All of the important men in my life, barring a few, have let me down—hugely. When it comes to relationships with men—well, let’s just say I’m a colossal failure.

Boyfriend One cheated on me with the only close female friend I ever had.

Boyfriend Two stole money from me.

Boyfriend Three was an aspiring singer, whom I found out was only dating me because he knew who my father was. I overheard him telling his friends. It was a sucker punch because I hate my father.

Boyfriend Four dumped me when I refused to have a threesome with him and his best friend. I kid you not.

Boyfriend Five “borrowed” my car. I still haven’t seen him—or my car—to this day.

Boyfriend Six—my longest relationship and with a guy I stupidly thought I might love—screwed my brother on the biggest night of my life. After I caught them in the act, I later found out, he’d actually been screwing my brother for the last month of the eight months we were together.

That one was the killer, the final nail in my sex coffin.

After that, I realized that I only ever seem to be attracted to men with issues. I’m sure any good psychologist would say that I’m drawn to this kind of man because of my father and the problems I have with him, being that he’s a completely crap dad.

Basically, he was the sperm donor who helped create me.

So, I stay clear of men. Seriously, the closest I get to a man nowadays is sharing a drink with my best friend, Cale.

In my past, I was always a relationship kind of girl—albeit, an unsuccessful one. Casual sex was something I never could do. I tie too many emotions to sex to be able to sleep with a guy and not see him again.

Taking relationships off the menu for me also removed the dessert menu, meaning no more sex for Lyla.

I’ve been totally okay with it—well, about ninety-five percent of the time.

Okay, if I’m being totally honest, it’s more like seventy-five and climbing with the help of ASBOF.

ASBOF—Asexual Battery-Operated Friend. The ultimate G-spot–finding, mind-blowing O-giving, can-do-everything-a-man-can-do, except cuddle and break my heart, vibrator.

ASBOF is my electronic way to a much-needed orgasm.

I use the term asexual for my vibrator, so I don’t think of it in a male sense in any way. I don’t want to think of men in a sexual way at all—well, except when trying to reach the O with ASBOF. Of course I need some mental stimulation, so yes, on some occasions, I do visualize a faceless man, or maybe the hot guy who serves my coffee at Starbucks. But I promptly scrub the guy from my mind as soon as me and the O are done.

Anyway, back to the now…and the fact that I’ve been staring at Zane for a ridiculous amount of time, like he’s got three alien heads on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I’m hoping my hearing is off, and I misheard him.

Zane leans forward and speaks into the microphone again, enunciating each word as he says them, “I said, your vocal was off.”

I’m guessing he’s annoyed at having to repeat himself.

And, no, I didn’t mishear him.

My back stiffens.

My vocal was not off. No freaking way. It was so not off that it’s on the other side of the Not-Off Bridge.

I know my songs. I know this song inside out. There’s no way I was off.

Face pricking, I stare down at the Keds on my feet, trying to control my rush of anger.

I don’t do criticism well. It’s not my friend. And to hear this criticism from Zane stings badly because I respect his opinion.

I’m passionate about my work. I love my job. I love singing. I live for it. My band, this album—they’re everything to me. My whole world.

I spent years and years singing in shitty bars and clubs, chasing the dream. Finally, I hooked that dream and then spent months and months working on the album—seven days a week, day and night, barely sleeping. I was so desperate to perfect it that I thought I might have a nervous breakdown.

Now, to hear I’m flunking—from Zane of all people—is not good. He hasn’t had a problem with my vocals on any of the other tracks. And today of all days, I could do without hearing this.

I feel like I just got an F on my paper from my favorite teacher, and like a child, I want to have a colossal temper tantrum about it.

Not mature, but I don’t care.

Deep breaths, Lyla.

This is Zane Fox. He won’t take kindly to a creative temper tantrum from a small-time singer who just signed with his label.

Taking a calming breath, I force nicety into my voice. “Okay, so maybe my pitch was a teeny, tiny bit off”—I don’t mean that at all—“but—”

“You weren’t a tiny bit off,” he cuts in. “You were way off, so fucking off that it isn’t even funny. Nothing about that was working. Seriously, you sounded like the cleaner when she’s singing with her headphones on.”

What the hell? Okay, just exactly what the hell has crawled up in his ass and died today?

I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.

Thankfully, his voice is a little less acidic. “Your usual kick-ass vocal just isn’t here today, Lyla. The tone that makes your voice so distinctive, so unique, seems to have disappeared. I’m wondering, what the hell? So, tell me now, is there anything I need to know before we carry on?”

He’s giving me an expectant look.

“Um…anything you need to know, as in?”

“As in, I don’t know, and that’s why I’m asking you.”

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