Jet (Marked Men, #2)(43)

All right. But you might hate it. I don’t think the guys I’m working with know a single Kenny Chesney song.

Very funny, *. What do you want me to bring you?

Whatever. I’m easy.

No Jet, you are anything but that.

I stared at the phone like it would explain to me what she meant. The guys in the band were getting restless, so I told her to grab a couple pizzas and a case of Coors Light so I could feed them as well. I gave her directions to the studio. I couldn’t decide between being pleased that she was actively seeking me out or being freaked out about letting her into my inner sanctum. I decided to just hover between the two and focus on work until she got there. Something was going on with the band, half the guys weren’t talking and Jorge was a beat behind on three out of four songs. After the sixth time starting the first song over again, I was ready to murder them all.

I slammed my hands down on the mixing board and flipped off the switch that recorded everything in the booth. I cracked my knuckles on both hands and walked into where they were all glaring back and forth at one another, and where Ryan was scowling at me.

“What gives, dude? Today is the last day we have for studio time and we already paid you for it.”

I twirled the ring on my middle finger around with my thumb and met him glare for glare. This kid didn’t know me well enough to think that I was ever going to be impressed by his youthful overconfidence and mediocre talent.

“What’s going on today? You guys suck, and I mean suck. Whatever you’re doing is garbage and I’m not messing around with it. Did you forget you’re a band and that means you all have to play the same song at the same time? What the f*ck gives?”

Ryan puffed his chest up and Jorge threw his drum sticks down. The other two guys frowned at me while Ryan moved to poke me in the center of my chest.

“Watch it. We’re paying you, remember?”

I smacked his hand away and narrowed my eyes threateningly at him. “Yeah. You’re paying me to put together an album that gets you noticed by a major label and gets you signed, not an album that sounds like a bunch of pots and pans falling out of the kitchen cabinet. My name doesn’t get attached to something that isn’t listenable. So, what is the goddamn deal?”

Jorge pounded one of the cymbals with the edge of his fist. “Yeah, Ry, why don’t you tell him what’s going on? Why don’t you tell him how you took all the credit for all the songs I wrote and all the shows we played when that girl from Shred interviewed you? Why don’t you explain to Jet how this new album is a collaboration between you and him, and the rest of us are just the hired help?” He hit the cymbal again. “You don’t need us, right? Why don’t you go ahead and finish the album by yourself, because I’ve had it.”

I took a step back as Jorge rounded the massive drum kit. Ryan had turned a lovely shade of purple and was looking frantically between me and where his drummer had stormed off to. I rubbed my chin and made him meet my questioning gaze.

“Can you write songs? Do you know how to put together a melody and a chorus the way Jorge does?”

He frowned and gulped. “No.”

“Can you play guitar?”

“No.”

“Can you play the drums?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

I rocked back on my heels and crossed my arms over my chest. “Are you a solo artist, Ry? Because if you are, then we need to scrap the tracks we already laid down and start all over.”

He balked at me, and the microphone in his hand dropped to the ground. “No. No way. That stuff we recorded the other day was boss.”

“Right. It was boss, because Jorge wrote amazing songs and you have an amazing band to back you up. Without that, you’re just some little shit jumping around the stage and screaming worthless nonsense. I don’t collaborate with worthless nonsense. You better recognize what you can do for them, Ry, not the other way around, because I guarantee if Jorge walks away I can hook him up with another band in a heartbeat. You’ll just be a memory for some guy somewhere who saw you play that one time. You need to get over yourself, like yesterday, and stop wasting everyone’s time. And if you can’t do that, I, for sure, have more important stuff to do than babysit a wannabe rock star.”

He stared at me in silence, trying to judge how serious I was. I didn’t play around when it came to respecting the rest of your band. I knew that alone I was an all right singer, but that I couldn’t do what I did without the rest of the guys, and a talent like Jorge’s wasn’t to be taken lightly. Ryan and I were in the middle of a stare-down when I heard a low whistle and Jorge called out,

“Who’s the babe? On my god, I’m in love. She even has beer and pizza.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw Ayden setting the stuff down inside the control room. She had a big silk flower in her dark hair and her glasses perched on her nose. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that were tighter than mine, if that was possible, and some kind of flowy white top that hung entirely off one shoulder. Yep, she was a babe all right and now that she was here, inside the inner circle, it wasn’t nearly as freaky or as unsettling as I thought it would be. She wiggled her fingers at me in a tiny wave and flopped down in my chair. I lifted my chin at her and turned back to Ryan. On the inside I was wondering why it seemed so right for her to be here.