Starstruck (Heartstrings Duet #1)

8. where are you now?

[ 8 ]

WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

BAXTER

“ROCKSTAR” BY NICKELBACK

I put my car into park in front of Revolution Records with Levi in my passenger seat, watching in my rearview mirror as Colt pulls up on his motorcycle behind us.

In the past week, the guys and I finished demos of my next album, Rockstars Never Die . The idea for the title track came to me after the deaths of Audrey and Brennan, but figuring out the best words to honour my biggest musical inspirations turned out to be a difficult feat.

At least it was, until their youngest daughter spent a night in my bed. Since then, inspiration’s been flowing pretty steadily. The song itself may be about her parents, but the words never would’ve come to me if she hadn’t.

I don’t know what the fuck it was about her, but she hasn’t left my mind since that night six weeks ago. I’ve reread the note she left on her receipt from Astro at least once a day, each time hoping there would be something more to it, despite knowing all it says is thank you .

From the roots of her chestnut-brown waves all the way down to her pinky toes, I haven’t been able to get the image of her out of my head. The way she looked so at peace, naked and wrapped in my sheets. The way she smelled like a delicious combination of coffee and vanilla with a hint of rose. The way her porcelain skin felt smooth against my rough, calloused hands. Her golden-brown eyes shining like the sun through a glass of my favourite whisky. Her perfectly plump, pouty red lips that looked even better wrapped around my cock than I expected.

I memorized her, just like I promised her I would.

I’ve never reacted this way to a woman before, and just the idea of spending one more night with her has me growing hard in my jeans. I’d hoped putting her in my songs would lessen my thoughts of her, but if anything, they’ve only gotten worse.

One night together, and she became my muse.

I haven’t told Colt and Levi who it was, but they definitely know something’s up—I’ve had my head up Lennon’s metaphorical skirt since that night, and they’re starting to catch on. Because this isn’t fucking normal for me. And I don’t think I fucking like it.

But now that the album demos are recorded, we’re meeting with the new head of the label, Jeremy, and the rest of the team for the first listen. This is always my least favourite part of the job, because someone always has something to say, and I really couldn’t give a fuck what others think. But it’s the next step to get moving on getting the masters done, so I don’t have a choice.

I hit the lock button on my keys and head through the revolving doors at the front, entering the lobby.

It has a black-and-grey colour scheme with dark-red accent furniture, records and awards littering the walls, and a ridiculous chandelier hanging over the couches to the left. To the right stands the reception desk. There’s a set of stairs directly across from the front entrance and elevators to the left, next to the waiting area. It’s not a huge space, but it’s well-decorated and welcoming. I don’t spend a ton of time at the label, but I always like it here when I do .

We head toward the front desk where the receptionist, Adrianna—or Addie, as she’s known by everyone—greets us. She’s a tall, late-thirty-something woman, with flawless golden-brown skin, long, dark, curly hair, high cheekbones, slender hands, and deep-brown eyes framed by dark lashes. She’s gorgeous and just about the kindest person I’ve ever met.

“Boys! How are you?” She smiles as we approach.

“Hey, Ad.” I grin back at her, leaning my elbows on the counter. Levi and Colt greet her in their own ways as I continue, “I’m good, how are you?”

“Doing well, Bax. Thanks for asking.”

“Glad to hear it. Let Jere know we’re on our way up for me, would ya?”

She nods as I turn toward the elevator. “Sure thing.”

I shoot her a wink as the elevator dings, the doors opening for us to enter.

Once inside, Colt scoffs. “You’re such a fucking flirt,” he jokes. “Almost as bad as Levi.”

“Hey!” Levi contests. “Nobody’s as bad a flirt as me.”

I laugh. “Can’t help myself.”

The elevator counts past floors one through six before landing on seven, where the meeting is being held. The seventh floor is the production department and home to Revolution Records Publishing.

The producers are responsible for making sure the album is the best it can be before it goes to the engineers for mastering, and then they plan releases post-recording to make sure everything is set to go. Then the publishers are the ones responsible for selling the rights to songs and making sure songwriters and composers get paid. I never work with publishers myself; my team does on my behalf.

We enter the conference room to find about seventeen people—some producers, a cover artist, my publishers, my mastering engineer, the head of artists and repertoire, my publicist Maria, Jeremy, and my manager Kevin. Colt, Levi, and I make our way into the room, taking the three empty seats by the door.

With my arms crossed over my chest, I lean back in my chair. “Let’s get to work.”

