Chapter 1
Chapter one
Hendrix · Now
Weightless – All Time Low
Some say life is too short for regrets.
I say those people have never woken up after abusing an open bar to the sound of their ex-boyfriend singing on the TV.
A sharp pulse throbs behind my temples. I groan, stomach lurching as last night’s tequila turns bitter on my tongue. I snatch the remote, kill the sound, and sag as only blissful silence remains.
I need coffee—probably a coffin where I can die in peace, too.
I force myself off the couch.
Soft country music hums from the Alexa on the counter when I stumble into the kitchen.
My friend, and housemate, Riley sits at the island, laptop open in front of her. Wearing daisy-dotted jeans, a white tank top, and mint green ear defenders snug to her head, she alternates between tapping her pen on the granite and scribbling in her notebook.
She twists in her seat as I pass her. Repositioning the ear defenders, she flicks her gaze over me. “You look like shit.”
I huff a laugh at her blunt greeting before looking down at the holey black crop top and Mary Wyatt joggers I threw on when I got home last night.
She’s not wrong.
Not even the colourful ink covering my pasty white skin can save this look.
“Charming, love.” I tug the ends of her wavy auburn bob.
The corner of her lip flickers a beat before she turns her focus back to her screen.
I flick the kettle on and scoop some coffee granules into my waiting thermos. The kitchen sparkles under the glinting sunlight, the harsh scent of cleaning chemicals tickling my nose. Pretty sure it didn’t look like this when I left for the bar last night.
“Did you clean in here?” I ask Riley.
“Yeah. I couldn’t not. The sides were sticky.” She shudders, freckled nose wrinkling.
“Sorry. I meant to clean up when I got home but I crashed hard.”
“It’s fine.” She lifts a shoulder. “You’d have used the wrong cleaners, so I’d have just gone around after you, anyway.”
“Fair.”
Riley is particular. She knows what she likes, and there’s no changing her meticulous ways. Not that I want to. Even when she trails after me with a rag in one hand and disinfectant in the other whenever I clean.
I hug the warm, steel thermos close to my chest and cross to the island. “How was your date last night?”
Riley taps her pen, once, then twice. “Are you distracting me so I don’t show you the video of you singing Bon Jovi on top of a bar?”
“No.” Yes. I’m nothing if not predictable after a few drinks. There are way too many videos of me butchering Livin’ on a Prayer out there. I don’t need to see any of them.
“Hmm.” Her brow dips. “I bailed on the date. Ended up at my dad's for a cuppa instead.”
“What happened?”
“He wanted to go to the cinema.”
I lean back in my chair. “I thought you planned a dinner date?”
“We did.” She chews the lid of her pen. “He texted at the last minute asking to change it.”
“Oh, well what a twat he was then.”
“It’s not his fault. We weren’t compatible. It happens. Maybe I’m just not cut out for the dating thing.”
A frown tugs my lips.
At twenty-eight, Riley has a string of failed dates, shitty relationships, and bad partners in her history because people don’t understand who she is. They don’t try to understand who she is.
Society has spent so long teaching us that if we aren’t typical, we aren’t worthy and that fucking sucks.
Because Riley may not fit the mould some arsewipes decided was the standard centuries before, but she’s worthy of everything. She shouldn’t have to mask herself or hide who she is just to experience love.
I graze her pinkie with mine. “I’m sorry, Riles.”
“It’s fine.” She waves me off. “I’ll just be a spinster like you.”
I blink. “Did you just call me a spinster?”
“You are thirty and single.” She shrugs. “Did you know they considered Charlotte Lucas at risk of being a spinster when she was only twenty-six?”
I laugh. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Pride and Prejudice.” Her brows hike. “I gave you the book for your twenty-eighth birthday.”
“Oh, that. I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”
She shakes her head. “I’m just saying. You haven’t been on a date since…” She looks up from her notebook, cool grey eyes trained past my ear as she taps the pencil in her hand. “You’ve never been on a date as long as I’ve known you.”
“I’ve dated,” I insist.
“One night stands off Tinder don’t count.”
Coffee spurts from my mouth, spraying the island as I choke on the steaming liquid.
Okay then. Maybe I haven’t dated in a while but there’s nothing wrong with a woman getting her rocks off without needing to be wined and dined beforehand.
I snatch a rag from the counter and swipe away the dripping liquid. “That doesn’t make me a spinster.”
“I’m just saying.” Riley scribbles in her notebook. “Socially speaking, you’re past your prime.”
“Uh huh.” My eyes drift over her laptop. I huff a laugh when I see what she’s working on. “You’re editing too many romances. They’re rotting your brain, woman.”
“Maybe.” She chuckles.
And then she sighs.
“Don’t you ever just want to experience it, though?” she asks, twirling her pen between her fingers. “That all-consuming, fireworks sparking, once-in-a-lifetime love?”
What if I said I already had?
Swallowing hard, I tug at a ball of cotton on my joggers. I’m not nearly sober enough for this conversation. “If I want fireworks, I’ll look out of my window on New Year’s Eve.”
