Avalon
“Where the hell have you been hiding this?”
Jonas burst into the studio like a man discovering buried treasure, holding up a small tape between two fingers. Shock, disbelief, and theatrical betrayal were all painted across his face. His other hand rested on his hip like he was posing for a magazine spread.
I didn’t look up from the lap drum set in front of me. I twisted a nozzle slightly to the left. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jonas.”
“This masterpiece,” he said, waving the tape, “that I found thrown in with the rest of the trash.”
I tsked and adjusted another nozzle. “If it was in the trash, maybe that’s where it belongs. Also, why are you going through my garbage?”
Jonas sauntered toward me, amused. “Someone has to make sure gems like this don’t get tossed. More than a few of your hits have been dumpster rescues.”
I snorted and tapped out a random beat. That was all I did these days—random beats, random scrolling, random attempts at pretending I wasn’t falling apart.
I lacked motivation. I didn’t write my own music, and now I didn’t even want to be in the studio. The weather was warming up, but even the sun couldn’t thaw the heaviness in my chest. My limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. My brain was foggy. Blank. Constantly.
I’d thrown out every reminder of that night—anything that made my heart twist or my stomach drop. Anything that reminded me of her.
The guilt was crushing. I’d slipped out before dawn, then hid in my room when I heard her and her team leaving. I couldn’t face her. And then I’d found the hard drive—hers, technically— mixed in with my things.
It had fallen onto the floor outside her door when I was putting on my jacket.
I had thought about going back in, leaving it on the nightstand.
At least then I wouldn’t be a thief. But then I’d thought: We wrote this together.
It’s mine too. Would she have sent it to me?
Or would she have kept it, released it alone, taken all the credit?
I’d spent a week trying to convince myself I wasn’t completely in the wrong. “If you like it so much, you sing it,” I muttered, keeping my tone bored.
Jonas sighed dramatically and placed a hand over his heart. “I wish. But my theater days are over.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell,” I mumbled, finally turning to look at him —flamingo-pink satin shirt, matching pants, and enough confidence to power a small city.
I snatched the hard drive from his hand and looked it over. “Give me that.” Nothing special. Just a standard black drive. I plugged it into the PC. A soft acoustic melody filled the room—the one I’d tried so hard to forget.
Then her voice. Clarke’s voice. Sweet, warm, angelic. Then mine, blending with hers. Memories slammed into me—the photo booth, her hand in mine, the moment before I kissed her.
I ripped the hard drive out and tossed it into the trash. “Remind me to take my trash out more often.”
Jonas sat beside me, hands on his knees, eyes wide. “Well. I was not expecting that reaction.” He wiggled his brows. “Who was that girl? She had the voice of a southern angel.” I rolled my eyes. “Just someone I met in Mayfair.”
Jonas gasped like he’d been stabbed. “A quick New York fling!” He leaned in. “Tell me everything. Who is she? Why does she sound familiar? And why haven’t you talked to her?” I shrugged. There were a thousand reasons. None I wanted to say out loud. “Okay, you do know a shrug is not an answer—”
“I don’t know, Jonas!” I snapped. “There’s something wrong with me. I ruin every good thing that ever happens to me.”
He softened. “Oh girl… I don’t think I’m the one you need to apologize to.” I looked away, throat tight.
“You should release it,” he said suddenly.
I froze. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
“It’s your song, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but it’s also Clarke’s—”
Jonas lit up. “AHA! Mystery girl has a name.”
“I never said she didn’t,” I muttered.
He blinked. “Clarke King? That was Clarke King? You hooked up with Clarke King? I didn’t even know she swung that way.”
I ignored him. “What if I released the song? You like it, right?”
Jonas looked at me like I’d asked whether water was wet. “Avalon. It’s one of the best things you’ve ever done.”
He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and turned my chair toward him. “You wrote it. You and Clarke.”
I nodded.
“It’s good,” he said softly. “It’s really fucking good.”
My face warmed. Words of affirmation always hit too hard—maybe because I so rarely believed them.
I stood and switched out the CD. “Yeah, well, you’re the first and last person to hear it. Without Clarke’s consent, I can’t do anything.”
Jonas was quiet for a moment. Too quiet.
“Or,” he said slowly, “you could drop her verse.”
I snorted. “That’s cruel.”
“Is it?” he asked, voice sly. “It’s your song too.”
He wasn’t wrong. But technically… it was hers too.
I dragged my fingers through my hair. “Isn’t there some legal battle that could happen?” “You’re deflecting,” he said. “Poorly.”
Maybe I was. Or maybe I didn’t want to see Clarke again—not when I’d left her the way I did.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked.
I swallowed hard.
“What’s the best that could happen?”
And just like that, it was decided. We were doing this. Was I ready to face the music?
Stepping out of the Uber, I stretched my arms and yawned.
Four hours from the nearest airport felt like a lifetime when you weren’t sure you were supposed to be somewhere.
I checked the papers in my hand again—the song, the revised lyrics, the payout I could offer Clarke for royalties, and a written will in case she murdered me.
“This is where you wanted me to drop you off, yeah?” the driver asked, his southern drawl sending goosebumps up my arms.
“Yup. This is the place.”
King Ranch.
The barn-like structure towered above me, the sign King & Co. gleaming in silver and black. I swallowed hard.
Ever since That Night—the song—had blown up, fans wanted more. More music. More collaborations. More of what I couldn’t give them.
Then Melody Claire reached out. Clarke’s sister. Clarke’s manager. She knew things only Clarke and I knew.
So, I’d taken the leap. Now I stood in front of the King family empire with nothing but my guitar, notebooks, and several weeks’ worth of clothes.
Inside, the foyer was massive—twin staircases curving into a half-moon, leading to what looked like sleeping quarters.
“Hello?” I called. Silence. I wandered up the stairs, stopping at a massive family portrait. Clarke sat on the couch beside her mother and younger sister, wearing a black mini dress and a single piece of jewelry.
A quarter. A quarter engraved with a guitar. My breath caught. She had kept it. Even after I left. Even after I released the song. Why?
I touched the canvas gently, tracing the outline of the coin. Had I been completely wrong about the kind of person I had made her out to be?
I moved down the hall, passing portraits of the King siblings—Clarke with a horse, Colton at a bull-riding event, the youngest daughter smiling shyly.
They looked happy. Whole. Like a family. A pang of jealousy hit me hard.
I peeked into one of the rooms—small, cozy, decorated with animal photos and religious décor. Definitely the Bible Belt.
Seven rooms total. Six sleeping quarters. One main office. The Big Office. I pushed the door open. Empty. Relief washed over me—until I heard boots downstairs and Clarke’s voice drifting up the stairs.
“Melly? Do you know whose things are sitting in the foyer?”
Panic surged. I looked around for somewhere to hide. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The doorknob turned. Oh God. I was going to throw up.
The door opened. Clarke stood there, framed in the doorway, eyes wide, voice sharp. “What in God’s good gracious name are you doing in my Daddy’s office?”
I swallowed hard, fidgeting with the leather bracelets on my wrists.
Time to face that music, Avalon Kennedy.