“It’s good,” Jeremy says, nodding as track nine on the album comes to an end.

Brad, one of the producers, pipes up from across the table. “It’s missing something, though.”

I furrow my brows. Track nine is titled “That Girl.” It’s one of the handful Lennon inspired, but I wrote it as a conversation between two people—a man and a woman. It’s not like my usual stuff, but it was about time I stepped outside of my musical comfort zone.

I do agree that something’s missing from it, but that wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

I grit my teeth then say, “And what might that be?”

He quirks a brow at me, a smirk crossing his face. His gaze shifts between me and the mastering engineer, Matthew, who gives him a simple nod, urging him to continue. I raise my brows. Apparently, they’ve been having a silent conversation the whole time we’ve been in here.

“It needs to be a duet,” Brad finally states, and I feel like I’ve been slapped.

I rear back. “Fuck that,” I roar, angered that he would even dare suggest something like that. I don’t do duets.

“Baxter, just hear us out,” Matthew adds.

I raise my voice, since he clearly didn’t hear me the first time. “No fucking way. You know duets aren’t my thing.”

“Come on, man. Don’t you want this album to be your best yet?”

I narrow my eyes, leaning forward in my seat. “It already fucking is.”

Colt places a hand on my shoulder, and I snap my head toward him. He shoots me a look, his brows raised. I roll my eyes, my shoulders tense as I lean back again.

“That may be true,” Matthew begins. “But a woman’s voice would do wonders for the song. It would make the conversation seem real. Having a different voice for each of the two perspectives would create a new dimension, one that your voice alone could never accomplish.”

I grind my molars, my knee bouncing. I’m a solo artist, and while I’ve been featured on other people’s tracks to help them , I don’t have features on my albums. I’ve never needed to, and I definitely don’t work well enough with others to co-write a song.

Which is exactly what I plan to tell them, but nothing comes out. Because when I take a moment to actually think about it, he’s right.

My shoulders slump. I wrote this song alone, but that doesn’t mean it can’t still be a duet. It could use a woman’s touch—and voice—next to mine.

Fuck .

Now not only will I have to do a duet, I’ll have to do a duet with some woman the label selects—some woman who is not the one I’d choose. But whatever. If it’ll get this album recorded, then I’ll be a damn team player for once. Not like I have much of a choice, anyway.

I know Revolution has my best interest at heart—that’s why I signed with them. But fuck if I don’t miss being an independent artist and doing things my fucking way sometimes.

“Fine.”

Jeremy rears back slightly, as if caught off guard that I actually gave in. Kevin’s eyes go wide, and without looking, I know Levi and Colt have the same surprise written on their faces.

I roll my eyes, chuckling. Nobody was expecting that.

I don’t acknowledge their shock. Instead, I move on to the more pressing matter: who I’m doing this godforsaken duet with. I know a few of the women signed to Revolution, but no one I’d be willing to share the stage with comes to mind.

Except Lennon. Her voice at the funeral was ethereal; the mezzo-soprano range she carried still haunts my dreams.

But she’s not an option. I don’t even know how we would make that work. Jeremy is going to want to feature another Revolution artist, and there’s simply no way Lennon is signed. I’d know her music if she were.

“We have some options,” Jeremy explains, interrupting my daydreaming.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m listening.”

“Well, there’s Sage Whitma?—”

“No,” I state firmly, shaking my head. Definitely not. Sage is talented, but seeing as we have history (not the good kind—she hates me for being, in her words, a womanizer), I don’t think she’d respond too well to the idea of performing what is essentially a love song with me. Jeremy narrows his eyes at me, and I motion for him to continue. “Who else?”

He sighs. “Harper Grace?”

Levi coughs at the mention of his ex’s name. They didn’t end on bad terms—they were more of a fling than anything, as is common with Levi’s relationships—but they also haven’t really spoken since things ended over a year ago.

I chuckle and give Jeremy a look, my brows raised. He gets what I’m saying without me having to say it. He lists off some more names, all of whom I say no to for various reasons—women I’ve fucked, women who hate me, women I’ve never heard of, women who just aren’t the right match musically. By the tenth name, I can tell everyone in the room is getting seriously frustrated .

I may have agreed, but no one said I’d make it easy on them.

“Bax, you have to pick someone.” Kevin frowns at me from across the room, clearly unimpressed with my antics.

I sigh, rubbing a hand down my face. It’s not like I’m trying to make things difficult, but if I’m going to do a duet, then I’m going to make sure my partner is a good fit.

