Tone Deaf(12)

How did you get my number?

The response comes almost instantly. Ticket sale records.

I groan. Avery was the one who saved up for the tickets, but she’d had me make the actual purchase, since I’m better at scrounging up online deals. I’d been certain the info I gave the ticket site was private, but Jace probably isn’t the type to care about confidentiality. He’s got the money to get past any kind of barrier. Lucky bastard.

Another text pops up on my screen: I’m really sorry.

No you’re not.

But my manager thinks I should be.

I squeeze my eyes closed just as my phone vibrates again. I clench it tight, resisting the urge to chuck it across the room. After a long minute, I stare back down at the screen. I’m not about to drop the conversation now and let Jace think he got the better of me.

You need money?

I’m slightly surprised at how articulate his texts are. Most guys use as many abbreviations as possible when they text, which drives me nuts. But not Jace. Well, that’s one thing about this conversation that’s not infuriating.

How is that any of your business? I text back.

I’ll give you 3k if you let me make up for being a jerk.

I rub my temples. This is so not how this conversation was supposed to go. I was supposed to tell him off, say he was an * and that he can’t just go around treating people the way he does. Money was never supposed to be a factor in this.

How does he even know how broke I am? How desperately I need cash? For every second Avery has spent daydreaming about Tone Deaf, I’ve spent a minute dreaming about escape. To get away from this city, away from the air that’s strangely hot and dusty. To run back to NYC, where beautiful chaos rules and no one notices you unless you want them to.

To escape to a place where my dad could never find me.

“Damn you,” I mutter, clenching the phone tighter in my hand. I hesitantly type back, What do you want from me?

Just finish the tour. Take a couple pictures with me. I promise I won’t even talk to you.

I laugh as I read his reply. Jackass. Like ignoring me is some type of gift? Seriously, what’s his issue? Sure, he’s made his living off music, but that’s no reason to hate anyone who can’t hear his work. I think of all the people I’ve seen posting on the DeafClan forums about his music, and suddenly wish I had my own account, just so I could warn them that Jace doesn’t deserve his fans.

And why is he even offering this to me? Probably to keep me from going to the media, like Avery suggested. After all, Jace doesn’t know for sure that I don’t have any evidence of what he did. I’m sure some girls would have tried to discreetly film their encounter with a celebrity, which is probably what he’s worried about. But if Jace gets a couple of pictures with me, both of us smiling, then no one can claim he’s done anything wrong.

My breath catches in my throat as I realize these texts would probably give me enough evidence to convince a news outlet of what an ass he was to me. But . . . damn it. The number he’s using has a local area code, probably from a phone he borrowed. There’s nothing to prove it’s actually him. Which leads me back to the impossible issue of getting the media to believe me over a celebrity.

No, I type back before I can stop myself. I don’t need your pity.

This isn’t pity. This is my manager keeping you quiet.

Well, at least he’s honest. But still a jackass.

I grit my teeth and flick to his first text, getting ready to delete every word he’s sent. A message screen pops up, asking, Send conversation thread to trash? Just as I’m about to press OK, another text appears.

8k. Final offer.

My throat goes dry. With eight thousand dollars, I could easily get a plane ticket to New York City and pay for a few months’ rent. And combined with the money I’ve saved up over the years, I’d have enough for a semester at a community college, which would give me a chance to improve my grades and get accepted into a nice university . . .

No. I’m not really considering this. Am I? Even though he’s the one offering the money, it’s still pretty much blackmail. And I’m above that . . . right?

More vibrations run through the tile floor from Avery outside the door. I wipe a sweaty palm on my jean shorts, darkening a small splotch of the denim.

I take a deep breath and text back, When do you want to meet?

Tonight. 8:00. Meet at the stadium stage.

I quickly select each of the messages and delete them. But there’s no satisfaction now. Instead, my stomach rolls, like I’d just swallowed a cocktail of antifreeze and boiling tar. I reach over and unlock the door, and Avery comes rushing in. “What did you say to him?” she demands, her agitation causing her to sign and speak at the same time.

“I told him to f-off and never text me again,” I say. I know if I told her the truth, Avery would insist on coming with me tonight, and I don’t want that. It’s going to be hard enough to stop myself from strangling Jace, without also having to hold back my overprotective best friend.

Her lips purse in a suspicious frown. “I heard your phone go off a few times.”

I force a smirk onto my lips. “He doesn’t take rejection well.”

That makes a smile spring onto her lips, and she nods decidedly. “Awesome. You gave him what he deserved.”

“Yup.”