by Fiona Cole
Ten minutes after we left, another message came through.
Unknown: Nice try, fuck boy.
I didn’t recognize the number, but I wasn’t likely to forget the woman who gave me the nickname. I hit save and kept the name under Crazy Bitch, never knowing when I’d need it again.
Knowing I wouldn’t get through, I hit Nova’s name. It rang four times, and I held my breath for each one like maybe—just maybe—she’d pick up. Each ring had my anger rising. I’d spent the last hour thinking over the situation, and while it played out in the worst way possible, all she had to do was stay.
All she had to do was fucking stay.
She never stayed.
Her voicemail came on just in time to get the peak of my anger.
“You know, Nova, I shouldn’t be surprised, but here I am. Because it’s what you do. You always run. When it’s hard, you fucking run like a coward. When are you going to actually face your shit? It’s been five years, but have you actually grown at all, or are you just pretending?” As soon as the words left my mouth, the regret wrapped itself around my throat. All of it was true, but I could have called her out more softly. Taking a deep breath, I closed out the message with a promise. “You may run like you always do, but I’m not letting you go this time. I don’t care what it takes, I’m finding you.”
Ten
Nova
I was a fucking idiot. A stupid fool.
That thought ran on repeat the past few days. What a way to start the new year. I just couldn’t help but remember the way I’d gushed with Rae and Vera, all giddy and full of hope, concocting stories that hadn’t seemed so far-fetched at the time.
I’d been so dumb.
Days later, and my chest still hurt, and I rubbed at the lingering ache behind my ribs.
“I know you’re not thinking about it,” Rae cut into my thoughts.
“Huh?” I asked, distracted.
She gave me a look that hit me like a verbal smackdown of a reprimand. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“It’s hard to not feel like a fool and que—”
“We feel like a fool for no man. Ever. He’s the fool for lying. He’s the fool for missing out.”
“But I shouldn’t have just shown up like that. What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking you were a blazing hot catch, and he’d be lucky for you to show up. Especially when he’d been asking to see you. It’s not far-fetched. All you did was take away his chance to lie his way out of it.”
I smacked my head against the back of the car seat. I was on my way to my interview, and Rae had said she would have her driver take me because ‘no one should ride the subway on the way to an important interview.’ I’d honestly been sleeping so poorly, I couldn’t even argue.
“Now, put on your boss-bitch face and show this secret band that they’d be lucky to have you.”
Another groan when I thought over Aiken’s phone call about my interview. He’d set it up to be double-blind, so no one knew who the other was, protecting identities. I didn’t want to shove my identity out in the world just yet, and apparently, the band didn’t want to share the news that they needed help writing music.
“Don’t pout. This is huge.”
“I know. I know.”
“I mean, touring with a band? I’d probably pay to do that. And they’re wanting to pay you? Hell yeah.”
I couldn’t believe my luck or the magic Aiken worked. I’d been ready to turn him down as soon as he called on day two of wallowing, and he’d ticked all my boxes to make it happen. I didn’t even have to show my face or which band. I could just take pics and hint to writing music on tour with a big band. It was kind of perfect.
“Yeah.” I rolled my head to face Rae, smiling. “Enough for a van. And a couple months’ rent.”
“Fuck yeah,” she cheered.
She boosted me up just in time to pull up in front of the tall building. It didn’t hint to whoever waited inside, instead just a building with offices to rent for meetings.
“Thanks, boo.”
“Anytime. Now, forget Parker stupid-fuck-face Callahan and crush this interview.”
With an ass-slap and a catcall, I made my way inside.
I tugged my jacket off as soon as the elevator doors slid closed. I’d needed the extra protection against the blundering New York wind, but now my nerves kicked my body temperature into overdrive, and I’d be lucky if I didn’t sweat through my oversized sweater.
I stared at my muddled reflection in the glossy doors and tried to position my jacket and purse in the crook of my arms to look like I wasn’t on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Settling on a hip-cocked position, I looked down at my outfit. The beige sweater led down to the black wide-leg pants and ended in my black power-pumps, as Rae called them.
Because no woman can walk around in a pair of red-soled stilettos and not feel like the most powerful bitch in the world.
And when I strolled out of the elevator on the top floor, I had to admit, she wasn’t wrong. They clicked on the tile, announcing my entrance to the receptionist. She looked me up and down, probably finding my attire lacking compared to her charcoal suit. Not that I cared. I’d always enjoyed my style and how different it was from everyone else.
“I’m here for Miss Quinn,” I stated.
With a nod, she picked up the phone, letting them know before going right back to work. Seeing the dismissal, I turned away and paced the open area, trying to discern who I’d be meeting with, and wondered if they knew who they were meeting with. Anyone who looked into SPRNV Music would find a basic website with references and a contact form that went to Aiken.
Despite requesting anonymity, it bothered me to not know the details, but I guessed the most important details I knew: the job itself and the pay. It was the pay that had me pushing aside my usual MO of working with a band over Facetime or just selling the lyrics outright. That and Aiken’s constant reminder to explore new tactics if I wanted to grow—tactics like touring with the band while I helped write music.
