Page 30 of Home Coming

“We’re here,” Quinn said unnecessarily. “Ready to go inside and sing about what an asshole your ex is?”

She managed to answer with a, “Yeah.”

Meanwhile something else occupied her mind.

Bailquinn.

Face burning, heart pounding, Bailey wanted to crawl beneath the seat as Quinn, acting like nothing was wrong, walked around the car and opened the passenger side door for her.

She loved her followers but that couple name was too much. She couldn’t even imagine what Quinn thought about it, even though he really was behaving like things were perfectly normal. Business as usual.

Maybe that was it. This was all just business to him. She was his job. He was her bodyguard. Even if just that word—bodyguard—and the thought of Quinn protecting her body had her heart beating faster, it also meant that she was just work. Another responsibility. The latest in a long line of things he was tasked to protect.

And now she was supposed to go inside to her first ever recording session. Bare her soul singing the lyrics she’d come up with while under the influence of Fireball shots and heartbreak.

She wasn’t a singer. At least, not a professional. Xander had only had to tell her that once for her to believe it to her core.

His opinion only added to what had already been proven. That she couldn’t cut it against all the talent in New York. That’s why she had dropped out of her college music program before they had a chance to kick her out.

She remembered the conversation with Xander from earlier in the year like it was yesterday. She’d just signed with his firm—Paragon. She’d been singing during a post as she put on her make-up during a live tutorial. Just a few bars of Christina Aguilera’sBeautiful.

The post hadn’t been up for more than an hour when the call from Xander came through.

Bailey, you’re not a singer. You’re an influencer and you’re great at it. Don’t try to do everything. Be everything. That’s the path to mediocracy and failure. You’re on the road to success. No detours. Okay? No more singing.

Boy, how things had changed. Here she was at a recording studio that he’d booked. He was practically forcing her to sing, which made the whole thing nerve wracking. Made her not want to do it.

Would he drop her if she refused? Would she lose all her sponsorship deals if he did? Worse, would her singing really suck and disappoint him?

“What’s wrong?”

She realized she’d slowed to a stop just shy of the door. Glancing up at Quinn, she saw the concern in his frown.

“I don’t want to do this,” she whispered.

His dark brows rose but he nodded and said, “All right. Can you tell me why not?”

“I’m not a singer,” she voiced the mantra running on repeat in her head.

He laughed. “The internet thinks you are.”

Quinn held up his cell phone for her to see.

“Josie texted again. Your views just topped two million. So the way I see it, the song is out there either way. You want to leave it like that, that’s fine. We’ll get back in that vehicle, drive to your apartment, pack up your stuff and head upstate. Or you can go in there, record a professional version and earn some well-deserved money off those millions of people enjoying the song you wrote and sang. It’s your choice, Bailey. I’ll do whatever you say.”

In the fading light he stood there between the car and the studio door, key in hand, and she believed him. He would go along with whatever she decided.

“Xander—” she began.

“Fuck Xander. What do you want?” he asked, his gaze intense as it bore into her.

“I want to sing.”

He smiled. “Then let’s get inside.”

The door of the studio opened a whirlwind of introductions, questions, instructions…

She was hustled inside and before she knew it found herself behind a wall of glass that separated her from Quinn and the female producer seated at the mixing board. On her side of the divider she slipped the earphones over her head and took in her surroundings.

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