Page 16 of Before You Fell

Cruz follows my stare and makes a low sound. “You know Phoenix is a dick, Wills.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say, lifting my drink.

I swallow the hit and turn it into a smile with teeth.

Jax strolls over, still shirtless, chewing his pretzels. The three women who were waiting for his attention follow him over. They stand there behind him, awkward and pretty, holding their drinks and smiling.

Jax points a pretzel at me. “You got any lyrics about fuckheads with God complexes and small brains?”

I glance at Phoenix, then back to Jax. “Enough for a whole damn album.”

Jax grins. “Good. Make the chorus catchy. Men with God complexes love singing about themselves.”

“Do they?”

“Absolutely. It’s how they pray.”

I take a slow sip of my drink. “That explains Phoenix.”

Jax snorts. “Phoenix doesn’t have a God complex.”

I raise my brows.

“He has a fucking God subscription,” Jax says. “Monthly premium ego package, no cancellation option.”

The woman behind him giggles too loudly.

Jax turns his head slightly. “See? She gets it.”

“I think she just wants you to turn around,” I say.

A smirk flickers across his face. “Probably. I’m painfully wanted. It’s a burden.”

“Tragic.”

“Devastating.” He points the pretzel at me again. “Good thing we keep you around, Wills. Someone has to write pretty words about all our emotional baggage.”

Jax’s grin stays easy, all reckless charm and no idea he has just stepped on something bruised.

I realize he is teasing. I understand he doesn’t mean it the way it comes across. Still, the words scrape.

This is why they keep me around. For the songs. For the way I can turn their fucked-up lives into something people want to scream back at them.

The band needs lyrics. Damon needs a product. The label needs a fresh wound to slap on vinyl and sell in three limited-edition colors. Phoenix needs my songs.

None of them need the girl who wrote them, though.

Jax, oblivious to the little bit of damage he has just done, turns back to the women behind him and gives them a grin made for trouble. “Right, ladies. Which one of you wants to tell me I’m pretty first, and which one wants to lie and say she came back here for the music?”

One of them blushes. The other bites her lip. He walks them back towards the couch.

Jett appears beside me as I reach for another drink. He materializes from shadows and judgment.

Where his twin, Jax, is noise and impulse, Jett is the aftermath. The brother who sees the broken glass before anyone hears it fall.

His gaze drop to my hand. Then lifts to my face. “Have you eaten?”

I force a bored look. “That’s a rude question.”