Page 6 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

I lean against the wall, letting my head fall back. The water bottle crinkles in my grip. "The song's not right."

"The song's fine." Mike grabs his guitar from its stand. "You're the one who's not right. Drink something shady at that fancy pants party last night?"

"Smoke in a glass. One too many." I rub my temples. "That one snuck up on me. Rich people must spike their drinks with something extra."

Jace perks up. "Wait, what party?"

"Label signing celebration." I stretch my neck. "Some masquerade thing at Rosewood Hall, a castle in the middle of nowhere in upstate New York."

"That explains why we were stuck flying coach this morning." Jace spins in his chair. "Could've gotten us in for those spiked drinks."

"You think the guy who discovered Third Echo and Midnight Kings wanted our punk asses at his black-tie charity gala?" Mike sets down his coffee. The cup leaves a ring on his notebook where he's been scratching chord changes. "This was all politics. Right, Cal?"

"Yeah." The water's not helping my headache. "Reeves gave Luke two tickets. Said something about 'presenting the right image' before they announce the signing next week. Guess leather jackets and tattoos don't mix with penguin suits and champagne towers."

"Dope." Jace makes a face. "Did you at least mack down on some of those tiny sandwiches?"

"Wouldn't know. Too busy dodging questions about my 'artistic vision' from guys in thousand-dollar suits who probably think Nirvana is a yoga pose."

"Namaste." Jace spins his drumstick between his fingers. "Bet it beat playing The Exit/In back in Nashvegas."

The mention of Nashville sits like acid in my gut. Five years of playing that stage three nights a week. Morrison, always in the back, watching, counting his percentage. Making sure his investment paid off.

"Enough about that." My voice carries an edge that makes Jace stop spinning his drumstick. "We're here to work."

Mike sets his guitar down. Studies me for a moment. Then he crosses to the far wall where they keep the vintage instruments. His hand finds my old Gibson without looking. The same guitar I played the night Morrison found me in Charleston.

"Here." He hands it to me. "Play it like you wrote it. Before the producers got their hands on it."

The Gibson's weight settles against me. The neck's worn smooth from countless nights of power chords and pain. I close my eyes and find the opening chord without thinking.

"You come around like a hurricane..." The words feel different this time. Raw. Real. The way I wrote them at three a.m. on Folly Beach.

The song spills out, stripped down to its bones. No effects. No production. Just truth and six strings.

"Chasing shadows down Meeting Street where promises don't mean a thing | You come around like a hurricane Leaving nothing but rain..."

When I finish, the control room stays quiet. Even Jace isn't fidgeting. Outside the studio windows, New York traffic honks and screams, but in here, the silence holds.

"That's what Pinnacle signed." Mike's voice breaks through. He leans back, arms crossed. "Not some polished radio hit. They signed you. The guy who wrote that on a small, hippy beach."

"Morrison always said?—"

"Morrison's a hack." Mike's fingers drum against his arm. The same rhythm he tapped out the night I told him I was signing Morrison's contract. "You're not in Nashville anymore. You're not that kid he found in Charleston. You're here because you've got something real to show the world."

The Gibson's strings dig into my fingers. I stare at the collection of platinum records lining the walls. They are filled with names I grew up worshipping. "Hmm. Not sure 'real' sells."

"Real is all you've got." Mike reaches for the soundboard. "One more take. Your way."

Jace nods, unusually serious. "Screw the polish, man. That raw shit just now? That's what made me want to join this band."

I head back to the booth. The foam padding on the walls absorbs everything but doubt.

I adjust the mic, watching Mike through the glass as he sets levels. He's been here since the beginning. Seen every high and every low. Followed me to Nashville when everything went to hell.

The red light glows.

This time, when I close my eyes, I let the walls down. Let everything in. The doubt. The hunger. The fear. Every dirty club and empty tip jar. Every promise Morrison made and broke. Every reason I left Charleston behind.

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