Dylan

“Again.”

I glare at Richard Dickson, or Dickhead as I like to call him, through the glass window that separates the studio from the recording booth. He’s the uptight producer Tom hired years ago, and he’s been helping make our albums since we started.

But right now, I’m not thinking of all the times he helped, because he’s too busy pissing me off with the constant redoes.

“That’s the fifth fucking time!” I bark into the microphone.

Ian gives me a watchful eye from where he sits across the room, guitar in his lap. We’re cutting two versions of Ashton’s and my song, one acoustic and the other with full-band instrumental.

While Tom wasn’t thrilled over the song leaking, he didn’t give me shit about it either. Hell, he gave me a pat on the back and praised me for finally going viral over something good for once, racking up fan interest in the collaboration.

However, PR wasn’t as amused. They never went public with the collaboration details, so as far as they were concerned, we’d messed up by letting the world see us uncut. Knowing half the shit they would have released to the press, it was better we let it play out as we did.

“Well maybe if your head was out of your ass, we could have finished this session on the third try like usual,” Dickhead retorts.

Tom is rubbing a palm down his face, looking as exhausted as I feel. This is day five in the studio, and we’ve spent more time in here trying to get the perfect take than we ever have before.

I wish I could have blamed Ashton’s absence for my screwups—pass the blame onto her for not being here. But when Tom told us she was choosing to record her parts in Nashville, I couldn’t be angry at her. We both agreed to say good-bye over a month ago, and neither one of us looked back.

“Why don’t we take a break?” Tom chimes in, gesturing for us all to scatter. The mic must be turned off from their section, because whatever colorful exchange is going on between the two isn’t being broadcasted in here.

Bash grabs a bottle of water and tosses it at me. “Dude, we should be done by now. What’s the deal?”

I shake my head, leaning my elbows on my spread knees from where I sit on my stool. Pressing the cold water against my forehead, I try finding some reason why we aren’t done by now.

But I come up empty.

“Tom gave us all a break before we recorded just so we could clear our heads,” Bash added, drawing my attention back to him. “Maybe if you didn’t spend it going back to your usual ways then you wouldn’t be so fucked right now.”

Ian sighs. “Fighting won’t help us get this done, guys. I get we’re all tired—”

“I’m more than tired,” Bash cuts off. “I finally found a house, and all I want to do is get my shit moved in and straightened out. I’m only half done, and at this point, I won’t get a chance to finish settling in before we’re off doing this mini-tour with Ashton.”

“It’s only a few shows,” I scoff. Four shows, to be exact. I’ve already memorized the schedule. We occupy the first week of June, with our first show at Madison Square Garden in New York, then we travel to Bridgestone Area in Tennessee, Phillips Area in Georgia, and make our last stop at the Staples Center in California. Right where it all started.

There’s something poetic about going full circle, but I have a feeling Ashton won’t see it that way. Especially not since the rumors about us dating had flared after our song hit the internet. It didn’t matter what the press said about us, yet it got a rise out of her. She went radio silent, no public appearances, no social media posts besides one that Teagan had tagged her in on Instagram, wishing Ashton a happy twenty-second birthday. Knowing that I couldn’t be around to celebrate with her hit me hard, and I spent that night locked up in a hotel room outside of Albany drinking and feeling sorry for myself.

As soon as I left Nashville and flew back to New York, I expected to jump into recording. After all, Ash and I had spent a month getting the song perfect, and it only made sense to jump into phase two. Yet the videos sparked too much attention to the possibility of Ashton and I being a thing, so Tom ordered a four-week break before we started recording the song.

Four weeks left a lot of time to think, and being trapped in my head only caused more damage than it did good. PR chose not to dispel the rumors, letting them fizzle out on their own when nothing rose out of it. No pictures of us, no communication. The world that had dubbed us ‘Dash’ and ‘The Next Best Country-Rock Hit’ gave up on us the second there was no dirt to dig up.

It shouldn’t have pissed me off, but it did.

Because I spent a month trying to get Ashton in any way I could, and while I wish I could have kept her, kept the feeling she made me feel for the first time in almost a decade, there was nothing that could make me convince myself it was best for her.

She needed to figure herself out, and me being around her would only complicate that. So I stayed holed up anywhere but my hometown, calling home to check in on my family once a week, and being pestered by the guys not to start my shit up again.