A big band, if the pay was any indication.
A touring band—like Parker’s.
No. Parker and the guys always wrote epic songs on their own—at least after they left me. Parker mentioned he hit a writing slump, but I couldn’t imagine him hiring a songwriter.
Definitely not them. Rubbing my sweaty hands on my pant legs, I studied the generic wall art without taking any of it in. Maybe I should have been bothered by all the secrecy, but in reality, it reassured me that the artist valued privacy as much as I did.
Freakin’ crap. I didn’t know. Maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe all these reasons I talked myself into doing something I wouldn’t normally do were really just excuses.
“You can head back. Third door on your left,” Miss Cool-calm-and-collected said, yanking me out of my doubts.
Well, no turning back now.
Lifting my chin high, I focused on my heels clipping their way down the hall. Be a boss. Let them know you’re coming. Be a boss.
My affirmation died a quick death like a tidal wave to a tealight flame when I rounded the corner to find four familiar faces staring back.
“Supernova!” Oren shouted. He hopped over the back of the couch, almost face-planting in his excitement but managing to catch himself and closed the gap between us. Like not a day had gone by, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the ground in the tightest hug I’d had in years. Unable to help it, I laughed, his excitement a tangible thing. I braced myself on his shoulders, taking in the breadth of them. His lanky limbs from high school filled out and flexed under my grip. But when he slid me to the floor, he smiled just like he had before—cornflower blue eyes and the most perfect dimples.
“Hey, Oren.”
“Get the fuck out of the way,” Brogan grumbled behind Oren, jerking him back. “I want a turn.” Brogan replaced Oren and repeated the process of lifting me off the floor in a burly hug. “Damn, it’s good to see you.�
�
He held me off the ground and smiled up, the sun shining in through the glass windows, illuminating the changes in his face. He used to be the preppy, football player, but not anymore. His eyes still held that sweet sparkle, but of all of them, Brogan went through the biggest transformation. He was still as burly as ever, but now he had the beard and long hair making him look like the Viking his fans nicknamed him as. He had it pulled back, showing off the ear piercing and tattoos peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
“Good to see you, too.”
When he set me down and moved away, I barely got a chance to breathe before Ash engulfed me. He didn’t lift me up. Instead, hunching down and wrapping himself around me, pulling me in. I held on tight, feeling an edge of desperation in his hug. I don’t know why it was there, but I responded to it. Maybe because I knew that when he let go, there was only one member left to acknowledge, and I wasn’t ready to face him—wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready to.
“Hey, Supernova,” he finally greeted, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. He brushed a few strands back that had fallen out of my topknot, giving me the smirk that somehow became even more devious over the years. Maybe because his cheeks had a sharp edge to them that had been hidden under his youthful face.
“Hey, Ash.”
“Oh, I get it,” Oren exclaimed.
Ash let me go to turn and look at Oren, but I still stuck close to him. Maybe he’d be my buffer, and I wouldn’t have to talk to Parker at all. Yeah right.
“Get what?” Brogan asked.
“SPRNV Music.” Oren wagged his finger at me. “Sneaky, sneaky girl. Supernova lyrics.”
I held up my hands. “You caught me.”
“Shit, you’re the songwriter?” Brogan asked with wide eyes.
“Why the hell else would she show up here?” Ash asked like it was obvious.
“Uhh, because we’re her friends, and Parker asked her to come.”
I didn’t know what hit harder—that he still considered me a friend after not really talking for five years or him referencing Parker’s name. It all stole a little extra air from my lungs I didn’t have to spare.
Oren slapped the back of Brogan’s head and had a whole conversation with just his eyes before a lightbulb went off in Brogan’s head. I could only assume he was remembering New Year’s Eve.
I didn’t turn to look at Parker, but I could feel him looking at me. His stare weighed on me like a fifty-pound blanket, and oh my god, I was going to die in this sweater. I should have just worn the summer dress hidden in the back of my closet. Anything had to be better than the overheating.
“So, you know each other,” a petite woman said.
I was forced to acknowledge her and give in to the silent demand Parker gave since he was standing right next to her. Our eyes locked for a moment, but it was enough to strike me like a blow.
A flash of red hair covering his face.
Him turning with red lipstick smeared on his mouth and his arms full of a perfect model.
His mouth I fantasized about for longer than I could remember mouthing my name just before I ran.
One second and each image hit me harder than the last until I forced myself to focus on the woman next to him. While she may have been short, she stood with confidence bigger than anyone else in the room. I’d be that confident, too, if I looked like her. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek bun—her hair almost as black as her leather pants. A stark contrast to the white silk blouse.
Her sleek brow lifted high, and I remembered she’d said something.
“Uh, yeah,” I stuttered.
“We all went to high school together,” Ash explained.
“Yeah, and Parker and Nova are stepsiblings,” Oren added.
Miss Quinn’s other brow joined the first.
“We’re not stepsiblings,” Parker grumbled, speaking for the first time, making me realize how much I’d missed his voice over the last week.
