At this rate, he’d be laid out before their meeting was over.
“We’re not punching a freaking clock.”
“We’ll discuss it in private,” Lila snapped at Nick. “Now.”
She called something out to a passing waiter before leading Gray and the others—he assumed the others were behind him, but he didn’t dare turn his head—from the packed VIP room into a narrow hallway. Halfway down it, she opened the door to an office crammed with a conference table and a few file cabinets, then grabbed the nearest chair and pushed him into it.
He didn’t protest. All the fight had gone out of him the moment he’d dropped back into his body and realized he was ripping the hair out of Jazz’s head like an animal.
Remind you of someone else who mistreats women?
“Gray.”
He didn’t lift his head. It took more energy than he had left. His thoughts played on a constant loop, taunting him.
You hurt Jazz. Just like he did. You’re no better than Brent.
“Dammit, Duffy, get it together.” Lila got right in his face. “You think I can’t see it on you? Smell it on you? Get yourself straight. I’m not tolerating this.”
He opened his mouth to reply then snapped it shut as the other guys shuffled in with Jazz in tow. Deacon had his arm around her shoulders and she gripped his waist as if she needed the assistance to walk.
Gray’s heart lurched into his throat. He half rose out of his chair. “Jazz.”
“Sit your ass down,” Lila said flatly.
“But—”
“I said sit down and now I’m adding ‘shut up’ to that.” She stalked to the door and slammed it closed. When she turned back, her lips curved. “Fun little party, hmm?”
Nick slumped into a chair at the head of the table. “Bipolar much?”
“I can assure you I’m not. What I am, however, is angry. Do you think being on our label is a right? That you can use and abuse our good faith—” her gaze landed on Gray before darting to each of them in turn “—and we’ll just stand back and smile?” She stopped behind Nick’s chair and aimed a death ray at the back of his head. “If so, some of you have grossly miscalculated.”
“Lila, it was just a small scuffle. They probably had a little too much to drink.” Deacon aimed a hard stare at Nick.
“Oh fuck that. I didn’t start a damn thing. I was talking to Jazz, that’s all.”
Gray swore. “You weren’t just talking to her, you frigging pri—”
“Grayson,” Lila warned. “Now would be a really good time to learn to listen.”
Gray scraped a hand over the back of his head and glanced at Jazz, who sat between Simon and Deacon. Between those two, she looked tiny. Deak still had his arm around the back of her chair and even Simon kept nudging her with his leg, clearly trying to annoy her into smiling.
It was good she had them. She needed someone else to rely on besides him. God knows he’d tried to be everything to her, but he’d failed. Over and over again.
“I’m listening.” Gray shut his eyes.
Maybe then he wouldn’t have to see the expression of disappointment Deak wore or the pinch in Jazz’s smile. Simon wouldn’t look too deeply into what had happened, if he’d even untangled himself long enough from his hookups du jour to notice. And Nick wasn’t his friend anyway.
But Deak mattered. Jazz mattered. He hated letting them down.
Lila…well, yeah, she mattered too. She was his boss. Sort of. But he couldn’t drum up much concern about PR nightmares and whatever icicle their manager had up her panties while he could still smell Jazz’s watermelon-and-wildflowers scent clinging to his clothes.
Lately he hadn’t been able to smell much. Even walking into the bar, where the scents of smoke and spilled beer and sweat were commonplace, he hadn’t picked up anything until he reached Jazz. Somehow she’d gotten through.
“That goes for the rest of you too. Gray and Nick were the instigators of tonight’s fiasco, but in case any of the rest of you decide to get cute, consider yourselves preemptively on notice. You’re on Ripper Records because you’re stars on the rise. But make no mistake. If any of you become a liability to this label and my reputation, you’ll be out the door faster than you can say ‘at-will termination clause’. Got it?”
Nick pushed back his chair. “We signed contracts. You have no right to threaten us.”
“Read the fine print. Then go look up a band in the annals of pop culture called Menudo. They had a revolving door of talent. Oblivion could become the same.”
Simon dusted his nails on his black sleeveless shirt. Gray was pretty sure it had sleeves before they arrived at the bar. One of his lady friends had probably torn them off. “Can’t have Oblivion without the lead singer,” Simon said airily.