Page 3 of Wild Obsession

“We don’t care about the costs,” Erin says.

It’s easy for her say. She has parents to fall back on if this whole “being a band” thing doesn’t work out.

I say nothing, and just like that, it’s settled. My bandmates stop pushing back, and I have no choice but to go along with the will of the group, but this just became the longest tour in music history.

Emmett said a healthy rivalry with Baptism Emperor might work to our advantage, but he has no idea the can of worms he’s opening there. In my case at least, that rivalry might not be for show. Not when it comes to the only person I ever fell for, the only person I ever kissed, the only person I ever loved.

It’s been almost a decade, but Keannen Summers is still the guy who got away.

If only he’d stayed away.

Chapter Two

Keannen

THE FIRST REHEARSAL nearly ends in disaster.

I knew it would the second our manager came to us with this bullshit scheme about opening for The Ten Hours. I’ve been waiting for this clash for a while, after all. It’s not like I could miss the rise of my ex-boyfriend’s super popular band. I’ve had to watch him become a rockstar while I’ve remained a washout. Not that Tim realizes any of that. He was too busy moving on and becoming a famous drummer or whatever. No time to care about some fucked up, flunky loser he abandoned back in high school.

So yeah, I knew about Tim and his band long before Emmett told us we were touring with them. I’ve practiced this moment in my head over and over for years, but when I step into the chilly, empty warehouse we’re going to use fortour rehearsals, I simply smirk at him, letting every unkind thought I’ve had about him over the past eight years curl the corners of my mouth as he gapes at me.

Fuck this guy. He doesn’t deserve better than a smirk, not after how he left things. I swagger in, hands stuffed in my leather jacket, and sneer at him. Tim sits behind his drum kit. The moment our eyes lock, his hands stop moving, sticks frozen in mid-air.

“You’re here,” a woman moving way too fast says.

She’s tidy and crisp, so I know before she introduces herself that she’s the tour manager. She’s got a serious “spreadsheet” vibe.

“We’re going to work on some marks today,” the manager, Daphne, says. “It’s especially important because we need to make sure we can swap instruments and stuff as quickly as possible. A lull between sets is a death sentence, so we can’t have you doing anything that might interfere with The Ten Hours’ setup.”

I scoff. Daphne shoots me a look, but I don’t care. Of course we have to bend over backward for The Ten Hours. They’re the big shots. We’re just some chaff they scooped out of a dive bar in downtown Seattle to serve as an appetizer. They’ll probably cannibalize our small but growing fan base and leave us in the dust. ItoldJacob this was a stupid idea, but he and the others couldn’t say no when Rainier Talent Management dangled a contract in front of their faces, so here weare.

Whatever. I’m going to make my own fun during this calamity. Fun that mostly means tormenting my ex-boyfriend until he feels every second of those eight years I spent wondering where the hell he was and why he left.

Daphne ushers me and the rest of Baptism Emperor inside. We’re a bigger band than The Ten Hours in numbers if not in record sales. We’ve got a second guitarist, Dan, and they don’t, but like them, the star of the show is our lead singer. That chick Erin definitely has crazy pipes and a cool look, but no one on this earth is a match for our Jacob. The guy oozes charisma. If we ever make it big like The Ten Hours, we’re going to need a security detail just for him.

Jacob struts right up to The Ten Hours, his hazel eyes shining as brightly as that perfect smile he can don on command. His brown hair falls to his shoulders in soft waves, and even from behind I know his trademark dimples are out in force as he greets people who really should be our rivals and not our friends.

The rest of the band introduces themselves as well, but I hang back, letting Tim squirm. I know he’s dreading this. His fear is so thick it sizzles in the air. I leave him in torment for as long as I can, introducing myself to his bandmates last.

Then, after eight long years, we’re face to face again.

He looks good, the shithead. He’s grown into himself. I’m still taller than him, but he’s filled out in ways I never quite managed. His brown eyes flickernervously to meet mine, and all my bravado abandons me in a rush. It’s like getting punched in the gut and wheezing for breath. One moment I’m the smirking antagonist; the next, I want to curl up in a ball on the ground.

Guess that shit still hurts even after all this time.

I don’t allow myself so much as a flinch. In fact, I stand up straighter, letting my smirk twist into something uglier. Tim all but cowers before me, accentuating what would otherwise be only a couple inches of height difference. As much as I want to gloat, every time he dares to look into my eyes I see the freckles scattered across his cheeks again, freckles I spent hours of my life counting, mapping, kissing. He’s a man now, but those freckles hung on tenaciously through the years, like a dusting of starlight that refuses to fade away.

Fuck.

“You two, um, alright?” Jacob says.

“Oh, we’re great,” I say. “Aren’t we, old buddy?”

Tim gulps. His bandmates startle. So, he really didn’t tell them about me. That shouldn’t sting, but it sure as hell does. The bastard actually went ahead and erased me from his past. It must have been nice being able to move on so painlessly. I wouldn’t know.

“Wait, you know each other?” their singer, Erin, says.

“We sure do, don’t we, Timmy?” I say.

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