??t think of the bad, Jake. Think of the good. Think of the moment you get to hold your boy in your arms. Think of the moment you get to put that ring on Tru’s finger when she finally sees stupid and marries your sorry ass. Think of all the amazing fucking things the three of you are gonna do together. And while you’re thinking of all that great stuff, I’ll pray to the big man upstairs. I’ll promise to make some serious lifestyle changes in exchange for you to have all that, to have what you were always meant to have.”
I can’t remember the last time I was in a church, not that the hospital chapel is actually a church-church. I take a seat on the pew up front. The place is empty. Thank fuck. I don’t want an audience while I’m here.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, and clasp my hands together.
“Okay,” I start. “I don’t pray, like, ever, which you know. I’m not exactly what you would call religious, another thing you know, but I made a promise, and I have to see that promise through—hence, why I’m here, talking to you.” I take a deep breath. “There’s a girl in this hospital—Tru Bennett. You need to save her. Aside from the fact that she’s amazing, by saving her, you’ll be saving someone else. If Tru dies, Jake won’t survive. I saw it in his eyes earlier…the same look as my…”
Emotions I haven’t felt in years claw to the surface. I scrub my hands over my face.
“Look, I know how this stuff works. I ask for something, and I give in return, right? You might realize what a bastard I am. I’m not great. I’m pretty fucking horrible to be honest. I treat people like shit—mainly women. I use them like inanimate objects made for me to stick my dick in. I haven’t killed anyone…but I wouldn’t put it past me to do that at some point in the future. I have a shit temper. I’m one motherfucking bastard of a man. Case in point, I can’t even manage not to curse while I’m talking to you.
“One less bastard on this planet would work for you, right? Cross one more off your shitlist. So, I’m saying, if you save Tru’s life, I’ll change mine. Completely. I’ll stop the fast living. No more fucking random women in inappropriate places, like when I screwed that nurse in the medical supplies closet after I visited with the sick kids. There’ll be no more married women. No threesomes or foursomes or orgies. I’ll even stop going to strip joints. I won’t look at women in a sexual way. Fuck, I’ll live the life of a goddamn monk if you save Tru. I swear, I will only have sex with a woman if she really means something to me.”
Did I actually just say that—out loud?
Christ.
I break out in a cold sweat at the thought. I wipe my brow and take a deep breath.
“I’m promising all this because I know Jake won’t survive losing Tru. I saw it in his eyes. He looked exactly the same as…well, I’m sure you know who I mean.”
Exhaling, I lean back in the pew.
“Jake loses Tru…we lose him…I can’t lose him. Jake and Den are all I’ve got left in the world. And you’ve got enough good people up there as it is. You’ve taken enough from us. You don’t need her. She’s needed here more…so I’m making this promise. You save Tru’s life, and I’ll completely change the way I live mine.” I lift my eyes to the ceiling. “What do you say?”
Present Day—Studio, TMS Records, LA
“Your vocal is off.”
Um, what?
The voice in my ears halts my singing. I tilt my head to the side, looking around the huge microphone perched in front of my face to see through the glass.
I stare at the face of the voice—Zane Fox, Vice President of TMS Records, the label my band is signed to.
Total hottie, if I were into that kind of thing, which I’m not.
I don’t like men. No, I’m not a lesbian.
I’m asexual. Celibate. Have been for the past ten months.
My history with men isn’t good.
All of the important men in my life, barring a few, have let me down—hugely. When it comes to relationships with men—well, let’s just say I’m a colossal failure.
Boyfriend One cheated on me with the only close female friend I ever had.
Boyfriend Two stole money from me.
Boyfriend Three was an aspiring singer, whom I found out was only dating me because he knew who my father was. I overheard him telling his friends. It was a sucker punch because I hate my father.
Boyfriend Four dumped me when I refused to have a threesome with him and his best friend. I kid you not.
Boyfriend Five “borrowed” my car. I still haven’t seen him—or my car—to this day.
Boyfriend Six—my longest relationship and with a guy I stupidly thought I might love—screwed my brother on the biggest night of my life. After I caught them in the act, I later found out, he’d actually been screwing my brother for the last month of the eight months we were together.
That one was the killer, the final nail in my sex coffin.
After that, I realized that I only ever seem to be attracted to men with issues. I’m sure any good psychologist would say that I’m drawn to this kind of man because of my father and the problems I have with him, being that he’s a completely crap dad.
Basically, he was the sperm donor who helped create me.
So, I stay clear of men. Seriously, the closest I get to a man nowadays is sharing a drink with my best friend, Cale.
In my past, I was always a relationship kind of girl—albeit, an unsuccessful one. Casual sex was something I never could do. I tie too many emotions to sex to be able to sleep with a guy and not see him again.
Taking relationships off the menu for me also removed the dessert menu, meaning no more sex for Lyla.
I’ve been totally okay with it—well, about ninety-five percent of the time.
Okay, if I’m being totally honest, it’s more like seventy-five and climbing with the help of ASBOF.
ASBOF—Asexual Battery-Operated Friend. The ultimate G-spot–finding, mind-blowing O-giving, can-do-everything-a-man-can-do, except cuddle and break my heart, vibrator.
ASBOF is my electronic way to a much-needed orgasm.
I use the term asexual for my vibrator, so I don’t think of it in a male sense in any way. I don’t want to think of men in a sexual way at all—well, except when trying to reach the O with ASBOF. Of course I need some mental stimulation, so yes, on some occasions, I do visualize a faceless man, or maybe the hot guy who serves my coffee at Starbucks. But I promptly scrub the guy from my mind as soon as me and the O are done.
Anyway, back to the now…and the fact that I’ve been staring at Zane for a ridiculous amount of time, like he’s got three alien heads on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I’m hoping my hearing is off, and I misheard him.
Zane leans forward and speaks into the microphone again, enunciating each word as he says them, “I said, your vocal was off.”
I’m guessing he’s annoyed at having to repeat himself.
And, no, I didn’t mishear him.
My back stiffens.
My vocal was not off. No freaking way. It was so not off that it’s on the other side of the Not-Off Bridge.
I know my songs. I know this song inside out. There’s no way I was off.
Face pricking, I stare down at the Keds on my feet, trying to control my rush of anger.
I don’t do criticism well. It’s not my friend. And to hear this criticism from Zane stings badly because I respect his opinion.
I’m passionate about my work. I love my job. I love singing. I live for it. My band, this album—they’re everything to me. My whole world.
I spent years and years singing in shitty bars and clubs, chasing the dream. Finally, I hooked that dream and then spent months and months working on the album—seven days a week, day and night, barely sleeping. I was so desperate to perfect it that I thought I might have a nervous breakdown.
Now, to hear I’m flunking—from Zane of all people—is not good. He hasn’t had a problem with my vocals on any of the other tracks. And today of all days, I could do without hearing this.
I feel like I just got an F on my paper from my favorite teacher, and like a child, I want to have a colossal temper tantrum about it.
Not mature, but I don’t care.
Deep breaths, Lyla.
This is Zane Fox. He won’t take kindly to a creative temper tantrum from a small-time singer who just signed with his label.
Taking a calming breath, I force nicety into my voice. “Okay, so maybe my pitch was a teeny, tiny bit off”—I don’t mean that at all—“but—”