“Ha.” Her pink cheeks round as she smiles. “That was funny, actually.”
“Thank you.” I smirk and push my stool back. “Anyway, I gotta get to the studio. If I don’t crawl into a ditch and die before the days out, I’ll see you tonight.”
Dying in a ditch becomes more appealing with every tick of the clock.
My back cracks when I sit upright. I roll my neck and stretch my arms above my head before tugging my headphones off. Unwrapping my hair, the long black strands fall down my back. I drag sharp purple nails over my scalp with a moan.
Wood creaks behind me as the control room door swings open, harsh light spilling in from the hallway.
I shake my hair out and spin in my chair.
Dressed in an all-pink tracksuit, spiral caramel curls piled on top of her head and her russet brown skin flushed, my business partner Talia juggles pizza boxes while holding the door open with her arse.
Vertigo sways me when I shoot up from my chair. I grip the mixing desk and pull in a steadying breath before crossing the room.
Talia hands the boxes over to me. My stomach rumbles, my mouth watering as the scent of cheesy, herby, tomato goodness wafts through the air.
“You are an angel,” I tell her, setting them on the small coffee table before dropping onto the green, chenille couch tucked against the wall.
“Figured you needed sustenance. I know I do.” She nudges the door shut with her hip. “How’s your head?”
“Pretty sure a mariachi band has taken residence inside of it today. Yours?”
“Elephants stampeding.”
I clench my teeth and hiss playfully. “Remind me never to drink again.”
“You said that last time.”
“And I’ll say it every time until I’m mature enough to listen.”
Talia glances at me pointedly but says nothing as she drags her thumb over her phone screen. Music filters through the speakers. She does a little shoulder dance and places her phone face down.
I prop my foot on the cushion, hugging my knee to my chest as I nibble on a pizza slice. I groan when my tastebuds explode. “This is exactly what I needed.”
She winks.
We fall into a comfortable quiet, only the melodic rock from Talia’s playlist filling the space.
I’m almost done with the food when she asks, “Did you get the song I sent over earlier?”
I nod, swallowing down a sip of icy Coke Zero. “It’s not bad. I’m happy to mix as it is, but I wonder if it might be worth seeing if they’re open to adding another guitar riff in the bridge. It doesn't need it, but I do think it would elevate it, especially with them aiming for a more niche sound.”
Her expression drops. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Like I said, it doesn’t need it. Just a thought.”
“And a great one.” She jumps up and steals a notebook and pen from my drawers. “Remind me why you’re just a mixing engineer and not a producer.”
I choke down my pizza in the hopes of easing the knot gnawing at my stomach.
Maybe once I thought songwriter and music producer was in my pipeline, but that was a long time ago and things change. “Just not cut out for that life.”
She scoffs. “Please. The world would be lucky to have you creating. Your ideas are better than mine most of the time.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Tal.” I force a grin to my lips. “I just have a different perspective than you, that’s all. When you’re too close to it, you can miss the little things sometimes.”
“Well, if you ever decide to change careers, you’ll always have a job here.”
“Don’t I anyway?” I hike a brow.
I met Talia a couple of years out of uni, back when I was interning at a tiny studio in Sheffield. She was producing her first album, and I was the intern she probably shouldn’t have trusted to mix it. Turns out, we were a dream team.
When that studio tanked, we did what any slightly drunk, overly optimistic musicians would do—we decided to open our own.
Talia had the business savvy, I had the funds to sink into it, and somehow, Hendalia Studios was born.
Pretty sure the blended name came after one of her many Twilight re-runs. It was only after I'd filed the paperwork that I realised she was joking.
“Yes,” she sighs dramatically. “I suppose you owning seventy-five percent secures your position.”
I roll my eyes. “Phew. Had me scared for a minute there.”
Talia scribbles in her notebook.
I slap a hand over my mouth to stifle my yawn.
Tipping my head back on the couch, my eyes slide shut as the music shifts. A soft, acoustic rock melody settles around us.
My muscles soften.
I massage my temples, sinking deeper into the cushion.
I'm floating somewhere between awake and asleep when a gritty, distorted lick spills through the speaker, followed by the rattle of a snare drum. My pulse skitters.
I jolt upright, heart thumping as I swipe blindly at the table. I snatch Talia’s phone up and push my thumb on the screen. Only the soft sound of Talia's humming remains when the device silences.
My stomach swims, the pizza curdling inside of me.
Talia cranes her neck, her brows knotting as she looks at me. “Are you okay? I thought you liked that song?”
I make a noise at the back of my throat, the echoes of the music still looping in my mind. “It’s just way too heavy on a hangover.”
And isn’t that the truth?
Nothing screams regret louder than the pairing of stale tequila and torn teenage dreams. There are only so many things a woman can deal with after a night of heavy drinking.
The universe shoving my biggest mistake down my throat, in the form of my rock star ex-boyfriend Cole Hayes, twice in one day without warning, isn’t one of them.