If heaven was a kiss, it lived against Hazel’s lips.
She pulled back slightly and nibbled gently on my bottom lip before lying back down against her pillow. I lay down facing her, and both of our breaths were heavy. Her eyes were dilated and wild, and she refused to look away from me.
Her cheeks blushed, and she combed her hair behind her ear. Her mouth parted, and she nodded once. “Again?” she whispered.
Fuck, yes . . .
Again.
18
IAN
“I’m going to fucking vomit,” Marcus groaned as we walked toward Max Rider’s house. We’d landed in Los Angeles the night before, and I swore not one of us had been able to sleep a wink. It felt like we were five-year-olds waiting for Christmas morning—waiting for our dreams to come true.
My mind was dazed and confused as we walked up the pathway to Max’s front door. We were literally meeting the star maker at his freaking mansion to have a meeting about our music. What was this life? How did us dumb small-town boys end up having a meeting with Max Fucking Rider?
Grams called it destiny.
Hazel called it talent.
Big Paw called it hard fucking work.
Whatever it was, I was thankful for it. All I prayed was that we didn’t blow the opportunity when we stepped inside of that house.
Max’s assistant, Emma, welcomed us into the house. She led us to the studio, because Max Fucking Rider had a freaking studio in his home. We waited for a while, maybe an hour or so, and we were quiet as damn mice. It was almost as if we were afraid if we made a sound, poof!—the dream would be gone.
“Is anyone else sweating like a sumo wrestler?” Marcus muttered, loosening the tie that Eric made us all wear. “I swear, my balls are swamp-level moist. My dick feels like a sticky Slip ’N Slide.”
“Too much of an awful visual, Marcus,” James commented.
“I thought it was tastefully stated,” a voice said from behind us, making us all turn around.
There he was in all of his glory. Max Fucking Rider, walking in on a conversation about Marcus’s swamp ass.
If that wasn’t a great first impression, we were screwed.
We all leaped to our feet with our mouths hanging open. Then, like freaking morons, we all started greeting the man at the same time, rambling on and on about how excited and honored we all were and bullshit.
“It’s so great to meet you!” James said.
“We’re so lucky you’re taking the time out of your day,” Eric commented.
“You have no clue how much this means to us,” I tossed out.
“Dope fucking shoes,” Marcus swooned.
Couldn’t take Marcus anywhere.
“Okay, okay, enough ass talking. Let’s just get down to business.” Max took his seat in his oversize swiveling chair in front of his sound system, and he turned to face us. He clasped his hands together and nodded once. “I think you got something.”
OhmyGodwehavesomething!
“Not saying that it doesn’t need work. From what I heard, it was good, but not . . . great. It’s missing magic. I asked you to come out here for two reasons. One, to see if you would actually make it happen on such short notice. To work with me, you have to want the dream.”
“Oh, we want it!” Marcus exclaimed. “More than fucking anything.”
Stop cussing so much, Marcus.
“Good. And two . . . I do better hearing bands live. Anyone can sound good online with all the whistles and bells, but to be able to perform live, as a unit, that is what takes the ordinary and makes them extraordinary. So go ahead.” He gestured in front of us, where a set of drums, a bass guitar, a keyboard, and a microphone were waiting for us. “Show me your music. And not those same tracks I heard before. I asked for better. Give me your best. Impress me.”
We all took a breath and walked toward his equipment. Before walking to our locations, we huddled together, and we had James lead our pep talk. We did it before every small-town performance, and if ever there was a time for James’s hippie mumbo jumbo, it was when we were about to perform in front of Max Fucking Rider.
We held each other’s hands and bowed our heads.
“We want to send out waves of love, light, and energy to the universe as a thank-you for bringing us all here today. This place, this experience, has been nothing but powerful to us all. This is more than we could’ve ever asked for and more than we deserve, but we swear to do good with this gift. We’ll give our music so it can heal. We’ll give our music so it can challenge. We’ll give our music as a way to make this fucked-up world a little better. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Until forever,” James said.
I squeezed the two hands that I was gripping, and they squeezed back as we all said in unison, “Until forever.”
It was the pact we’d made since we were kids. To always be there for one another, until forever.
Then we took our rightful spots, I gripped the microphone, and we began to play. We played five songs for Max. It was hard to tell if he was into it at all, because he had a stone-cold expression as he listened, and his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. Whenever we finished a track, he’d wave his hand in the air and say, “Next.”
When he finally held up a halting hand, we all took a breath, exhausted, but more than willing to play all night long if need be.
“All right, come on out.”
We were dripping with sweat and excitement as we stood in front of Max. Still, it was almost impossible to read him. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he heard or loved it. Up until he took off his shades and gave a half grin.
“Where the fuck did that gold music come from?” he asked.
My heart exploded, and I hoped he couldn’t see it happen.
“That was nothing like the recordings I heard on Instagram. This shit is magic. It’s passion. It’s the living, breathing, doing kind of music that I crave. What changed?”
James smirked and nudged me in the arm. “Ian got himself inspired by a girl.”
“It’s always a fucking girl,” Max muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not one to bullshit or to waste my breath, so believe me when I say you got the ‘it’ power. Even your little cheesy family group pep talk before performing was important. You don’t try to overshadow each other. You all shine because you work as a unit. You’re tight, something most bands can’t say about each other. You can easily be the next Maroon 5.”
We all glanced at one another, feeling a little deflated by those last few words.
The next Maroon 5.
I knew what all of the bandmates were thinking, so I cleared my throat to speak up. “With all due respect, Mr. Rider, I don’t think we want to be the next Maroon 5. We want to be the first Wreckage.”
He grimaced a little, his brow low and moody. If there was anyone in the world who was hard to read, it was Max. Fucking. Rider. If he was pleased, you couldn’t tell it. If he was pissed off, there was no way to know. His brain moved quick, and when he made up his mind, he made up his mind.
I felt sick thinking that I’d just shot myself in the damn foot by disagreeing with him about our future. If he wanted us to be the next Maroon 5, then we should’ve been fucking ecstatic about the fact. My answers should’ve been, Yes, Mr. Rider. Whatever you say, Mr. Rider. We will suck your dick if we have to, Mr. Rider.