This One Moment (Pushing Limits, #1)(2)

The guys all made a move for the door. The roadie put his hand up like he was directing traffic. “He only wants to speak with Tyler,” he said, referring to me.

I shook my head. “If it has to do with the band, then he needs to talk to all of us.”

“You already planning your solo album?” Mason said, laughing.

Jared raised an eyebrow, either echoing Mason’s question or silently asking me what this was about. Hell if I knew. Yes, I was the lead singer for Pushing Limits, but the band belonged to both me and Jared. Not only had we created the band five years ago, we’d cowritten half the songs on our debut album. The rest I’d written on my own.

The roadie’s sigh was the long impatient sound of someone with a million things to do in the next five minutes. He didn’t care either way what we did. He was only the messenger. He’d let Remar chew us out for ignoring the request if that was what we chose to do.

“Can you bring my guitar if I’m not back in time?” I asked Jared, the member of the band least likely to forget my request.

He nodded. Then one corner of his mouth quirked up. “Good luck.”

“God, I hope I don’t need it.”

He patted me sympathetically on the back as I walked out of the room, but he didn’t look too disappointed to be missing out on the fun with Remar.

I followed the roadie down the hallway, past the back of the stage. From the sound of it, fans were piling into the arena, screaming and chanting the name of our band as well as the headlining band, Crazy Piper. This was the heart of the building, the love of music pulsating throughout.

Backstage was a rush of people, still preparing for the show. Two bulked-up guys kept a stern eye on things, ever ready for fans trying to sneak backstage. One security guard nodded at me as I walked past, which was more interaction than I was getting from the roadie. He was too busy yapping on his phone about his love life, or lack of, to remember I was with him.

We rode the elevator to the second floor and walked down a surprisingly empty hallway. His cowboy boots clacked against the tile, the sound echoing against the dull brown walls. In contrast to the noisy energy in the dressing room and the arena, here the energy was nonexistent. Sucked away. Forgotten.

If it hadn’t been for the roadie talking animatedly on the phone about some lusty brunette he had the hots for, it would’ve felt like I was being escorted down death row. But while I might’ve felt like sleeping for all eternity, I suspected that wasn’t the reason for my impromptu visit with Remar.

The roadie stopped at a plain black door. The phone in my back pocket buzzed again. I managed to ignore the temptation to check it.

Before I could ask the roadie if this was where I was supposed to meet Remar, he knocked on the door. There was a muffled reply, and the roadie opened the door. He waved me in, then left me to face the three men in the room alone.

Ronald Remar was seated at the opposite end of the long conference table. Two suits, whom I vaguely recognized from our first meeting, flanked him. The tall skinny dude had on wire-rimmed glasses, while the dumpy guy looked like he’d been dragged back from his Mexican vacation, where he had taken great pride in getting a bad sunburn. His short white hair was clipped close to his skull and matched Remar’s hair perfectly.

The president of the record label waved for me to move closer but made no indication I should sit.

“You wanted to talk to me?” I didn’t know why, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like what he had to tell me. Especially since my bandmates had been excluded from this little get-together.

“That’s right, Mr. Kincaid,” Remar said, choosing to use my real name instead of my stage moniker. To the rest of the world, including my bandmates, I was Tyler Erickson.

“The label has decided, based on the tour’s success and the success of your last two singles, to move up the release date of your next album,” Remar explained. “We want to strike while the band is still hot.”

I frowned. “How much earlier are we talking about?”

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, hands interlocked. His silver Rolex gleamed in the overhead light. “We’ve booked the studio for December twenty-seventh.” In four weeks. Three months ahead of schedule. “We’ve been extremely lucky to land Daniel Maynard, thanks to his recent divorce.” A satisfied smile slithered onto Remar’s face, as if he personally was responsible for the demise of the producer’s marriage. Although I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had been. Rumor had it Remar was on wife number five. Presumably he knew a trick or two about wrecking marriages, especially his own. “You do know who Daniel Maynard is, right?”

Just the greatest producer in the United States when it came to rock music. He had produced the albums of some of my favorite bands, and they’d all gone straight to the top of the charts, every f*cking time.

I nodded. “I do.”

“Good. Then you understand how important this opportunity is for the band. And how important it is that you’re ready to record the album come December twenty-seventh. We’ve managed to book him for a week. Then he won’t be available until the following October. Is it correct to assume you’ll be ready?” His tone indicated the question was rhetorical. We would be ready or else our contract would be null and void. That was why the two suits were here: to remind me that if the album wasn’t ready when the label expected it to be ready, we could say goodbye to the record deal.