Thankfully, Jamie didn’t have to endure the torture for that long. Marshall, Grant, and someone he didn’t recognize walked in. Staggering behind all three was Eddie. The fucker.

Jamie tasked, rolling his eyes. He focused on the dark insulated room behind the glass. The recording studio was small and great for getting the right sound. This was the same one they had used for their entire career. But all the fond memories he had before were stifled by how tiny and cramped the place felt. The stuffy air made his lungs feel heavy.

“Okay!” The guy Jamie didn’t know clapped his hands. “Where do you guy want to start?”

Jamie then noticed how far away from the rest of the group he was. In the corner, he was hidden by the shadows. The guy addressed the other three, not even glancing Jamie’s way.

Jamie let out a snort and crossed his arms. Of course. He should have seen this coming.

Ever since he was reported as the bad boy of the group, his antics had been splashed all over the papers. Perhaps this guy thought he could be a game changer. Would that be nice to say? Or be called? The guy that stuck it to Jamie Stephens, the asshole ex-boy band member no one gives a shit about.

He was sure that was going to be popular.

Sam sat up, a grin on his face, and he began to explain his vision for the album. He was all smiles, sparkling eyes, and adamant hand gestures. He was so into making music that it didn’t matter that he was forcing others to make it with him just so he could go solo.

What a fucking prick.

All the things he was saying was going in one ear and out the other. Jamie tried to cool his face, showing no emotion, and it wasn’t that hard to do. He’d skilled this face since he was young and he had to pretend that he tolerated the kids in his school. Over the years, it was like breathing.

But as the talk between all the others went on, he saw a black flicker in the corner of the studio. His breath hitched and he slowly moved his eyes over. His heart almost dropped in his stomach. What he saw was what he thought was a reflection of Sam’s face. It was poised, eyes rimmed with red like he’d been crying, and his cheeks were shiny with leftover tears.

Jamie stared at the new Sam. His hands tightened on his thighs. His fingernails were like knives digging into his skin. He took one long shuddering breath. His racing heart didn’t slow down, but it was getting easier to breathe.

The other Sam’s pretty crying face split as a dark smile crossed his face. The grin hinted on insanity. It pulled at the corners of his mouth like someone was forcing them up with their fingers. Those shining red eyes blinked slowly.

“Jamie?”

The phantom was gone in a second.

Jamie jerked his head to the side. They were all staring at him.

It was then that he noticed that he wasn’t only heaving heavily, he was making a choking sound that made it feel like he was going to throw up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, holding back the burning tears.

“What?” He bit out.

Marshall, though still wearing his dad face, took one step toward him “Are you—“

“I’m fine,” he spat out. “I would be fantastic if I wasn’t holed up here with you fucks.”

The new guy choked out a shocked sound.

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Get on with it then. I don’t want to be here all day.”

Grant sheepishly smiled. He swooped in like he wanted to be the new Marshall. “Um...I like the idea. Don’t you guys?”

Marshall nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good Sam.”

Sam looked unsure. He glanced Jamie’s way. Jamie glared at the side of his head. “What about you, Jamie?”

He wasn’t looking directly at him. He was gazing at the floor, at the tips of his knuckles, somewhere between. It didn’t matter. What mattered is that he couldn’t stand to look at Jamie. Something like anger spiked in his veins. Jamie pushed it down. He wasn’t affected. There was nothing that Sam could do that he could care about. He didn’t care about Sam.

He cared about nothing except destroying everything he could get his fucking hands on.

“Yeah.” The words flopped out. It held no meaning. Here was nothing in it. Just a flat tone that registered just slightly in their heads.

He could feel Sam’s eyes burning into he side of his face. He curled his upper lip and folded his arms over his chest. He must look ridiculous, but he really couldn’t muster up the strength to give a fuck.

That’s all that they try to do to get him in the conversation. Everything after that is about the music. What they’re going for and what they should start with first: lyrics, music, or titles. Then, they take a break.

They don’t tell him. They just stop what they’re doing and walk out the door.

And they leave him to sit in the corner. In the dark. By himself.

He doesn’t care. He shouldn’t give a flying fuck if they want to not include him on these kinds of things because he doesn’t want to be included in this shit storm. He wants to crawl back into his bed—or even the bed in the hotel—and sleep the days away.

A wave of sleepiness washed over him.

His heart finally slowed to a steady beat. His lips were dry and it was getting hard to breathe. He was fine.

Everything was fine.

The day carried on like that. While they planned what they wanted to write and put down ideas, he stayed in the corner, eyes clothes, and tried to fall asleep. It wasn’t like he needed to be here in the first place. The only reason they made him stay here was because he had to be part of the band required by the contract. If they really wanted to get shit done, they would have cut him off and sent him out into the sea.

But they needed to make sure the band looked like they were fine. They couldn’t have the great Live Warnings looking like they were shaken up by the past two years.

The minutes ticked by slowly. It was like staring at paint dry, grass grow, and the earth turn.

Someone nudged him on the shoulder.

It was Marshall.