Eventually, Colt pipes up. “What about Isabella Cordova?”

My brows pull together. Isa Cordova is insanely talented—likely the most talented woman signed to the label at the moment, and I don’t know how I didn’t think of her beforehand. Or why nobody has mentioned her until now. She and I have had a few run-ins—professional only, much to my chagrin—and her style of music vibes well with mine.

Plus, I know from seeing her at the funeral reception I wasn’t supposed to be at that she’s close with the Thorne family. Maybe I can get some more information about Lennon from her.

I glance back at Jeremy. “Would she do it?”

He shrugs. “Isa has never been known to turn down a collaboration opportunity.”

“Then why didn’t you mention her?”

He barks a laugh. “Because you’re both extremely stubborn and opinionated. Your music styles fit, but personality-wise, you’re a match made in proverbial hell. You guys will butt heads, and knowing your thoughts already on a duet, I didn’t think she’d be a good match.”

But that’s where he’s wrong.

I’ll make sure we’re a good match just for a chance to get close to Lennon again.

“I think it’d be good. Set up a meeting with her,” I demand without so much as a please or thank you.

Jeremy rolls his eyes at my audacity but reluctantly agrees. The worst thing that can happen is she says no, and then the hunt for a duet partner will continue. But it doesn’t hurt to ask.

Besides, who would turn down the chance to feature on my album?

With that out of the way, Matthew hits play on the remote in his hand, and the tenth song on the album starts.

Another thirty minutes and three more songs go by before we call it quits for the day. The rest of the album gets the Revolution stamp of approval, which I’m fucking grateful for. I don’t want to do this fucking duet, but at least that’s the only song anyone suggested making real changes to.

And truth be told, it feels damn good knowing this album that’s been sitting like a weight on my shoulders for months is finally well on its way to being out in the world.

“We good?” I ask, standing from my chair as everyone around me does the same.

Maria nods, a genuine smile pasted on her face. “We’re good. I’ll be in touch about the interview with Rolling Stone .”

“Sounds good.” I clap my hands together, ready for this meeting to be done. “Thanks, everyone,” I say as they all move to leave the room, too. I receive a few muttered goodbye s and you’re welcome s as the room clears, leaving behind just Levi, Colt, and me.

“Well, that went well.” Colt shrugs casually.

I scoff. “If you call having to do a duet well , then sure,” I respond, looking back at him as I turn the corner to leave the room.

“It’ll be good, and you know it,” he retorts as I look toward the elevators.

Just as the doors to one of them close, I catch sight of the familiar chestnut-brown hair that has been haunting my dreams for weeks before it—and whoever it’s attached to—disappears.

“Lennon?” I mutter to myself as I rush ahead, slamming my fingers onto the down button, hoping the doors will open so I can find out if it was really her.

But it’s no use. The numbers of that elevator start counting up to the top floor as the doors to the other one open .

“Dude, the fuck was that?” Levi jokes as they approach the open elevator.

I look up at the numbers one more time, hoping they’ll stop so I can head to the floor she’s on, but they’re slow as fuck. So I grit my teeth, join my friends in the other car, and press the button for the lobby.

“Forget it,” I grunt in response.

The look on Colt’s face is skeptical, as if he can see right through my bullshit, but neither of them say anything. Levi shakes his head and laughs, and I ignore Colt’s stare.

Once the doors open, I glance around aimlessly, but there’s no one except Addie around.

“Have a good day, boys.” She grins kindly as we pass her desk.

I send a curt nod her way as I push open the front doors, my jaw clenched tight.

The chances that the woman was Lennon are slim. I don’t think she was tall enough to be, though it was hard to tell from a distance. It’s more likely that, since I haven’t been able to get her out of my head, my mind’s eye morphs every stranger I see into her. And it makes sense that of all places, I’d think I saw her at the label her parents created.

It couldn’t have been her, though—I don’t believe for a second she wouldn’t have told me she worked here if she did. But that doesn’t stop me from wondering for the rest of the day if it was.

Even through my drunken haze that night while a blonde stripper with a massive rack gives me a lap dance, Levi and Colt on either side of me receiving dances of their own.

Or when the same stripper looks up at me from the strip club bathroom floor with a seductive look in her blue eyes and her glossy pink lips wrapped around my cock.

Or when I find myself in her bed at the end of the night, her tits hanging over my face as she rides me, her moans obnoxious and loud and nowhere near as sweet as Lennon’s .

Through it all, I find myself wondering if maybe—just maybe—the woman from the label was her.