Charles De Gaulle Airport swarmed with people when we picked up our luggage and stepped into the hall where Jim would be waiting for us. I smiled when I spotted him standing in the middle of the Arrivals terminal and headed toward him with Nick on my heels.

"Hey." Jim hugged me. "How was the flight?"

I sighed. "Long. Let's get moving. This bitch is heavy." I lifted my hard guitar case and rolled my eyes when Nick gave Jim an extra-long hug. Dude used every opportunity to get on my nerves.

"Come on." Jim laughed. "I have a car."

I winked. "Good thinking, Jimmy boy."

We made our way to the parking lot, where Jim unlocked the door of a sports car he rented. "Kennedy's getting married in Étretat,” he said. “We'll need something bigger for the equipment, but this one will do for now.”

"Sleek," Nick said, plopping in the backseat with his guitar next to him. I settled in the passenger seat next to Jim.

"What's new back home?" He glanced at me, starting the car.

That was a loaded question. "I guess you already know Fire and Rain is in the top five in the charts,” I said. The success of our latest single made our lives a bit better by easing some of the pressure, but we still needed to finish our second album.

Jim grimaced. "Wyatt told me, yeah."

Wyatt was the label guy hell-bent on complicating Jim’s existence. It was as if he enjoyed micromanaging shit instead of delegating. "He misses you, man,” I told Jim. “He also calls Andre almost daily, just so you know." 

Jim changed lanes, following the directions for downtown Paris. "Awesome. Now I can sleep at night."

Nick and I  snickered. 

"How's Kennedy?" Nick asked.

"We'll hang out with him tomorrow. The guy's busy. I'd rather we didn't pester him today."

I had no doubts about that. Wedding planning was a pain in the ass. So was marriage, and my folks were a perfect example of that. I wasn't going to be a buzzkill, though. Just because it didn't work out for them, it didn't mean it wouldn't work out for Aiden and Ellie. Those two were made for each other.

"Weddings are nice," I said. "Free booze, lots of food."

"People in love," Nick chimed in.

I groaned. "Yeah, Nicholas. They kinda get married for a reason."

A loud huff came from Nicholas in response. "Smack him, Jim. His bitter ass spoiled the flight for me."

Jim looked at me. I averted my eyes to the dense traffic, ignoring Nick. Jim was good at reading people, and thanks to my other bandmate, I was positive he'd grill me about what Nick said later.

After Jim parked at a five-star hotel downtown, we checked in and went to our rooms. Nick announced that he was going to take a nap, but I said nothing when Jim asked me about my plans. I was tired, but not tired enough to sleep—I managed to nap on the plane.

My hotel room was amazing—spacious and decorated in light colors. Its small balcony faced the street, and I glimpsed The Opera Theater and a few other historical buildings in the vicinity. I grabbed my notebook and sat at a small table.

The same annoying thoughts plagued my brain as I flipped through the pages of the black notebook in my hands—Ivy and the way she ignored my ass, my mother going on dates with guys who weren't my father, and Romy being way more affected by our parents’ separation than I thought she'd be, although she thought she hid it well.

Some of the shit I thought and felt was written in black ink. It was something meant to be screamed or rapped, not sung, and I had no intention of ever telling the guys I tried my hand at writing. Everyone needed an outlet for their thoughts when they got annoyingly loud. I found mine in the scribbles dotting the pages.

As I grabbed a pen, a knock on the door made me put it back. I knew who it was even before opening. 

 "Yeah?" I said when my eyes landed on Jim leaning on the doorframe.

 "You okay?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

I didn't particularly want company, but he bothered to check on me, and I wasn't going to be a dick.

I pushed my hair back and stepped aside. "Come in. Let sit on the balcony. Grab something to drink if you want to."

Jim pulled a beer from the minibar and sat in a patio chair across from me. "What's up?"

I took a swig from his bottle and closed my eyes, resting my head against the back of the chair. "I'm fucked."

The words fell out of my mouth too fast, but screw it. This was Jim, and I trusted him. Besides, his girl was Ivy’s friend.

He arched his brow. "How?"

"Need the deets, Jimmy boy?"

