Chapter Ten
Paige
I hate him.
I hate him so fucking much.
My skull throbs with every heartbeat, each pulse a cadence I can’t keep up with as I shove the studio door open and storm into the lobby. I’m short-circuiting, too many emotions crashing into each other inside my chest to make any real sense of them.
He’s a fucking dick.
As I press myself to the wall, my headache intensifies and my breath catches in my lungs. Each inhale scrapes down my throat like sandpaper with that burning-behind-the-eyes feeling that lives there when you’re holding too much in.
Glaring at the phone in my hand, I swipe away the notifications, hands trembling as my heart aches with a new sort of pain, wanting to talk to the one person who’d stop me from feeling this way, the one person who’d understand.
But I can’t.
Instead, I pull up the text thread with Olive and fire off a quick message.
I’m done.
Her reply is immediate.
Olive
What happened?
It’s all fucked. No matter how hard I try, he won’t let up. I can’t win.
Olive
Do I need to fly out and kick his ass?
I’ll do it, you know.
A weak smile tugs on my lips as I watch the three dots bounce around on screen.
Olive
Go home, print out photos of his face and stick them to your drum kit and bang the shit out of it.
What good would that do?
Olive
Duh, practicing while getting out your aggression.
You’re an idiot.
Olive
It will work, though. Listen, don’t get hung up on it, we’ll talk tonight. Sorry I can’t right now, I’m about to go into a call. Love you, babe. Stay strong.
I pocket my phone, along with some of my fury, and release a shaky breath.
My rage was loud before, but now, shame sneaks in quieter.
I didn’t want them to find out like this.
It’s not like it was supposed to stay a secret forever.
It was bound to come out, but on my own terms. Not exposed and berated by someone who, since we’ve met, has a chip on his shoulder over me.
My eyes prickle, and I bite the inside of my lip. Goddamnit, I will not cry because of him.
That look on his face when he saw the name on my phone, though?
It will haunt me. That wasn’t doubt. It was judgment, disgust, like I’d committed some betrayal just by being who I am.
I should be used to it by now, people thinking I’ve had it easy, assuming I was handed everything wrapped in a shiny bow.
But coming from him? That cut deeper than it should.
He doesn’t know me. Doesn’t know what I’ve given to be taken seriously. The hours, the effort, the erasure of my own last name just to be seen without the shadow of my father looming over every damn note.
My head drops back with a dull thud, and I close my eyes, but his face is there behind them, all arrogant, smug, gorgeous…insufferable…
I should walk. Quit. It’s what he wants, right? Me, gone. He’d probably sleep easier knowing he drove me out of the band before I had the chance to prove anything.
But I don’t want to leave. I like playing with them, Beau’s easy confidence and Eli’s ridiculous jokes. Like the way they make me feel like I belong.
And Maddox…
God, I hate that I like the way he pushes me, forces me to dig in, play harder, cleaner, smarter. He sharpens every edge I have, and some twisted part of me comes alive within that fire.
I press my palms hard against my eyes, trying to rub away the other things I see when he’s watching me. How his eyes darken with something I know is not animosity when I nail the rhythm. Or the way his lips twitch when I throw something unexpected into a fill.
Then there’s that look, the one he gets when he’s lost in a song, eyebrows pulling just slightly, head tilting like he’s hearing something no one else can.
I hate that I’ve noticed. Hate that I see a musician who actually cares.
And his voice… When he’s not barking, when it drops into that low, rough tone while he’s talking with Beau or Eli…It hooks me, drawing me in, living in my fucking head.
“Paige?”
I jump, my hands tearing away from my face, heat crawling up my neck as Thea steps into view.
Her shape blurs at first, then sharpens as my eyes adjust, focusing on her slick dark hair pulled into a bun, the black-rimmed glasses that make her green eyes look too big and perceptive, her crisp white blazer that whispers industry without saying a word.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I blurt out, ducking down and fumbling with my bag and grabbing my car keys, my fingers stiffly curling around the metal. “Just… Long day.”
Thea hums, not buying it for a second. Her eyes flick to the studio door, then back to me.
“He’s a lot, isn’t he?” There’s sympathy in her tone, but not pity. Just the kind of knowing that only comes from working with Maddox Knox. “Prickly might be putting it nicely.”
“It’s definitely not the word I’d use,” I say, squeezing the key fob harder in my palm.
She doesn’t laugh or nod, just studies me quietly for a moment, then says, “Whatever problem he has with you…it isn’t personal.”
Trying not to roll my eyes, I laugh dryly. “You sure? Because the last ten minutes sure as hell felt personal.”
