SAVANNAH. FUCKING. GEORGIA.
How the hell did I end up here?
I propped my hand against the molding encasing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Atlantic Ocean from the house we were staying on Tybee Island. In the daylight, it appeared peaceful and serene, a gentle rush of the tide as it staked its claim up the bank, then slowly rolled back out to sea.
“You okay?” Anthony asked from behind me.
The rest of the guys were still asleep, but I finally gave up on trying to catch even a wink when the sun came up.
I jerked my attention to where Anthony leaned up against the massive island in the center of the opulent kitchen. My brow got all twisted in an incredulous scowl, all of it directed at him. Anthony Di Pietro.
Sunder’s agent, and one of the few people in this world who I actually liked.
Even though I couldn’t look at him right now without feeling pissy and annoyed. This was the guy I trusted with the three things in this world that were important to me—my band, the guys in it, and my baby brother.
“No, I’m not okay. There’s not one fucking thing okay with this, Anthony. Can they even do this?”
His shoulders lifted to his ears, and he puffed out a heavy breath with a slow shake of his head. “They can do whatever they want. They own you, Baz.”
I bit off a bitter laugh. All my life I’d worked to make sure no one owned me. I’d thought it’d be music that would set me free. Then I’d just turned around and sold my soul to the devil.
“You know nothing right now is definitive,” he continued. “It might be another warning, but you and I both know we’re running out of strings to pull. You all made the right choice, coming here.”
Turning around, I raked a hand over my face. “Still can’t get my head around this shit.”
Guilt got all messed up with the aggression I’d dealt with my entire life. The two combined were enough to strangle me. Yet another fucking disaster I’d gotten myself into. Only this time it affected everyone. But what was I supposed to do? Let that pompous asshole get away with what he’d done?
Hell no.
My chin took on a defiant set when I looked at Anthony. “I won’t apologize for what I did.”
He was a good guy, mid-forties, three kids he adored, a wife he adored more. Not many people had that kind of integrity in this industry.
Hell, not many people had that kind of integrity at all.
“I’m not asking you to. You think I don’t know why you did it?” he asked, his voice coated with empathy, and I knew in my gut the guy completely understood. He tipped his head to the side and narrowed his eyes to prove a point. “But do you really want to broadcast that to the rest of the world?”
I attempted to swallow around the lump wedged at the base of my throat. “No.”
He pushed off the island and began to pace, his dress shoes echoing on the marble floor. “You know I’ll do everything in my power to put enough pressure on this guy to drop the charges, but in the meantime, you guys need to take advantage of the quiet. Write some music…do some recording. That’s why you’re here. You don’t have to think of it as any other reason.”
Looking to the high ceiling, I rubbed under my jaw, trying to keep my shit together. Right. Like this was just some kind of awesome retreat. Like we weren’t here hiding away at Anthony’s seaside mansion when we were supposed to be on our way to France for the start of our European tour.
Scheduling conflicts.
That’s what we’d tweeted to the world to announce the cancellation.
And our fans were pissed.
No, we weren’t the biggest band in the world. Our style was too dark and gritty and loud for the mainstream airways, but we had a huge-ass following, our shows selling out city after city, our songs downloaded at a rate that blew my mind.
We played and people listened.
But now even that was being threatened.
When I got slapped with assault charges and they yanked the tour sponsorship, Anthony had convinced us to come here. The bottom floor had a state-of-the-art recording studio, plus Anthony figured the place was so secluded and we were so far away from L.A., there was little chance of anyone recognizing us.
The rest of the guys knew why we were here.
Austin didn’t.
The last thing he needed was another cross to bear.
Anthony pulled on his suit jacket, straightened his tie. “All of you just need to lie low for the next few weeks. Fitzgerald doesn’t want you anywhere in the public eye. Not until Mylton Records decides if they’re going to pull the label or not.”
“Thought they ate up the punked-out drama.” It was all a sneer.
It was good for image. That’s what that greedy bastard Fitzgerald had said when he signed us, practically salivating at the mouth when he found out I had a record about ten miles long, and not the music kind.