclenched. Simon wanted him to punch his freaking lights out.

Jazz pushed between them. "Okay. Back off, both of you."

Deacon didn’t fight her. The only hope they had was starting fresh. Guilt and hurt piled up into baggage that would ruin every aspect of what made them click so uniquely.

God, they were all so fucking prideful, it was a wonder they got any music written. And Trident had played them effortlessly. The shitty thing was that they’d let them. The band was so fucked up and fractured that all it had taken were a few clever words to make them turn on each other. And in the end, the contract would be the only thing that mattered.

For now.

What no one wanted to think about was just how it would destroy them. All the shitty aspects of Trident’s contract would fester until the band was used up. And Trident wouldn’t give a good goddamn. They’d find another hungry band and do the same thing all over again.

The ding of the elevator and Gray’s murmured, “hey,” broke the last of the tension living in Deacon.

Gray looked between Simon and Deacon, and sighed. “Are we still fighting? Because if we are, can we stow it? I’m fucking beat.”

“Where have you been?” Jazz asked.

“Out.”

“That’s not good enough.” Jazz moved in front of Gray. “You’ve been gone more than you’re home.”

“This isn’t home. This is just a place to sleep.”

“You don’t sleep,” Jazz snapped.

“That’s why I’m not here. The noise in my head just gets louder here. I don’t even know why I bother. We’re just going to implode anyway. Another statistic.”

Deacon’s eyebrow rose. That might have been the most he’d ever heard Gray speak at one time. With a frown, he saw Gray’s eyes shift all around the room, then land on Jazz and quickly bounce away.

Jazz’s mouth dropped open and her wide blue eyes sparkled with a sheen of tears.

Well, shit. Deacon slid a hand down her hair and hugged her into his side. Lashing out at Jazz was about as classy as kicking a puppy.

Nick came bounding down the stairs, his hair wet and slicked back from his face. He went from a smile to blank-face in the space of a heartbeat. “So, we don’t need to replace the bassist after all.”

Deacon’s shoulders ached with tension, but he wouldn’t rise to the bait. This was more than just hurt feelings now. This was survival plain and simple. “I’m not here for another verbal sparring session, Nick.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Jazz moved in front of Deacon and folded her arms. “Deacon’s found an alternative for us.”

“Why would we want that?” Nick folded his own arms as he leaned on one of the breakfast stools.

Deacon put a hand on a spring loaded Jazz. She was ready to fly across the room. “You said we didn’t have options. I found one.”

“It can’t hurt to hear him out.”

Deacon shot a surprised look over his shoulder.

Simon shrugged and looked away. “No one said we’d change our minds. You did all the work; the least we can do is hear you out.”

Had something he said actually gotten through? Deacon sighed. It was probably the guilt talking. Either way, he’d take it. Deacon moved around his little guard dog and went straight to Nick. “I got us a meeting with Donovan Lewis.”

“Who the fuck is he?” Derision laced Nick’s voice.

“Remember the hot blonde in the power suit that came backstage?”

Nick’s pupils flared. “Hot blondes are always crawling around backstage.”

Deacon knew he remembered. Not only had Lila Shawcross interrupted Nick in the middle of his pre-show blow job, she’d also left one helluva impression. Deacon had been on the receiving end of her particular brand of ball busting over the phone. Nick had seen it up close and personal.

“I was doing my research about other labels when I came across Ripper Records.” Okay, so that was a little white lie, but he wasn’t sure the rest of the band would be receptive to his meeting with Johnny Cage. He cleared his throat. “Lila Shawcross, aka the blonde suit, seems to be a big wig there. She does everything from talent screening to management.”

“And you picked Ripper Records, why?” Nick asked. “I’ve never even heard of them. What the hell are they going to do for us that Trident wouldn’t?”

“They’re a smaller label, I’ll give you that. But they’re a well-funded one. Donovan Lewis is a big deal in the business world. He’s a money guy that takes chances with businesses, and from what I can see, in musical talent.”

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, you’re grasping at straws, Deak.”

“Ripper Records came looking for Rebel Rage. From what I’ve found out, Johnny Cage is signing a deal with them.”

“Cage is a has-been. Trident dumped them because they weren’t performing. They want us because we’re winners.”

Fuck him and his puffed-up chest. Christ, had Trident laced his cigarettes with ego and fairy dust? Deacon swallowed a flare of anger. It would only feed Nick’s need to argue things into the ground. “They also want to own us and the rights to our songs. All the promises of ‘just this first record’ crap is going to bite us on the ass.”

Simon stepped forward. “It’s just a meeting, Nick. What’s the harm?”

“What if it gets back to Trident?”

The panic in Nick’s eyes shut Deacon up. “What did they say to you in that meeting? The one that me, Jazz, and Gray weren’t a part of?”

Nick’s gaze tracked to the floor.

Deacon gripped the edge of the counter. “I don’t care about that right now. I just want to know what they said to you.”

Simon slapped the side of his thigh. “Jesus, Nick.” He turned to Deacon, Jazz, and Gray. “Jackson told us that signing would protect the band. He laid it on thick, too.” He stuffed his fists under his biceps until they bulged. “And the fact that it was about as thick as buttercream frosting, I’m finally starting to wonder why.”

“Jackson warned us—”

Simon whirled to Nick. “Exactly, he warned us off. Don’t you think that’s shady?”

Nick speared his fingers into his hair. “So you want to take the chance? You want to lose all this?” He waved his hands around the spacious living room with the high end entertainment center and glossy kitchen.

“It’s just a shiny cage, Nicky,” Jazz said quietly. “Don’t you see that?”

“Maybe I don’t want to scrimp for food and live in the basement anymore.”

Deacon dropped into one of the stools along the counter. “I don’t want to either, man. But I can’t sell my soul…my music for this. I just can’t.” He stood again. “Maybe we don’t have to. This meeting might be our way out.” Deacon kneaded his triceps. “I’m not going to sugar coat it. The chances that we get a place like this? Not likely. But living here is a perk at the moment. Who’s to say they won’t dump us to the curb the minute we’re done with the album.”

Nick’s brows lowered. “What time is the meeting?”

“Nine.”

Nick nodded, then walked through the patio door and out to the loungers.

Deacon just hoped that Nick was going into this with an open mind. Because the contract they had specified they had the apartment until the album was done. But the double penthouse in the heart of Los Angeles was too expensive to give to a bunch of kids. This definitely had the smell of executive perks.

That was probably why he’d never felt comfortable there. And why he hadn’t truly unpacked since they moved in.

Jazz came over to him and leaned her head on his arm. “At least you got him to listen.”

Deacon wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Yeah. I guess we’ll see what’s what tomorrow, huh, Pix?” He looked down at her, but Jazz’s attention was on Gray. He was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. Solitary and quiet as always.

They were all so disconnected. Deacon could only hope the meeting would change that tomorrow. That they’d go in as a band of equals finally.

Simon headed out to the patio after Nick. Maybe the two of them would actually talk about something other than the Trident deal. It was the only hope they had to keep the band together.