This high—it was amazing. I glanced over at Aya and winked.
She stood there, mesmerized. She didn’t move or even seem to blink. But she clapped and cheered with the rest of the audience when I took my bow. I ran off the stage to people screaming my name. I lifted her from the ground and spun her around, nearly tripping over the various cords on the floor.
“You were awesome,” she squealed, which turned into a laugh.
I laughed too, loving that she’d been here to see me.
Still onstage, Dad segued into another tune as the roadie took my guitar.
Aya turned to me, swaying, eyes wide. “I can see why you’re into live music.”
I grimaced. “Not so much this song.”
“Not one of yours?”
I shook my head. “No, thank fuck.”
She giggled.
We listened to another couple of songs, but the magical moment was gone. The band played hard, but they’d lost the crowd. Dad shot me an angry look, so I leaned over toward Aya.
“Want to head back to the hotel?”
She nodded.
We walked out of the venue, followed by Steve, and I sighed out some of the tension I’d been carrying in my shoulders since the run-in earlier with Beanie.
“So what did you think about the concert?” I asked. “Better than climbing the side of a mountain?”
She scrunched her brow as Steve opened the car door and motioned us in. “Better…” She shrugged. “At least the first part. Your songs are exhilarating.”
I smiled. “Yeah, there’s nothing like being part of a live concert.”
She shook her head. “No, I meant your songs, Nash. It’s easy to tell which ones you wrote.”
I caught Steve’s look in the rearview mirror and sucked in my lips to keep from smiling like a damn fool.
“Thanks.”
Aya shrugged. “It’s the truth.” She sighed as she turned toward the window. “You’ll be up there with millions of fans screaming for you soon.”
I gripped her hand. “And you’ll be backstage, ready to tell me how awesome I am.”
She smiled as she rested her head on my shoulder. “I’m glad I got to see this.”
Something in her voice worried me. But before I could ask her about it, we arrived at the hotel. Instead of hanging out in the suite’s living room with Steve and me, Aya excused herself, claiming she needed to call her mom.
I stared at her closed bedroom door, dread creeping up my spine. “You’re right,” I said.
“I’m always right,” Steve said with a grin. But at my worried look, his face smoothed out. “What’s wrong?”
“She doesn’t like touring.”
Steve’s expression turned pensive. He cleared his throat. “Could be she doesn’t like Beanie.”
“Neither do I.”
Steve hesitated for a moment. “Say the word, and I’ll get you home.”
“Not happening,” I said, tone flat. “I’m supposed to keep performing with Dad.”
Except I didn’t.
“The roadies lost your guitar,” Dad said at the next show.
“I’ll just borrow—”
“No. You’re not playing tonight.” He turned away.
With each show, my father’s temper frayed further, and I started to understand the problem. When reporters asked Dad how many of his songs I’d helped write, he snapped out that I’d helped him with a few words, his eyes dark and daring me to contradict him.
I kept my mouth shut, hoping he’d let me play again.
More critics panned the new album and the tour, sending Dad into a rage. He smashed tables in the green room that night, and Steve whisked Aya and me out of there. We ended up at a barbecue joint before heading to the movies. While fun, it wasn’t what I’d expected. And as pissed as Dad was, I was equally as frustrated that he’d lied to me, and to the media.
Instead of sold-out arenas, Quantum’s ticket sales had declined by the end of the first week as we moved on to Nashville.
When I finally found a moment to tell my father what Beanie had said, he nodded. “Too right. Don’t be a shit, Nash.”
I rocked back on my heels, gaping before I managed to say, “But—”
“But nothing,” Dad snapped loud enough for everyone in the green room to hear.
My ears burned, but I held his gaze. Why was he being such a dick? Dad sauntered in closer, using his additional thirty pounds to bump me back.
“Remember, you had nothing to do with this album or this tour. Nothing. If you want to stay with me, you’d better treat the band and the rest of the staff with respect.”
He turned and walked away—straight into the arms of a woman with red-slicked lips and thick eyeliner, giving her a cat-like look. She glanced at me briefly before pressing her body against my father’s.
Aya inched closer to me, no doubt feeling my shudder of revulsion.
Steve laid his hands on our shoulders. “Time to head to the hotel,” he said.
Neither of us argued.
Later that night, after the concert, Aya was in her room reading some thick, boring book about an astronaut that she claimed was fascinating. I’d left her to hang out with my dad in his suite—at his request. The July heat pressed against my skin as we stood on the balcony, making it itch a bit, but I wasn’t focused on the physical discomfort. Instead, I gaped up at my father, still unsteady from the bombshell he’d dropped.
“You don’t want me on tour with you?” I asked.
I couldn’t believe his words. No way! No way my father didn’t want me… I’d pretty much written Quantum’s previous album; my dad had promised to take me to the concerts, to let me hear the fans’ reactions to my songs. To let me play one of them, tell the world they were mine.
“But you said…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. My ears rang as embarrassment crested over me in a huge wave.
He refused to look at me, instead facing the Nashville skyline and clutching the thick, metal railing. “This tour’s based on the collaboration between Beanie and me because you wouldn’t write anything.”
“Because I couldn’t—” I swallowed. “I’ve been busy with school…”
“Anyway, there’s really no reason for you to join me on this next leg.”
“But you said I could play my song—”
Dad tossed his half-smoked cigarette off the balcony, not seeming to care where it landed below. Smoke rippled out of his nose. “Those are my songs. Mine. They’re on my album, and my band plays them.”
“I wrote them, and you said I could play—”
Dad narrowed his light brown eyes, and I felt a twinge of unease. “No. You’re not going to fuck with my music. My legacy.”
“But…but…”
Dad kicked at my lounger. “You’re fucking up my band. You need to go home in the morning. Get your mom to spend time with you.”
“Mom’s in Paris.”
“Like I give a fuck. Stay here, hang out with that little girl you brought along. I don’t care as long as you’re not with me.”