Grant meekly looked down at the trash in his hand. “He’s trying his best.”

Jamie let out a less then enthused sound. He took a rough bite and pointed his finger.

“He’s only done what keeps him afloat. If he had the choice, he would have jumped ship a long time again.”

It was no secret that Marshall hadn’t wanted to be in the band in the first place. He wanted to be the solo singer that was better than his bandmates. And though he did have the chance once before—when their sophomore album was released—it was ruined when some girl came out saying she was assaulted by him.

Career down the drain, Marshall had tried to pick up the pieces by being the responsible one. He took the fall for the boys’ antics, called up people they’d wronged to grovel at their feet, and batted off management when they needed it.

But no rose colored lenses could cover up the sinister decent Jamie could see. Marshall took some of the heat when it involved his ass taking a fall. It was Jamie who had been fighting for their rights since day one.

No one cared to mention that. No one gave a fuck because it shouldn’t fucking matter.

Sick to his stomach, he threw the last bit of burger onto the table. The glass was streaked with mayonnaise.

They both stared at the white like it was the most interesting thing they’d seen all day. For Jamie, it was. Besides the sad look on Grant’s face.

Grant turned his back. He tossed the wrapper. It hit the rim of the trashcan and landed on the floor.

“Do you miss him?”

Jamie took a long glance at the back of Grant’s head. His gaze lowered to his shoulders. They were still. Good. He couldn’t handle crying.

It was like he was back to that day in the hospital again. He thought the feelings he had of his old life would be gone. Somehow, like rain or a river washing away dirt, he thought he would be washed clean of the hurt that was following him each day. He didn’t wish it. It was best that he suffer for all the wrong choice he’d made.

But there were times when he wished it didn’t spread like a disease. Grant could have been spared if he hadn’t been so close.

They all had been too close. They weren’t supposed to be anything but coworkers in a field that ate and spat out pop stars on a yearly basis. Always onto the next one. It was never going to change and they shouldn’t have ever thought that they could be the ones to break the tradition hard grained into society.

Some things weren’t meant to be changed.

“I need a drink.”

If Grant was on Marshall’s side or if he didn’t want Jamie sinking back into old habits, he didn’t say.

And Jamie wasn’t going to reopen old wounds.

***

The second the car stopped, Jamie jumped out onto the street.

“I’m not done talking to you!” The engine cut and Marshall stumbled out with horrible grace that was unbecoming to him.

Jamie smirked to himself at the image of perfect pressed Marshall messing up his suit. Even when they were going to be stuck in a stuffy studio, he thought he needed to be ahead of the game and look more like a manager than a member of their fucking band.

Not that they were truly their old band selves anyway. This was merely a slapped together old project that was probably going to sink their names even more. Did the label not realize that their old fans had probably moved onto another band or singer? They were old news and no one was going to be interested in a comeback album that was going to be shit.

His smirk turned sour. The frown hurt his face though it should have been ingrained into his cheeks by now. He hadn’t done much besides frown grumpily for the last two years. It was kinda his signature now. Not to forget the alcohol and cigarettes. Those were his left and right hands.

It was far too early for Jamie to be up.

The studio was dark for the most part. The blinds were up and the sun was slowly rising. It was seven thirty in the morning and the birds were starting to chirp. He thought he would be used to the heat in California, but after moving back to his home town for the past two years, he’d been turned to liking the colder morning. Even in the summer, before it was nine, it was usually colder than this.

He wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead and wiped it on the back of the arm rest. The leather made it harder to cool off. He just fucking wished they would give him a comfy chair so then he could fuck right off and go to sleep. They didn’t have to pretend to be up to anything when they could just higher outside writers.

But Marshall and Sam has a ‘plan’. Whatever the fuck that meant. When they were younger, that actually meant that Jamie would have to sit back and cool his attitude.

He wasn’t ashamed to say that he did the most trouble in the band when they were together. It was the one thing that connected him and Heath.

His hand tightened on his leg.

The door to the studio swung open.

Sam walked in and wasn’t he a sight for sore eyes. His ash blond wavy hair was push back by a headband and he was dressed in tight blue jeans and a black t-shirt. When the light hit at just the right spot, Jamie could see the outlines of Sam’s tattoos through the shirt.

He pressed his lips together and avoided Sam altogether.

He didn’t have to try hard to imagine what those tattoos looked like. As much as they were inked into Sam’s skin, they were inked into his memory.

The door closed. He sat in the chair beside Jamie.

An uncomfortable silence fell over them.