True to Rand’s word, we hit the ground running in LA.

The seven-hour flight from LaGuardia should have been enough time to tweak the last song for the album, but I needed my guitar. Couldn’t concentrate with visions of Gracyn playing in my mind. So, I slept. Well, I tried anyway. I got stuck in coach though because of the flight change. And, since the toddler behind me wasn’t tired, I got a jerky massage through the seat back and a serenade of the latest kid movie or some shit instead of a couple of hours of rest.

Brilliant sun, azure skies. LA is fucking perfect outside in October, and I’m spending ten, maybe twelve hours a day or more in the studio. Not even glimpsing the sun. Not breathing the soft air.

But the tracks we’re laying are kick-ass.

It’s the saving grace, the bright spot in my forced separation from Gracyn.

We text all day long.

Though our hours don’t line up very well.

We talk when we can.

Though the time difference and schedules are a bitch.

We FaceTime …

Though, usually, we end up missing each other or having to cut things short. But those moments—those few precious times when everything works out and we spend a blissful evening or outrageously early morning with each other, talking about everything and absolutely nothing—those are the moments that keep me going. Those and the contract and the tour and the guys and the label.

There are still times I fucking have to pinch myself to see if it’s all real.

“You got that last song locked down? Is it ready to go?” Rand has been pushing the hours in the studio well beyond the point of stupid for the past several weeks, and we’re down to laying the tracks for the final song, “One.”

The “One.”

Jesus, it feels like a lifetime ago when my ass was planted on a park bench, lamenting over the one who had gotten away. And, now, she’s mine. Mostly mine. At the very least, I’m interviewing for the position.

“Yeah, I guess,” I tell him, even as I consider changing up the bridge. Hitting the break hard. Switching up a couple of words that I’m just not sure on.

It could be stronger, tighter. It’s not ready.

“How many times do you need to run through it before we can lay it down?”

Rand’s bouncing and chain-smoking is a far cry from his typical mellow persona. And I’m not the only one freaked out by him.

“Dude, chill. What the hell is your issue?” Ian asks, coming through the door with Nate and a couple of six-packs and a brown paper bag spotted with grease.

The smell of burgers and fries quickly fills the space, and saliva pools in my mouth.

“You jonesing for the road? You know the schedule’s set, right?” Kane shoots at our manager, pulling a cold beer from the plastic loop dangling from Nate’s left hand. The can hisses as Kane pops it open. “Rushing Gavin ain’t gonna get you out of town any faster.”

“Yeah, no … it’s all good. I’m just—this is a big step for you guys. I want to get you there. Want to see you killing it across the pond, you know?” Rand shoves his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans. Deep breath in, pursed lips blowing it out.

As managers go, he’s pretty fucking chill. Keeps our shit together without overextending us. Hell, he’s probably just missing his collection of all the bras chicks launch onto the stage during our shows. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has some kind of lingerie fetish going soon.

The last track, “One,” is taking almost as much time for us to nail down as the rest of the album, and it’s just not happening. The band is annoyed as fuck with me. The sound engineers are far beyond granting me polite smiles. And Rand is fucking pissed, but something feels off with it.

Like something’s missing.

I don’t even know anymore.

“This shit needs to be scrapped. Song’s not ready.” I cringe as the words tumble from my lips, and I’m met with a palpable mix of astonishment and relief.

“We got enough without it?” Kane pins me with a glare.

The hours practicing and recording in the studio, not seeing the sun and sand, are taking its toll on all of us. But Kane, he takes it to a new level.

“If we need this song on there, we need to hit it. I leave this studio now, and I am not coming back. Got things I need to see, people I need to do.”

“Nope.” I glance around the confined space, meeting each set of eyes. “Somethin’ ain’t there, not workin’, so …”

“Goddamn it, Gavin.” Rand stands up and storms out of the room, slamming doors as he goes. His chill is no more.

The implication is clear. I’ve wasted time and money for nothing. For a song I can’t quite finish. One that almost doesn’t feel relevant anymore.

With nothing left to say, I turn and walk out.

The past few weeks have been brutal, and the brilliant glow of the sun assaults me as I leave the dark cave of the studio. I need to get away. Need to change my scenery. Unfortunately, a flight to the East Coast isn’t an option, so settling my shades over my eyes, I go for the next best thing.

The Jeep I rented has a kicking sound system. With the top and sides off, the wind whips past me for the two minutes of actual driving before I hit the parking lot that is I-5, heading south out of LA. The stop and go eventually lands me in El Segundo at a little Cuban place. Despite the afternoon sun, I grab a breakfast burrito the size of my forearm and a couple of beers, and I head down to the quiet beach in the shadow of LAX.

Peeling back the wrapper of my burrito, I pop an earbud in and hit Gracyn’s number. The parking lot is all but empty, tourists choosing to hang out at the iconic Venice Beach or the Santa Monica Pier. As the phone rings, I kick my foot up on the frame of the Jeep and dig into my food.

And she answers as soon as my mouth is stuffed full of steak, black beans, rice, and guac.

Of course.

“Hey, hold on. I’m just leaving the office,” Gracyn rushes out, the words spilling quietly from her mouth.

I chew fast and swallow faster, popping open a beer to wash the food down.

“Sorry, I need to get out of here,” she whispers. A car engine starts, and there’s that awkward moment as the call switches over to Bluetooth. “How are you? What’s … is that … are you at the beach?”

“I am. Recording’s done, so I left. Took everything I had not to go straight to the airport and catch the first flight east.” Starving, I shove another bite of burrito in my mouth and hope she asks a million more questions, so I can properly devour this thing.

“And what are you eating? Oh my God, what?” Her edge of panic at what she thinks she’s missing out on pulls my cheeks tight. “You’re eating tacos on the beach, you bastard. Is that what you’re doing?” She whines an exaggerated fake cry.

My mouth is so full; I can’t answer right away. All I can give her is a hum of foodie ecstasy, but it has the effect I crave. The breathy huff that filters through the phone has me picturing Gracyn in every gorgeous detail. The lock of hair that can’t seem to stay out of her eyes, the bunching of her shoulders when she really wants to get her way, the squint of her eyes, and the way she pinches her bottom lip.

Mind sifting through the band’s schedule, me getting out of Cali soon doesn’t look good. I ask, “Want to have breakfast with me tomorrow? I’ll take you for a brekkie burrito of your very own.” It’s a long shot—the longest, and I know it—but I offer up a silent prayer anyway. Maybe, just maybe, she’s free …

“I can’t,” Gracyn sighs. “I have a conference I have to go to, and my workload just jumped up by a shit-ton with an expanding scope of services for a new-ish client. There’s no way I can get away for—pfft—at least a couple of weeks.” Frustration bleeds through her words. “When do you leave again?”

I grab my beer and the extra and hoist myself out of the Jeep.

I miss her. A lot.

“In a couple of weeks,” I say as I march toward the water and plop my ass down on the beach. Flipping off my flops, I dig my toes in the sand and take a pull from my beer. “This sucks.”

“It does. I’ll try … maybe I can hand some things off?” She poses the question more to herself as opposed to me.

And we both know it’s not really possible. She might be the owner’s daughter, but she’s a hard worker and the newest employee there … low bitch on the scrotum pole.