Page 23 of Wicked Angel
“Yes!”
“Never show me the ‘strip thing.’”
“There’s a video of it! I promise, it’s more funny than sexy!”
“Uh-huh.” I glanced up at Noah’s house, where the door was still shut. “I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go.”
“Okay! We’ll talk later!” I heard some fumbling noises and she hung up before I could say goodbye, and I wondered if she was drunk.
Probably.
I put my phone away and any trace of a smile faded.
Fuck.
This time next year, my band was supposed to be as big as the Players. That was the plan. With this new album, and Cary Clarke producing, and Brick House Records…
But Yash called it. Without JC, we were in trouble. Who knew what Trey would say if we couldn’t get him back?
IfIcouldn’t get him back.
I didn’t even want to think about that potential conversation. Not yet. Trey was playing nice today, being a gentleman—his specialty. But I’d seen the guy’s gloves come off. There’d be no winning him back if we lost him now, over something like this. The man had an image to maintain, and he didn’t like drama. Not among his artists, and not in his own relationships, business or pleasure. I’d known him long enough to know that.
I could not let this bullshit personal gripe between JC and me derail our band.
So I did my best to eat my pride as I walked up to the house, stood in the glow of the front porch lights and hardened myself for whatever I was about to face. Let JC throw his little tantrum, get it all out of his system. Then he’d be over it.
Like he always got over it.
Another week, at most, and he would’ve realized Brianna wasn’t worth the trouble anyway.
I rang the doorbell, stood back and waited, which was bullshit. He probably heard my car. He took a long-ass minute to answer the bell, too.
When he opened the door he said nothing, just glared at me. The lead singer of my band, for better or worse, for the last almost-eight years, JC stood in front of me in a ripped T-shirt, jeans and bare feet, scripted ink wrapped around his throat just like the one I had across my chest.Breakneck.And he looked at me like we were already enemies.
Over the years, JC had changed. Become a better singer, but a worse friend. Started losing his hair, which was why he now shaved it off. Gained more tats and gradually lost his sense of humor. He’d become embittered by envy, by jealousy, by a never ending rivalry with me over every fucking thing. And the more he lost that battle, the more he hated me.
He’d just never admit to it out loud.
“What’s this I hear about you leaving the band,” I said flatly, when he said nothing.
“What’s this I hear about you and Brianna?” He wasn’t yelling, which surprised me.
And for the first time, I wondered who told him. Someone did. So what if his girlfriend was spotted with me at a party? We both happened to show up at the same event. It was what happened after the event, in private, that was the problem.
Did Brianna tell him herself?
He looked guarded, his eyelids lowered as he stared me down in silence. Which was not JC’s style. The guy was way more likely to yell at me and throw shit around, ream me out, then freeze me out, before finally coming around. Being in a band with John Colton Bissette was like being in a relationship with a hormonal woman who was always peak cycle.
“You flew out here pretty suddenly,” I observed.
He gave a short, bitter laugh. “Not for you.”
Right. So he raced out here to see Brianna in person.
How humiliating for him.
Shit, had he even met the girl? Had a conversation with her?
