Wicked Girl: Wicked #3 Read online

  “How can you have two dead parents and still be this idealistic?” Serena groans, folding me in a hug that has me dropping the damp sponge and bristling until I force myself to relax. “Sorry, but you deserve this,” she murmurs against my hair.

  8

  Now I’m truly fucked.

  The dozen sheets of paper, laid out on the table with a care I usually reserve for instruments, tell a story I don’t want to hear.

  Each is the start of something. Some have chords marked on them, or guitar riffs that caught my attention long enough to be captured. A few phrases, sometimes a verse.

  “Northing’s good enough,” I summarize.

  Mace shifts forward, scanning the pages. “Try writing prompts?”

  “I’m not resorting to Google.”

  Behind him, the hotel bar is quiet, but the occasional person trails in the front doors. Enough to keep my busy mind distracted from the problem at hand.

  I knew it on some level. I painted myself into this corner by coming back here.

  No, it was before that.

  It was two years ago when Haley sat across from me in my Bentley, looking at me like the sun shone out of my ass, and I gave her that song. Said she could keep it.

  That moment of delusion was the root of all this fucked-up-ness because I gave her the one thing I wrote that didn’t suck and now she thinks there’s more like it.

  “You need to send over two completed songs today because of… what?”

  “Long story.”

  If I sound strung out, it’s half about the songs and half about the phantom pain in my balls that’s lingered since yesterday. The shitty sleep I got last night because I couldn’t think of anything except those melted chocolate eyes.

  Even though Haley didn’t finish what she started, I can’t go back on my word.

  Yeah, when a girl half-blows you in exchange for songs, it’s a regular moral dilemma.

  Mace goes on. “I get that it’s hard. The first album was the best because you had nothing to prove. You were metaphorically bleeding on the proverbial floor.”

  I blink at him. “Art history, huh?”

  He shrugs, shoving back his long hair and reminding me of one of Haley’s philosophers. “You had nothing to lose. It was an escape. I know what that’s like, to feel like you need music. That you can’t live without it.”

  Guilt hits me. It’s been a while since we’ve talked. “You don’t feel like that anymore.”

  “No. Not to say it won’t ever come back. Depression’s a beast.” Mace takes a swig from the mug in front of him. “But there are ways to cope. The times you want to shut out the world are when you need it the most.”

  When did Mace get more mature than me?

  Because he is. He’s more thoughtful and well-balanced, and I missed it.

  All of it.

  I wonder what else I missed, shutting myself away the last two years.

  It’s not like I stopped living. I renovated six rooms of my house. Built a shed the size of a barn, with the help of one of my favorite reality show home reno guys. I fought for my kid, booked a bunch of appearances, and got into what’s probably the best shape of my life.

  But when I turned my back on Wicked, I turned my back on music.

  Mace gets up to use the bathroom, and I tug one of the sheets toward me. I need to turn this into a song. I couldn’t do it on tour. Who’s to say I can do it now?

  My phone buzzes and I reach for it.

  Brick: We rehearsing today?

  * * *

  Jax: Not until I finish writing

  * * *

  Brick: K

  * * *

  Brick: PS you were asking about what’s going on at Wicked. I found something

  * * *

  Brick: Haley does some mixing but mostly she’s

  in charge of this program for teenagers

  * * *

  Jax: Send me a link

  * * *

  Brick: There is none. It’s on the DL

  I stare at the text a long time.

  The reason she’s still there is a single program? One they don’t even publicize?

  It gives me more questions than answers.

  “Jax?” Annie pulls out her earbuds, straightening as she approaches on her way from the elevator, dressed for school with her hair pulled up in one of those high ponytails again.

  She drops into the chair across from me. I can’t put the papers away fast enough. She grabs one. “What are you doing?”

  “Annie, come on.”

  I reach for it, but she holds it away. “‘No part of you can make me feel. No substitute for being real.’” Her gaze meets mine. “You’re writing a song,” she accuses.

  I didn’t expect to feel embarrassed in front of a thirteen-year-old.

  “It’s not exactly the soundtrack of my life,” she goes on.

  It’s fucking terrible is what it is.

  “But I like that it’s about what’s real. Too many people don’t talk about that anymore. Everything’s fake. Who you are, who you know—”

  “You’re in my chair,” a gruff voice insists.

  Annie squeals, her eyes getting huger than the time she met Beyoncé. “Uncle Ryan!”

  She drops the paper and hops out of the seat, throwing her arms around him.

  Shit, I haven’t gotten a reception like that since… well, before she found out my sperm gave her those eyes. For a moment, I’m actually jealous of my best friend.

  “Hey, kid.” She won’t let go, and he practically pries her arms off at last.

  Mace drops back into his seat and Annie takes the one between us. But her attention’s solely on him.

  “I haven’t seen you in forever. Do you hate me?” she asks.

  “Never.” She shifts into the chair next to the one Mace sits in. “How’s school?”

  “That place you have to get to,” I remind her, checking the time on my phone.

