Chapter One

"I won't do it."

That was all there was to it. Grant Bollinger shook his head, feeling his hair brush the back of his neck. Damn, but he needed a haircut. His manager would probably disagree; Ed said he looked better when he was a little scruffy.

Right now him and Ed were disagreeing about something more serious.

"Look Grant, Storm McCalister is hotter than a rocket right now -- huge tour, huge buzz. That Kendall Rogers did a duet with Bruce and look at that. The label needs it."

Storm McCalister -- the straight-laced, clean-cut, boot-wearing hat act with a mouth to die for -- and him? No fucking way.

"Ed, I can't do it. I don't care what a good idea the label thinks it is."

"Jesus. What happened between the two of you?" Ed's big handlebar mustache fluttered when he puffed out air. "That's what McCalister said."

"Yeah?" Well, bully for Stormy. Right? "What did he say, exactly?"

"Honey said he said he couldn't do it. It wouldn't happen." One bushy white eyebrow went up. "So? Spill. Did you two have a thing?"

"A thing?" Raising his own brows, Grant backed off a little. "We had a garage band. That's hardly a thing."

"Psht. That's worse than a thing. That's history."

"Well, yeah, and that history split hard down the middle." He shrugged, trying not to be put out that Storm had said no so hard.

"So? That makes for good music. Jesus, it's not a fucking album. It's a song, a video, a goddamn appearance or three."

"Ed." Lord, that man could be oblivious. "I don't like him. He doesn't like me."

"You don't have to fuck him. Sing a song. It can be a happy song."

He stared, his mouth open on a what the fuck that never came out. A happy song. Christ on a crutch.

Continued in First Section