Thea’s expression softens. “I’ve known that man since I started out as their manager nearly ten years ago, and I can tell you, he’s one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met.
” She shifts her briefcase to her other arm, her lips pressing tight.
“That being said, if this tension with Maddox becomes too much, please let me know. Remember, I’m your manager too, not just the band’s.
Your best interest is my number one concern.
” She lets the sentence hang between us.
“But I’d prefer to give you both that space to sort it out yourself. ”
I let out a breath. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Gentle and reassuring, she places a hand on my arm. “But for what it’s worth? I think you being here is the best thing that’s happened to this band in a long time. I haven’t heard them play like that in months.”
“Thanks.” I smile, the compliment doing more than I bet she intended.
“Still…” She continues, a hint of recognition shining in her eyes. “I can imagine it’s been hard…keeping all of it separate. Especially with a name like yours.”
My spine straightens, confusion mixing with dread as I blink at her. “You know.”
Thea tilts her head, her perfect eyebrows lifting. “You signed the contract under your legal name. Kind of hard not to miss.”
“You didn’t say anything,” I breathe. “Why?”
“Because you didn’t,” she says simply. “Figured you had your reasons. Besides, I might understand how you feel more than you’d think.
” I frown, and she chuckles, straightening her glasses.
“When I started managing talent, it was under my brother’s company.
Safe to say, there were people who didn’t like Spencer’s twenty-five-year-old sister being in a higher position than them. ”
A quiet understanding settles between us. She gets it.
“And for the record,” she says finally. “I’m not in the business of outing people. You want to keep your identity to yourself, then I’ll work hard to make sure that happens.”
Giving my arm a small squeeze, she heads toward the studio door. I adjust the strap on my bag and push off the wall, heading for the parking lot, when she calls my name. I stop, glancing over my shoulder.
She stands at the doorway, a softness I haven’t seen from Thea before crossing her face, her lips twitching into the barest smile. “Just give him a chance. He doesn’t let people close. Not anymore. Not unless they bleed for it.”
I want to scoff, tell her she’s wrong, say I’d never want to get close to someone like that. But even as I think that, and as much as it might be easier to walk away from him, leave him on his ass to fail, this traitorous part of me already wants to try.
She disappears inside, leaving her words to ache like a bruise beneath my ribs. I turn away, stepping into the LA sun outside, letting the warmth soothe my stiff muscles.
It should help, but it doesn’t, because Thea’s words are on a loop.
I want to believe her, believe that there’s something underneath all those razor-sharp edges of Maddox.
But it’s hard when every time he looks at me, it’s like I’m the enemy, like he’s marking a target on my back that no one else can see.
And I don’t know if I have the strength to keep fighting it.
The walk to my car feels longer than it should, my chest still simmering with a hollow kind of frustration, even more now after talking to Thea.
Maddox is complicated. I knew that. The brooding rock star stereotype was just the surface.
What’s underneath? I think that might be messier.
Only, I’ll never know because he’s keeping me at a distance.
He doesn’t let people close. Not anymore.
Opening the passenger door, I toss my bag into the back seat, and it hits the old box I picked up from my parents’ house that I still haven’t unpacked.
One of the flaps pops open, just enough to reveal a stack of crumpled music sheets, and I sigh, shutting the door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
But I only get as far as starting the engine, not even wanting to go home yet, not ready for… anything.
Twisting around, I stare at the box before dragging it through the chairs, dumping it beside me and flipping it open.
The smells of old paper and dust fill my nose and my fingers move instinctively, rifling through notebooks, photo albums, faded concert flyers, ticket stubs, a band tee I can’t believe has still lasted after all this time.
Near the bottom, I spot it, the old brown leather notebook, one of a matching set. My throat constricts as I lift it out and open the cover. The handwriting is as familiar as breathing, the text forever kept in time, and I start to read, smiling as memories flood my head from days gone past.
Without thinking, a melody rises from my lips, quiet at first, growing louder. I hum the words, then sing them, and before I even reach the high note, it’s his harmony I hear in my head, not my own voice reverberating around the car.
Maddox’s part. That gritty, raw rasp he throws in just before the final chorus.
His voice layers over mine like he’s sitting beside me, sounding the way it does in practice. A jagged harmony that wraps around the lyrics like it’s protecting it.
As the song dies on my tongue, my stomach clenches. I snap the notebook shut and shove it deep into the box, annoyance surging anew.
Of course. Of course he’s the one haunting the silence.
I slam the flaps closed, the cardboard creasing beneath my hand, and fall back into the seat, my hands coming to strangle the steering wheel.
Not unless they bleed for it.
Well, I am bleeding.
I have been since I walked through that door.
So where’s the privilege in that, Maddox?