Fucking Jules.

I flicked through my clipboard, triple-checking the paperwork from the label one more time. We were headed up to the Catskills, to Bearsville, a town just outside of the famous Woodstock, NY. I leafed back, tracing my finger over the check-in paperwork for Onteora Villas, the luxury cabins I'd booked for the two months we'd be recording.

I was a New York girl, born and raised, and while I considered myself pretty worldly and unflappable, the idea of spending two months in the wilderness - luxury version or not - gave me an odd sense of claustrophobia. I'd spent last night mapping out the surrounding area, checking for necessities like Indian take-out and twenty-four hour liquor stores, but hadn't found much by way of either. Bad for me.

Good for the band.

After re-forming from the ashes of the original line-up, the boys of Wreckage now had something to prove. I liked to think I'd built up some serious buzz around them with a series of live shows around the New York Metro, but Hudson was still singing the old songs. The ones made popular by the old frontman, Killian Ness.

Killian Ness was currently doing six to ten years for assaulting his girlfriend. He wasn't coming back any time soon, and no one wanted him to either. But his mark was still all over the band and his words were the ones that Hudson shrieked and bellowed in his wailing, bluesman's howl.

They needed new songs. They needed a new album. That was priority number one, and the reason I was sitting on this bus, ignoring the sounds of the guys getting trashed in the back. I was here to make sure they did their jobs.

"Oy, August!" Jules called from behind me.

I twisted in my seat to answer him, but he immediately threw up his hands as if to ward me off. "Aye, don't kill me love. I only wanted to ask a question is all."

I narrowed my eyes. What was he talking about? Don't kill him?

Then I remembered.

My face

Some girls have resting bitch face. It's just a fact. They don't mean to look angry, that's just how their face looks when they concentrate.

"You don't have resting bitch face," CeCe informed me once, when I'd asked her to tell me the truth. I'd sighed with relief until she continued. "You have resting murder face."

"What's up, Jules?" I said, trying to rearrange my face into less hostile lines.

The expression on his face made me realize I failed.

"Never mind," he said stiffly, and turned back to the rest of the band, lifting a bottle of his beloved lager to his lips.

My face heated up. I turned back to the front of the bus and flicked through my papers again, without actually reading them.

Fucking Jules. One minute he was dancing wildly around with you, cavorting like a happy puppy and making you laugh until your face hurt. The next minute he was this broody fucker in the corner, licking his wounds with a bottle in hand. It was enough to give you whiplash. And what was worse was that he seemed like he had it in for me.

For the first few weeks of working with Wreckage, I'd tried everything to win him over. I'd thought that even if he hated me for using "their crisis as my opportunity" - a phrase he'd used over and over in those first turbulent weeks - he'd eventually realize how fucking good I was at my job. I'd made sure to point out every time I did something that benefited them, how hard I worked on their behalf.

But now? Fuck it. I was their manager, nothing more. He couldn't hurt my feelings because I had no feelings to hurt. Maybe Jules had warranted a second glance when I first met him. Hell, those black curls and dark eyes would have any red-blooded woman sitting up a little straighter.

But there were two important reasons why Jules Spencer would never be on my radar. One? he was an asshole.

And two? He was a musician. Musicians couldn't be trusted.

No one knew that better than me.

I flicked through my papers again. The whoops behind me were getting louder. Gritting my teeth, I set my clipboard down and reached for my phone, intending on putting my earbuds in, when my screen lit up with Tate's caller ID. Grateful for the distraction, I practically lunged for it.

"You're with the band right? How long are you going to be?" my second youngest and first-neediest brother demanded by way of greeting.

I hid my smile and sighed into my phone. "I already told you, Tater Tot. Two months. Although it could go longer. You know as well as I do that this is the first time I'm doing this."

"Yeah but you usually are sure about everything." Tate's voice though the receiver was deep and manly now. He was a freshman in college and loved to puff up with importance about it. But I could hear it. That little aggrieved whine in the background of his vowels as he said my name. "You'll have your phone with you all the time though, right August?"

"I have my phone," I sighed.

A shadow fell across my shoulder. I looked up to see Jules looming above me, his big hands braced against the back of the driver's seat. I twisted away and looked out the window, focusing on Tate. "Clearly I have my phone since you're talking to me on it right now," I went on. "And if you can't reach me when I'm in the studio, you can always wait until I can get back to you. It's not like I'm going to Timbuktu, Buddy."

