Page 5 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

The taxi crawls through midtown traffic, and my mind drifts back to The Royal American.

Morrison saw right through me. Saw the hunger in my eyes when I played. The way music lived in my blood. "You've got something special, kid," he'd said with bourbon on his breath. "But you've got to choose. Do you want to end up like a washed-up old man who dreamed of making it big but never went for it? Playing covers in bars while someone else lives your dreams?"

He didn't know it then, at least specifically, but he was talking about my father. He straddled love and dreams, never putting his full heart into either. He half-assed his way through life and died a sad alcoholic.

My brother Ethan and I watched that story play out our whole lives. We watched Robbie Reid chase one more gig, one more chance, while my mother worked doubles at the hospital. They both shriveled into nothing, both of them broken-hearted and alone in the end.

The worst part? They'd been in love once. Real love. But love doesn't mean shit when you're choosing between power bills and guitar strings.

Since Nashville, I've had my share of women. Nameless faces in different cities. But I don't let them in. Can't. Because Morrison was right about one thing—you can't split your soul between the music and someone else. One of them will starve.

So I chose. I chose the music. I chose to be different from my father—to make it instead of just talking about making it. And I chose not to bring the woman I loved down with me.

Last night... that kiss... it was just a moment of weakness. Blame it on the liquor, on signing the deal, on the way her fingers traced my arms through my shirt. But that's all it was. All it can be.

As the taxi pulls up to Electric Lady Studios, I pledge to put it and her out of my mind. It's time to get down to work.

Some ghost in a mask isn't worth risking everything I've built.

Better for both of us if we stay strangers.

Electric Lady Studios

52 West 8th Street, Greenwich Village

12:28 PM

Three cupsof black coffee sit on the mixing table, untouched.

I adjust my headphones for the fourth time in an hour. The recording light blinks red.

"From the top, Cal." Mike's voice comes through clearly in my ears. He hunches over the soundboard, his dark hair falling forward as he tweaks levels. Seven years of playing smokey holes in the walls together, and he still treats every take like it matters.

In the corner, Jace taps out a rhythm on his knee. The kid's been with us for six months, but his energy fills the room like he's been here forever. His bleached hair catches the studio lights as he bounces in place.

I close my eyes. Focus. The opening riff of "Midnight Lies" fills my headphones. I wrote this one three years ago, back when we were playing for tips and beer. By then, I’d realized Morrison couldn’t take half of tips and beers, so I started preferring that arrangement. It got us into the hottest discovery bar. And, it was the song that changed things for me.

"You come around like a hurricane..." My voice cracks on the second line. Shit. The same spot every time.

"Cut." Mike's calm draws a sharp contrast to Jace, who's practically vibrating beside him. "Maybe we should break for?—"

"Again." I roll my shoulders back. Two and a half hours of meetings with Pinnacle's marketing team sit heavily in my bones. This should be my release, my gift for going through the suit’s bullshit. "I got it this time."

But three takes later, the song still isn't flowing. The lyrics feel wrong in my mouth. Empty. This morning, we planned album releases and magazine covers. Now I can't even nail the song that got us noticed.

"Take five?" Mike's suggestion sounds more like an order.

I yank off the headphones and push through the booth door. The control room smells like old leather and cigarettes, even though no one's smoked in here for years. Guitars line the walls, each one probably worth more than what we made in our first year of touring.

"Dude." Jace spins in his chair, drumstick twirling between his fingers. "I've never seen you this tense in the studio. Even that time in Boston when the amp caught fire."

"It’s nothing." I grab a water bottle from the mini-fridge. "Just tired."

"Bullshit." Mike's been calling me on my crap since I was playing open mics. "I've seen you nail tracks on no sleep, hungover, even with that chest infection in Memphis. You're always a grumpy asshole, but this is different."

"This is what we've all wanted." Jace's eyes shine with the kind of excitement I used to have. "I mean, Pinnacle Records? That's the big leagues, man. Did you see their trophy room? Grammys for days."

Mike shoots him a look. "Zip it, kid."

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