  Her face falls. “It’s hard being in the middle of the semester.” Her gaze darts to me. “Can I have a friend over this weekend? If I don’t, people will think I’m weird.”

  I turn it over in my head, but the idea’s appealing. “Yeah. Sure.”

  Maybe it’ll be good for her. She hasn’t asked to have someone over in the weeks since we got here. Or a couple months before that, come to think of it.

  “Uncle Ryan, you should come for dinner. Tomorrow?”

  He glances toward me. “I have a night class until nine. And then you have that thing.”

  “The thing?” I stare blankly at him.

  “Party for Jerry.”

  Right. The guy’s retirement is being celebrated in a ballroom at a fancy hotel down the road. He’s like the father I never had, and I wouldn’t miss a chance to celebrate him.

  “Sunday then.” Annie beams, dropping a kiss on Mace’s cheek before shouldering her backpack and dashing toward the door.

  I grunt. “When did you become God?”

  Mace chuckles, and I go back to the half-written songs.

  “It’s perfection, Mr. Jamieson. If I may say so.”

  The tailor inclines his head an inch, and I glance back toward the mirror, straightening my lapels. It doesn’t suck.

  I have half a dozen suits at home appropriate for a red carpet event. But for tonight, I want more. It’s Jerry’s retirement, and the man deserves the best. So Rodney called his guy for me and arranged to have something flown in on short notice. Altered on even shorter notice.

  On my way out of the store, the call comes in. I sling the bag of street clothes over my back, ignoring the stares I get on the street as I answer the phone.

  “You on your way?” Brick asks.

  “Yeah. Just have a stop to make. Forgot something.”

  “Mace isn’t coming?”

  “You know he hates these things.”

  I drive home from the tux alteration place and take the elevator up. I tap my fingers on the handrail.

  After hours picking
my guitar, a pencil stuck behind my ear as I scrawled changes over the paper, I have a grand total of nothing. The feeling of failure curls in my gut.

  But I’m not going to leave Haley hanging.

  The doors open, and I span the foyer in a few steps. “Annie, forgot to grab my…”

  The floor tilts.

  Because my kid is sitting on the couch.

  With a boy.

  At least I think he’s a boy. He has blue hair.

  There are two comfy armchairs, but he’s next to her, laughing at something she said.

  My hands tighten into fists. “What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

  “Tyler, Mr—ah—Jamieson.” His eyes widen, and he lifts his hands as if I’m about to do something illegal.

  Maybe I am.

  “Get the hell off my couch.”

  He rises, but his gaze goes to Annie.

  “Jax.” Her voice shakes. “Don’t do this.”

  I ignore her, turning to the kid. “You’re not talking to my daughter. You’re leaving.”

  “Mr. Jamieson, you don’t understand—”

  “JAX!”

  “I understand fine. Get out of my house.”

  With an apologetic look at Annie, he grabs his bag off the floor by the door and yanks on his shoes.

  I turn back to my daughter as the door closes behind him.

  “What was that?” she shouts. “You said I could have a friend over.”

  “I meant a girl.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “Boys want things.”

  “And girls don’t?” Annie’s eyes flash.

  “Jesus, this isn’t happening.” I hit a button on my phone. “I need a babysitter tonight. I know. I owe you one.”

  9

  Haley

  “This isn’t working,” the small, panicked voice mutters from somewhere behind me.

  I excuse myself from my conversation and move up behind him. “Need a hand?”

  The kid turns, his eyes going round. “Wow. Miss Telfer, you look epic.”

  “Thanks, Mika. What’s happening?”

  He explains the issue, and I lean over the computer. The movement tugs at the cap sleeves on my dress, which was not built for typing.

  I code for a few minutes then step back. “There.”

  The kid grins at me. “Thanks. And thank you for trusting me with this.”

  The way he talks about handling sound for the party, it’s like it’s the biggest thing he’s ever done. It warms my heart.

  “You’ll do a great job. Hey, is Tyler coming tonight?”

  “He said something came up. Do you want me to call him? We were working on a demo this week. Mixing it with DRE.”

  I get a kick out of it every time they use my program. “No need to call him. But I’d love to hear what you’re working on. Send it over. Or better yet, why don’t you come by next week? We can listen together.”

  He beams.

  I look past him at the room full of people. The stage, where the techs are finishing setup. Soon there will be speeches. Then the musical tributes.

  The party’s at a fancy hotel, and Lita’s playing. The invitees may not include as many executives as my father’s funeral, but there are way more musicians, tour managers, and producers. Everyone who knows the industry knows Jerry, and tonight they’re here, wearing everything from black tie to jeans.

  I settled on a gold dress that ends partway down my thighs and black heels Serena helped me pick out for the occasion. I curled my hair, bringing it up almost to my jaw line at the front. But really, the clothes don’t matter. It’s the collective spirit, the power, the love that matters.

  I made sure Jax got an invitation, but as I look around, I don’t see him. I hide the disappointment. Not because I wanted to spend time with him. Because he sent me the world’s shortest email saying he has some tracks and will get them to me soon.