As far as they knew, I reverted to the guy they couldn’t stand. The drinking loud-mouth who had no filter when it came to the press and women. Since they all went back to their lives and I stayed out, I never corrected what they weren’t around to witness.

Truth be told, I’d rather them think I was fucking groupies than moping. After I got my music book back, I’d spent a lot of time going through it, writing new songs, revising old ones.

Ashton taught me to get lost in the music, so that’s what I did.

Bash takes his seat again, shaking his head. “I have a chance at starting over in Clinton, and I need to take it while I can.”

“A chance?” I repeat doubtfully. “Where is this house exactly?”

His eye twitches. “Maybe if you responded to one of my many texts, you would have seen it by now. It’s near the old school.”

I snicker. “You mean near Opal’s apartment complex?”

The history between he and Opal was one for the books, and too heavy to study. But what I did know is that she secured herself a small apartment near her family home, right above the café she works at.

Some people were okay with settling for a simple life, but I always strived for more—needed more to survive.

He rolls his eyes, sidestepping the question.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I tell him, causing the three of them to look at me in astonishment.

“Somebody mark a calendar,” Bash jokes, swiping his jaw with his hand. “Dylan Hilton said the sacred words. That girl really did a number on you.”

I throw my bottle cap at him, which he dodges with an easy smirk.

That girl. Ashton deserved more than that title, but it was all I let them call her. Any time they tried getting details out of me about what happened back in Nashville, I’d shut them down. They didn’t need to know.

Yet, there’s no denying the chemistry in the videos and pictures still lurking online. The way we sang to each other in the bar, or how we laughed, touched, or joked around at the museum. The world saw the truth without either of us putting words to it.

Nobody needed a confirmation to see that we were more than just two musicians collaborating on a song.

“One more time,” I tell all of them. “I’ll get my shit straight so we can get out of here. Deal?”

They all nod. I give Tom the go ahead, who motions for Richard to start recording again. We all take our positions and begin playing, the familiar words leaving my mouth, but still empty without the other half of my muse sitting beside me.

I brush it away, thinking, It’s for the best.

Based on Richard’s face, I say that this take is going more smoothly than the other ones, and the tension in the room disappears.

Thank, Christ.

After another forty-five minutes of last minute playbacks and tweaks of our part, we’re let go. Now all they need to do is fuse Ashton’s recording with ours, and polish it before we’re set for the road.

Tom stops me as I walk out the door, the others already long gone.

“You need to make a decision,” he tells me, hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “We can’t have performances where you’re not all there, so you need to figure it out.”

“Thanks for the advice, but I’m not really feeling the Dr. Phil moment with you.”

I go to walk away, but he stops me, a stern fatherly expression set on his face. I want to remind him that I already have a father, and the last thing I need is a second one sprouting advice I probably won’t listen to anyway.

But his eyes tell me not to say a word, so I opt to keep my mouth shut. It’s rare, but it happens. Not that I tend to let anyone get used to it. Rumor has it I like the sound of my voice too much.

“I’ve seen that type of look before, you know,” he states casually, a glint of humor in his eyes. “And after seeing that video, I can see why you have it.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t go there.”

“Too late. Everybody I represent is like part of my family, and I take care of my family. I also tell my family when they’re being little shitheads.”

I snort. “I doubt you tell your eight-year-old that she’s a shithead.”

He grins. “No, but I think it. You’re old enough for me to tell directly to your face. I’m not saying that whatever you and Ashton King have will work out, but you won’t know unless you give it a try. Worked out for Ian.”

“Ian isn’t dating a celebrity.”

He raises one of his brows. “Don’t you think starting something with Ashton would be a hell of a lot easier than what Ian started with Kasey? Kasey isn’t part of the music scene. Ashton knows what it’s like, and it’s pretty damn obvious that she’s seen a hell of a lot of you.”

My eyes flash in memory. “Well now that you mention it—”

He holds his hand up, stopping me. “I’m not talking about the physical shit. I’m talking about what’s in here.” He taps my chest. “You were all about standing out and drowning in the noise of fame, but as soon as you got back from Nashville you went into hiding just like she did. Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, you’ve changed.”

I look away from him.

He nudges me to gain my attention. “And I have to say, I like this guy a lot better than the one I kept covering for over the past year.”

“So you’re saying I’m not a shithead anymore?”

He laughs. “No, something tells me you’re always going to be a shithead, you’re just a little more bearable.”

I can’t help but chuckle over that, knowing he’s probably right. About more than just that.

Am I willing to keep that change?