Page 216 of Wicked Angel
“I know that too,” I told her.
She looked out into the street. “We’ve got power again,” she noted, maybe misreading the reason for my tension. “It’s much brighter here.”
“Yeah. Hopefully the power outage doesn’t affect anything. And everyone can make it.”
“As long as Trey is there. I want him to hear what he missed out on. We’ll make him rue the day he tossed out your record deal.”
“Maybe,” I said neutrally. “But that was Breakneck’s record deal, not mine.”
“True.” She smiled at me. “Larissa said she’s coming with him, and they were on their way a little while ago.”
“Then everything is as it should be.”
“Trust me,” she said, looking into my eyes. “You’re going to make him regret that he ever considered not making an album with Johnny O.”
I hoped she was right. But honestly, for me, this night wasn’t even about that.
It was just about the songs.
And it was abouther.
I’d asked her trust me. To trust this thing between us.
So, I’d worked my ass off for the last few months, pouring my heart and soul into these songs, my guts and my every emotion, every feeling I could scrape up from that deep, dark place in me where I’d locked them down so tight. I wanted to give her something to trust. Something to count on. Something to believe in.
I wanted to be the kind of man who was available to her in every way, whenever she needed me. Because God knew I needed her, and she’d been there for me, in every way.
She’d told me that she wanted all of me, even if I was broken. Well, I was fucking broken. But I was working on it. And meanwhile, I was here to offer her every broken shard of me that I could find, in the truest way I knew how.
With music.
When we pulled up behind Champagne, security had blocked off part of the alley and Lamar rolled us up to the door. A bouncer let us in and a member of Ronan Sterling’s security team walked us to the green room; Yash had contracted some of Ronan’s guys for tonight’s show. I was the first musician to arrive. My band wasn’t here yet.
“Do you think you could go find my dad,” I asked Angeline, “and bring him back here? Shayla was coming with him. They should be here by now.”
“Of course.” She gave me a sweet kiss, then headed out.
Alone, I paced the length of the room. Champagne’s green room was nicer than any other I’d been in at clubs around town, but none of the other clubs in town were owned by rock stars. It was quiet, sound controlled, with charcoal gray walls and contemporary furniture, one of Katie Mayes’ colorful, abstract paintings dominating one wall; an anonymous, faceless guitarist playing his instrument. The couches and chairs were upholstered in emerald-green and sapphire-blue. There was a massive mirror and a makeup table to suit a queen, and a large TV on one wall.
I didn’t touch any of it, just paced as I waited for my dad.
I just hoped he got here before the band did. I wanted a moment with him, alone. I didn’t plan this moment. I didn’t think a lot about how it would go down, just knew that it would. That it would have to, at some point, before he heard my new songs.
Maybe I’d just avoided it for as long as I possibly could, and now time had run out.
Finally, there was a soft knock on the door and Angeline reappeared, with my dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I greeted him as he came to clasp my hand and pulled me in for a quick, tight hug.
“Johnny. You look great.”
My dad always told me I looked great. I never let him see me looking otherwise.
“I’ll give you two a moment?” Angeline offered, lingering by the door in her pretty, pale-pink dress and suede booties.
“Thank you,” I told her.
“You’ll sit with us?” my dad asked her, and she smiled. I knew she’d met my dad over the years, and my stepmom, Miranda—Shayla’s parents—and I wasn’t at all surprised that he liked her. But it did make me happy to see it.
