Wright That Got Away (Wright #11) by K.A. Linde

I jerked my head up in surprise to find my manager, Bobby Rogers, striding toward me. “Bobby?”

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, holding his hand out for me. I shook it begrudgingly.

Bobby was insufferable and pushy and the best damn manager in the music industry. He drove me up the wall, but he also fought for me tooth and nail. He’d never pushed for me to go solo. He got us twice as much money as we’d originally been offered. And he drove a hard bargain. The only problem was…he looked like he was about to use those same skills on me.

I’d had no idea he was coming to Lubbock. I’d been home from tour for a grand total of one month, and already, he was here? That couldn’t be good.

He ran a hand down his silver handlebar mustache and set his flinty black eyes on me. “Long time no see.”

I glanced to Blaire, who had fallen quiet at the silver-haired six-foot-tall giant who had just stridden into our midst in a pin-striped suit more fit for a mobster than someone in Lubbock.

Bobby didn’t miss a beat. It was his job to use everything to his advantage. He stuck his hand out to Blaire. “Hello, beautiful. And who might you be?”

Blaire reluctantly put her hand in his. “I was just leaving.”

“No need to be shy. Any friend of Campbell’s is a friend of mine.”

“We’re not friends,” she said flatly.

Bobby arched an eyebrow at me. I wouldn’t hear the end of this. Fuck.

“Well then, any woman as gorgeous as you definitely deserves an introduction. I’m Bobby Rogers, head of Rogers and Rogers Agency. And you are?”

“I’m Blaire,” she said uncertainly.

“Any special talents?”

“Shut it, Bobby,” I snapped.

He arched an eyebrow at me. “What?”

“Bobby, my manager,” I told her. “And he hasn’t told me what the hell he’s doing here.”

“What am I doing here?” Bobby asked. “Kid, it’s time to come home. LA is calling.”

Blaire glanced between us. “I’m just going to…head out.”

“Blaire, wait…”

It was the wrong thing to say. I knew it even as it left my mouth. She had no intention of waiting. And now, Bobby fucking Rogers knew that there was a single girl in existence who could make me utter those words.

She shot me one more glare and then walked away. And my manager was here, so I couldn’t follow her. Not that she wanted me to.

“Well then,” Bobby said with a shit-eating grin.

I grabbed him by his stupid lapel and threw him into the dressing room. Then, I followed, slamming the door shut.

“What are you doing here, Bobby?”

“I see why you haven’t left.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Having a little hometown fling.”

“No,” I ground out.

“Surprised a pap hasn’t figured that one out. It’d be good for your image, kid.”

“Don’t call me a kid and leave Blaire out of this. She’s just a friend of my brother’s.”

“If you say so.” His eyes darted back to the door, as if he could see Blaire through the wood, see a way to use her for his own purposes.

“I do say so. Now, cut to the point. You want me back in LA?”

“Not me. If I could, I’d let you have a much longer vacation. The record label wants you to start working on the next album. They need you and the rest of the band in the studio. What you got?”

“I don’t have anything,” I told him.

“Come on. You always keep your little notebook with you. I saw you jotting down songs on tour.”

“They’re trash.”

“You say that about all your songs. We always figure it out in the studio, and they end up working out.”

“Not this time.”

He huffed. “Look, kid, you’ve got to give me something.”

I paced away from him and grabbed my notebook out of my bag. “It’s all rubbish. I don’t want to make any of these songs.”

He snatched the notebook out of my hand and thumbed through the pages. “Hey, hey, some of these are good. They can be reworked.”

“They’re missing something.”

“We can figure out what they’re missing.”

“I’m broken,” I told him with a case of melodrama. I was an artist after all.

“Kid, you’re not broken.”