"Don't call me Buddy," he said automatically, but sullenly.

There was something there, in his voice. "You okay, Tater?"

"I'm fine," he mumbled. I heard him take a deep breath and waited, but he didn't supply anything more than that.

"We talked this morning, right?" I reminded him gently. "You're doing the right thing."

Tate mumbled something that was drowned out by the cacophony behind me. I darted a murderous glance over my shoulder and clapped my hand over my ear, but Tate wasn't saying anything, just hanging on the phone, breathing. "Hey, sorry," I said. "I'm on the bus already. The guys are already partying."

"You partying with them?" my brother asked, perking up with the chance to tease me.

"No!" I huffed. Jules was still hovering, chatting up the driver. Taking up way too much space. I slid back, getting out from under his shadow so the hair on my arms would stop standing up.

I have a thing about my personal space.

"Why aren't you partying?" Tate asked, cluelessly.

I hissed through my teeth. "I've told you this," I reminded him. "Musicians are like children." I shot a glance at Jules, whose head twitched ever so slightly. So he was eavesdropping. Fucker. I raised my voice a little, making sure he could hear. "You give them an inch and they start taking a yard and then suddenly you're mopping up vomit at 3am while they bang groupies in the room next to you."

"Fucking Noah," my brother cursed supportively. All four of my brothers had apparently hated my useless ex, but none of them had the balls to say anything until after I'd kicked his ass to the curb. Only then did they have the nerve to tell me what they thought of Noah Cochran, lead singer of Sinister Affinity and owner of a roaming dick. Leo, the oldest Waverly kid after me, whose temper could sometimes rival mine in explosiveness, had volunteered to punch Noah in the face. He seemed relieved when I told him there was no need since I'd already done it myself.

"I'm serious though," I told Tate, lowering my voice. Jules seemed distracted, laughing at something either the driver said, or - more likely - cracking up over his own lame jokes. He wasn't paying attention as I said, "There's no room to slip up here. I have to set an example."

"You're more like their mom than a manager," Tate observed, hitting me with one of his patented sharp insights.

"Yeah," I agreed, pointedly. Tate had, after all, called me this morning about his issue with his World History professor as I was trying to finish packing for my trip. Not our mother. "It's kind of my thing, this being everyone's mom thing, Tater, so uh..." I let my words hang in the air, silently prompting him to wrap it up.

Tate sighed heavily. "So I forgot," he said, not saying goodbye. "What was I supposed to do, again?"

"About?"

"Professor Kingsley!" he huffed.

"Go to his office hours," I repeated. "Tell him you're seeing a counselor now." I paused. "Wait, you are seeing the counselor now, right?"

Sullen silence was my answer.

"Tate?" I prompted, warningly.

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Good." The fierce love that squeezed my heart made me sound angrier than I felt. I missed the days when my little brother's problems were easier to fix. "So you explain to your professor that you need an extension due to mental health issues."

"I don't have mental health issues."

"You spent how many days in bed, Tate?"

"Shut up."

"Did you shower today?"

"Yes," he groaned.

"Okay then. This is your plan. You can do this, Buddy." This time he was too caught up in his own issues to complain about the nickname. I glanced down at my hands and felt my shoulders sag a little. "Tell you what. You call me, okay? Right after you get out of his office, okay? I'll be waiting to hear how it goes."

"Okay," Tate mumbled morosely. He'd had been a stellar student in high school, forever winning awards without even trying for them. The fact that he went from the biggest fish at his high school, to a tiny fish swimming in the vast ocean of college was throwing him for a very harsh loop. I had been used to hearing from him ever week or so, but now his calls had increased to one, sometimes two, every day.

"I'm going now," I reminded him. "Goodbye, Tate."

I could hear rustling as he straightened up. "Bye, Auggie," he said, making me roll my eyes at my hated nickname. "Have fun bossing around another group of boys."

"Trust me," I grumbled. "Fun isn't the right word." I pressed the button, ending the call, but my finger lingered. There was something...off... about the way Tate was talking, a sort of robotic tone to his voice. Some big-sister sixth sense made my stomach churn and I wondered if I should call him back, demand to know what was bothering him, why he sounded so...odd.

But my brother was a big boy now, and what's more he had his marching orders. I took a deep breath, staring straight ahead, willing myself to be satisfied that I'd done enough. But still that little squirming wiggle at the bottom of my stomach kept twisting.