"If you're not okay, yeah."

I left the bottle on the small round table in front of me and rubbed my face. "Remember Ivy? Your girl's friend?"

"The one who has a boyfriend?"

I growled. "Fuck, Jim. You too?"

Jim tapped his fingers on the table. "Let’s pretend I said nothing. So?"

"We kinda went out a week ago. And she blocked my number."

"Are you sure?"

I wished I weren't, but I was positive. "Yeah. I texted her that night. We chatted, and it was cool. But the following day, the text didn’t go through. She didn’t even let me take her home. If I knew where she lived, I would’ve stopped by.”

Jim let out a heavy exhale. “You might wanna punch me for what I’m gonna say, but she has a boyfriend. Did you sleep with her?”

Hurt swirled in the pit of my stomach. “Cause that’s what I always do, right?”

None of us were saints, and fame made it easy to meet girls. We were on everyone’s radar without even trying because of our music, looks, or both. I'd lie if I said I didn't take advantage of that, but what guy wouldn't? 

“I didn’t say that,” Jim said carefully, probably sensing I didn't take his words well.

I couldn't stand him looking at me as if he pitied me, so I did my best to put on a neutral expression and rose to my feet. “I’ll be back. Gotta take a leak. Drink that beer, Jimmy boy.”

A few minutes in the bathroom made me chill. I couldn't be pissed at Jim. He'd never seen me interested in anyone that much before. 

I went back to the balcony, and froze as soon as I saw Jim holding my open notebook. Damn it.

“Fuck.” I snatched the book from Jim’s hands. “Whatever happened to asking for permission, Jim?”

“The notebook didn't have Dear Diary written on the cover. Those are lyrics,” he deadpanned. 

I flopped on a chair and shook my head. “Nah.” 

I’d rather deny the obvious than admit I wrote something deeply personal—something that probably wasn't even good.

“Jay.” Jim watched me with narrowed eyes. I obviously failed at bullshitting the bullshitter. 

I shrugged. “You’re the one who writes. I play the guitar. To each his own.”

“I’m the one who writes because you and Nick told me you couldn’t. There isn’t a rule saying writing lyrics is my prerogative.”

That was true, but Jim’s lyrics were one of the main reasons our band was so loved by the fans. Why change what clearly worked for us? I didn't write those words looking for recognition, anyway. I did it for myself.

I chuckled, opening the small book. “You can read it, but you’ll see why it wouldn’t fit our style.”

Chances were, Jim would agree with me and forget all about it.

Jim pushed the notebook toward me as if he hadn't heard me. “Sing it. The last one, Riveted. I want to hear what you have in mind cause what I read is amazing.”

“It’s rap.”

“Go ahead. I won’t look at you.”

It was funny he thought I was self-conscious. Okay, maybe I was, just a bit. I trusted my guitar skills more than I did my voice, although I wasn't tone-deaf. I just didn't have the necessary training.

But if I refused to sing, Jim would definitely make a big deal out of it, or try to give me a motivational TED talk. Fuck it.

“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “Here it goes.”

Leaning back in his chair, Jim closed his eyes and listened to me rap the only thing I’d ever written thinking about a girl.

When I was done, he opened his eyes but was strangely, suspiciously quiet.

“See? Not our usual.” I fidgeted with the leather bracelet Romy gave me, trying not to stare at his face.

“I call bull.”

My eyes met his green ones, and I opened my mouth to reply, but Jim spoke first.

“Is it different? Yes. But fuck, our second studio album needs to have a different vibe to it. We can’t do the same shit twice. Music evolves, and Riveted is fresh. It’s a bit edgy and something people wouldn’t expect.”

I didn't expect him to like it, but Jim was too honest for his own good. He'd never lie to me or anyone. Sometimes I thought he was physically unable to pretend. If he liked Riveted enough to include it in an album, I could live with that.

I rubbed my chin. “I thought we could add an instrumental part. Something softer. After the words one night, one touch, your eyes, and I was riveted.”

Jim stood and nodded at the door. “Come on.”

“Come on, what?”

“Let’s go. We need to find a studio in Paris. Looks like we’ll have to bother Kennedy today, after all.”