Page 217 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

“I can’t believe you called him,” I scold my drummer for the fifth time in ten minutes.

“Would you have preferred I called your mom?” Scar argues as we’re making our way down the hotel corridor.

“You didn’t have to get him involved,” I grumble under my breath.

“Yes, I did. Dude, you’re not just anyone. You can’t just walk into the police station and accuse someone of murder without proof. We need guidance. We have no fucking idea what we’re doing!”

He’s not wrong about that part, but it doesn’t make Josh’s presence here any less frustrating.

Josh is my mentor. He has been since the day he showed up in Silver Springs to try and get me to sign with his label two years ago.

I respect the guy, and I promised him when he told me he’d do anything to make my dreams come true that he wouldn’t regret taking a chance on me.

Finding out that your biggest artist was the getaway driver to a murder just might make him think twice about managing me.

We come to a slow stop in front of Joshua’s suite.

Scar texted him right after Brody gave us our phones back, telling him to catch the next flight to North Carolina because we had a “pressing situation.”

“Look…” Scar sighs. “We just need to be smart about this. We’re going to need lawyers and resources we don’t fucking have. Josh can help.”

Doubt weighing on me, I knock on the door a few times.

I discern footsteps inside the room.

“I’ll be in the car,” Scar surprises me by saying.

“You’re not coming?” I ask.

“No, he wants to talk to you alone.”

On that note, Scar walks away, leaving me to fend for myself.

Shit.

I was hoping I’d have Scar there to back me up.

Knowing Josh, he’s going to be pissed that I even put myself in this situation by hanging out with guys I don’t trust to begin with.

He made it clear when we first started working together that I should be careful who I associate with. My inner circle should only consist of people I know for a fact wouldn’t stab me in the back.

The door opens the next second, and I cringe at the sight of the forty-year-old man on the other side.

He doesn’t look happy, that’s for sure.

I give him a quick once-over.

Josh’s black hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing a suit—what’s new?

You’d think he’s on his way to some prestigious event when really, he’s probably going to stay in all day and order some room service. That’s just who Josh is. He’s rich and successful, and he always dresses the part, even on weekends and his days off.

I expect his greeting to run along the lines of “What the hell did you do?” but instead, he says nothing.

Nothing except “Inside. Now.”

* * *

I thought walking Josh through what happened last night would be easier than living it.

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