“Oh, right,” Oren said, snapping his fingers like a lightbulb clicked. “Their parents divorced, so they’re not stepsiblings anymore.”
“Anywho,” Brogan cut Oren off when he opened his mouth again. “Nova used to help us with our music back then. She also sang with us for a while.”
“Why don’t you sing with them anymore? Were you not part of the contract?”
The room fell silent as, all of a sudden, every second of the last five years and why that time existed between us crammed themselves in the room. Everyone’s eyes dropped to the floor, no one willing to voice what happened.
“It’s a long story,” Parker finally answered.
“Oh, well, is it going to be an issue?” she asked, all business. “Because if so, then we don’t need to waste our time with this meeting. We need someone who can work with the guys without problems.”
They all shook their heads, muttering that they had no issues—even Parker. Four sets of eyes landed on me, awaiting me to join them, and I stood there like a deer in headlights.
Could I do this? The little information given let me know I’d be going on tour with them. I’d be with them for at least a month to write the album. Any hope I had of avoiding Parker would be a joke. I’d probably be working with him the closest.
I should have turned on my power heels and stomped out of that room, but the guys looked at me with silent hope, and maybe I missed them more than I ever let myself think about. And then there was the money. I’d be able to finally get that van I had my eye on—a better one.
With a deep breath, I made my decision. “No. It’s not an issue.”
“Fuck, yes,” Oren crowed. “With Nova on our side, we’re going to be winning Grammys left and right.”
“Good,” Miss Quinn answered, a slight tip to her full lips the only hint of her approval. “Let’s have a seat.”
I rounded the couch, picking a chair on the far side away from Parker.
“I’m Aspen,” she finally introduced herself. “I’m the manager of the guys and pretty much keep everything in line.”
Kind of like what I used to do before they signed a deal. The thought crept in, leaving the bitter taste of jealousy in my mouth. Shaking it off, I shoved it away, knowing thoughts like that would only make this harder.
She pulled out a stack of papers handing one to me before grabbing a seat and proceeding to go over each page of the contract. We went over the privacy clauses, tour dates, non-disclosures, and every requirement in between. Through it all, I could feel Parker staring, his gaze a powerful force urging me to look up and see him. But I refused, focusing so hard on the words they blurred.
When we got to the last page, my heart skipped a beat as she went over travel arrangements.
“Some trips will be by plane with stretches of time in the tour bus. When we fly, we stay in hotels, and you’ll have your own room, but the bus is closer quarters.”
“Oh,” I muttered eloquently.
“Are you okay with sharing?” Aspen asked.
“She can always sleep in my bunk,” Ash joked, waggling his brows.
“Fuck off,” Parker grunted.
“Don’t be jealous that she’d rather curl up with me than you,” Ash defended.
“Yeah, right. Nova will one-hundred-percent want to cuddle up with me,” Oren claimed.
“Oh, Jesus,” Parker mumbled.
I glanced his way just in time to watch him roll his eyes. Brogan laughed, watching the banter like a tennis match. All he was missing was a bucket of popcorn.
“Boys,” Aspen called with all the authority of a drill sergeant. “Focus.”
The back and forth bickering stopped, and they fell silent. Ash kicked Parker’s foot, and just before Parker could kick back, Aspen narrowed her eyes, almost begging them to challenge her. She wasn’t even looking at me, and I sat up taller. When they finally complied, moving their feet away from one another, she turned to face me, an expectant look on her perfectly made-up face.
“No problem,” I answered. Honestly, r
emembering when Parker and I wrote together, sharing a bus didn’t come close to the intimacy we’d already be delving into to write songs.
“Good. We have a concert this weekend in New York, and then we’ll be taking off. The writing can be organic; however, you want to work that out. The guys usually write their own music, but we’re…” She trailed off, glancing at a pouting Parker. His jaw ticked, and he stared off at the city, slouched down in the chair with his arms crossed. “Trying something new,” Aspen finished.
I couldn’t help but wonder what she was going to say originally but figured it had something to do with the few times Parker alluded to writer’s block.
“We don’t want to push it, but we do have a deadline before the recording studio. If at all possible, we will try and record a song or two on the road.”
“Okay. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”
“Hell, yeah,” Oren agreed, reaching his hand across Brogan. I obliged and slapped my palm to his.
With that, we signed a few papers as the guys talked, and before I knew it, it was done. I was officially helping The Haunted Obsession write their next album and going on tour with them.
Them, as in three guys who used to be my closest friends and one who used to be the stepbrother I loved even before I knew what it meant to love someone so deeply. All of them the guys who left me behind when I firmly shoved them out, slamming and locking the door behind them.
I quietly said goodbye to Aspen, who made me want to be a stronger woman within a few minutes of talking to her, and slipped out the door.
I stood outside the elevator, willing the doors to open for a speedy escape, when he called for me.
“Nova.”
The rasp of my name on his lips slipped down my spine, nicking my heart on the way to my core. I hated the juxtaposition of the feeling.
“Can we talk?” he asked, coming up beside me.
