Page 12 of Wicked Angel
Not when I was positioned to get everything I’d ever wanted, professionally.
We’d been through way too much as a band to get where we were now: standing on the fucking precipice of breakout, top-of-the-charts success.
The kind of success we’d never quite achieved. Yet.
We had a strong lineup, after so many changes in the band in the early days. Our sound had matured. We’d dialed in our live performance. We’d been working with some great lyricists. We even had the right management, most days; Yash believed in us, had stood by me since fucking high school. Even if he wasn’t the barracuda I would’ve sometimes liked him to be, he was fucking loyal and that had massive currency with me.
And now we had Cary Clarke coming on to produce our new album.
I truly believed this was the missing ingredient—one of the hottest producers in the business to collaborate with, to take what we could do in the studio from great to outstanding on our next album. We had Cary’s studio, Little Black Hole, to record at. And we had the right record label; Brick House Records had recently launched the Players, the first rock band on their largely hip-hop focused label, into the rock ’n’ roll stratosphere.
My band, Breakneck, was about to follow suit.
Finally. Fucking finally, after all these years, we were going big.
“It’s Breakneck’s turn to shine,” I reminded them both. How many times had Trey said those words to me, almost ad nauseam, since we’d inked this deal earlier this year? Even he didn’t know how close the band had been to breaking up—yet again—just before the deal was signed. That ink was the glue that had held us together. “We’ve got everything lined up and the band isn’t going anywhere. We have a contract.”
Neither of them spoke.
“Why are you both looking at me? JC is contractually bound to make this album.”
Yash scratched his hairy neck. “Yeah. Not if he sues, though, Johnny.”
What the fuck?
“Why would he sue? He’s not gonna sue. JC wants this album as much as any of us. Noah, Miles. We all want this.”
“You sure about that?” Trey said mildly, assessing me with his dark eyes.
“What does that mean?” I countered.
“You’re the only one here, Johnny,” he pointed out.
“Because JC is home, in New York, I assume. And Miles is home in Toronto. And Noah’s in L.A. for a few days off. So what?”
“He meant,” Yash said, “you’re the only one we called in here today.”
I looked at Yash… as his words shifted the entire meaning of this meeting, tipping everything into focus, an uncomfortable clarity settling over me.
Reading the emotions of others wasn’t exactly a strong suit of mine, but I could see the tension on Yash’s face, the sweat gleaming on his forehead.
When the hottest rock band in town, and now one of the biggest bands in the world, Dirty, signed their first record deal, they had their friend, Brody Mason, as their manager. Working with Brody had worked for Dirty their entire careers. I was only in high school when Dirty’s first album hit the charts, but I figured if that worked for them, it could work for me. So I’d recruited my buddy Yash, who was a violinist and nerd who’d started helping me manage the meagre earnings from my first few paid gigs in high school, to be my manager.
The only issue with that over the years? Yash had never had Brody Mason’s balls.
Which was why he was blindsiding me with this shit.
“So, what is this?” I asked him, then looked at Trey. “An intervention?”
They didn’t deny it.
“Maybe you should think about intervening on JC’s attitude,” I suggested. “Or Miles’ crippling need for reassurance every time he plays a note.” I got up and headed for the door. What was the point of this conversation?
“You’re always up and running, Johnny,” Yash said, sounding weary. “Just stop for a fucking second, okay?”
“Running?” I stopped inside the office door and turned back to him.
“Running,” he repeated. “Faster. Harder. Until you can’t fucking run anymore, you get me?” He clawed a hand through his tangle of hair. “You can’t ignore this. You’ve gotta deal with this head on.”