  We’re running short of time. Todd stopped in my office yesterday afternoon to ask what the hold-up is. I stalled him. I won’t be able to stall him much longer, and the fate of the program that means everything to me hangs in the balance.

  At least Todd’s away this weekend. Golfing in South Carolina, I think. He’s probably the only person in music who declined to change their plans to be here tonight.

  When the evening program starts, Derek does introductory remarks. When he calls me, I go up to the raised platform at the front of the room and take the mic.

  “Gerald Timms”—I raise my brows and people laugh—“is a special person. I’m the least qualified to be talking about his contributions to music. But I couldn’t pass up the chance.

  “When I was on my first job with Wicked, he was the sound manager. He taught me everything I know. Which still isn’t half of what he does. More than that, he taught me what’s important in this industry.”

  My gaze finds Jerry at the front of the crowd. He’s shining. Practically beaming.

  I know he’s struggled the past two years, but I’ve done everything I can to help him. Through medication the dementia is managed, if not solved. I like to think that keeping him engaged in music, his lifetime love, is helping to slow the disease.

  “He’s made a lot of friends in this room. He’s had a profound impact on all of us. He’d never tell you this himself, but he matters. In every artist he’s touched, every venue he’s graced, every album he’s charmed, and every intern he’s inspired. To Jerry.” I raise a glass, and they all toast.

  After, I introduce Lita and hug her when she comes on stage.

  I leave the stage and hug Jerry.

  “Nice work, Miss Telfer,” he murmurs.

  A smile rises up from nowhere. Something he’s always been able to conjure in me.

  I wind toward the back of the room, offering hellos and thank yous as I go.

  When I get to the back of the room where hors d’oerves are laid out on elegant silver trays, I choose a phyllo-wrapped mushroom and pop it into my mouth.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t ask me to play.” The familiar voice at my back has me freezing.

  I turn, half expecting to find Jax in a T-shirt and jeans.

  He’s not.

  Jax Jamieson is dressed in a tux.

  A goddamned tux.

  And he’s beautiful.

  His striking jaw is the same strong angle as always. Those amber eyes are a little too light to be real. His hair is shorter than he used to keep it.

  He looks like a prince.

  That’s the only reason I can come up with for why I lose the ability to chew and swallow.

  Pieces of pastry and mushroom stick in my throat.

  Now I’m coughing, the sound masked by Lita’s music.

  But Jax’s attention’s all on me. “You okay?”

  I hold up a hand, shaking my head.

  Jax looks past me to the table, his gaze landing on a tray of chocolate covered nuts. Moving faster than I’ve ever seen him move, he grabs a passing waiter, who nearly drops his tray. “Are there peanuts in there?” he snaps.

  Oh, fuck.

  “I don’t—”

  “Call 911,” he thunders. “This is an emergency.”

  I shake my head, coughing, and grab Jax’s arm.

  “Hales, I’m going to get an ambulance. Hold onto her,” he says.

  The waiter closes in, uncertain, and I ward him off with my hands.

  Jax curses. “Right. Strangers are bad. Don’t hold onto her.”

  Finally I lunge for a drink off another passing tray and chug it down.

  My throat clears and I gasp for breath. “Jax. It’s okay. It just went down wrong. We always do peanut-free catering.”

  The panic recedes after a long moment and Jax relaxes. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Thought you’d just as soon have me dead.”

  I reach for a second drink off the tray and pass him one.

  His brows draw together on his forehead. “Don’t ever say that, Hales.” He lifts t
he drink to his lips, sipping as he raises a brow. “Bulleit?”

  My mouth twitches. “You know it.”

  When the waiter disappears, Jax shifts closer to my side, surveying the room.

  “Thanks for saving me. And in a tux, no less,” I say. Jax glances down at my dress. “Nothing? You’re not going to tease me about the shoes? The dress?”

  Jax tosses back the rest of his bourbon, setting the glass on a tray of a passing waiter. “I’ve made millions with words. Every time I see you, I can’t think of a single one.”

  His careless admission slams into me, warms me like the liquor.

  If he wants me to read into that, I’m doing it. Even though part of me expected him to come tonight—he’s worked with Jerry as long as anyone—I could hardly have expected this Jax. Because it makes it harder to remember we’re not friends. Or anything.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t bring someone tonight. Like Carter,” he says, so smoothly I think I’ve misheard.

  “Carter? Why?”

  Jax lifts a shoulder under his fitted jacket, and it’s totally not fair that he wears that and T-shirts equally well. “Heard you were dating.”

  “He’s my business partner.”

  “That’s all?” His gaze intensifies.

  I feel my mouth twitch at the corner as an old memory comes back. “I kiss who I want, Jax Jamieson.” His brows draw together. “But from here on in… Carter’s just business.” As I say the words I realize they’re true.

  Apparently satisfied, Jax nods toward the front of the room. “So he’s finally willing to retire.”