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ROAN

Istared out my living room windows, the gleaming floor-to-ceiling glass more than fifteen feet high, giving an unobstructed view of Nashville, wondering when the hell all of this had stopped being enough. There had been a time in my life when a view like this, a view that only came from standing inside one of the fucking ridiculously large mansions that towered over the city, was all I’d ever wanted.

I’d wanted to be able to stand at these windows at night and look down at the city lights, to be a part of the heartbeat of Nashville while still lording over it. One of the important. The elite. When I was younger, I was stupid enough to think that was all I needed, this lifestyle of flash and fame was all that mattered. If I’d had a view like this, I had really made it.

God, I was a fucking idiot.

I thought that was all it would take to give me the calm I had spent nearly my entire life searching for. The peace I’d only had once before. But as I stood there, looking out on my city, all I felt was... empty.

“Roan, are you even listening to me?”

I rolled my eyes at Cal’s nasally voice and turned away from the view that no longer held the same appeal it once had. My manager sat in the large, hideous wingback chair that wasn’t my taste at all but had been chosen by the interior decorator I’d hired because that was the one everyone who was anyone in Nashville used, so it made sense. I hated that fucking chair with its fuckingtasselsandbrocade pattern, whatever the hell that was. It felt like it was stuffed with rocks.

As a matter of fact, I hatedallthe furniture in this house. I hated the dishes in the cabinets. I hated the colors on the walls and the bedding that had been chosen for my bedroom. I hated the art hanging on the walls—I mean, I had a framed canvas that had been paintedwhiteand had cost thirty grand hanging over my fireplace, for christ’s sake. I could have done that my damn self for less than ten bucks. And what did it say about me that I hadn’t blinked an eye at the price tag because the artist was a popular up-and-coming dude who everyone wanted a piece of.

Jesus christ.

“Of course I fuckin’ hear you. It’s impossible not to since you won’t shut the hell up.”

He gave me a flat look as he tapped the arm of the chair with the tip of his index finger, his tell for when he was anxious. I could always tell by thetap, tap, tapjust how close he was to a meltdown, and lately, thattap, tap, taphad been happening a whole lot more. Especially when it came to me.

I wasn’t exactly making his job easy as of late, but for some reason, I just couldn’t find it in me to give a shit.

All the things I used to care about, used to love, seemed so insignificant now.

“All right, what did I just say?”

I moved to the wet bar in the corner of the room and poured two fingers of Lagavulin. I tossed it back in a single gulp and set up another. That one I’d sip slower, make it last. I didn’t allow myself to get out of hand anymore. I’d spent too many years making stupid fucking choices like chasing the fake relief alcohol provided, the numbness, and I wasn’t going to let myself go down that road again.

“I said I heard you, not that I was listenin’.”

Tap, tap, tap.

“I swear to christ, Roan. You’re going to give me a goddamn heart attack one of these days.”

I gave him a flat stare. “No, Cal. That’ll be from the two packs of cigarettes you smoke every damn day.” I pointed a threatening finger at him as he stood and patted at his pockets. “And don’t even think of lighting up in here. I might hate all the shit in this house, but I hate the stench of those cancer sticks even more.”

“It was only one pack a day until you turned into this surly, moody jackass.”

He pushed to his feet and came over to the bar. My jaw started to tick and my hands clenched into fists when he began to fix himself a drink without even asking. And worst, he used my expensive shit. The prick.

“You used to be so agreeable and even-tempered. What the fuck happened to that guy, huh? He never gave me angina.”

“Maybe that guy got tired of being everyone’s puppet.” I took another sip, beating down the need to chug. “Ever thought of that? Or maybe he got sick and fucking tired of doing whatever everyone around him wanted and not what he wanted.”

Instead of getting it, Cal pointed in my direction, his expression accusing as he said, “See? That right there. That’s the shit I’m talking about. What’s your deal, man? You need to get laid? Is that it? Just say the word and I’ll have a few ladies here in no time. You can take your pick. Or hell, fuck all of them if that’s what it takes to snap your personality back into place.”

My top lip curled in disgust. I couldn’t believe I’d ever actually considered this man a friend. He was only looking out for number one. Sure, he used to be supportive, but that was back when I did what I was told without any argument. Now that I was no longer the dumbass who was content to simply go with the flow, that support had flown right out the window. Like most things in my career, I was starting to second-guess whether or not Cal Stark was the right fit as my manager.

It was beginning to feel like I had outgrown everything. My label, my sound, my team. If I could, I’d wipe the slate clean and start all over. Only this time, I’d do so many things differently. But I guess that was hindsight for you.

The callous bitch.

“Look, just say what you came to say so you can get the hell out before you really piss me off and get your ass fired, yeah?”

I could practically hear his molars grinding together from across the room.