“She hates my music,” Cary told Vegas as he climbed into their chauffeured SUV.
Vegas turned his head. “What?”
“Tyler Robertson.” His tone became impatient as he went on, “She hates my music, Vegas. It’s kind of obvious.”
He shrugged. “What the fuck do you care?”
“What did she say? Does she think I’m a has-been?” His biggest fear in life was becoming obsolete. His records weren’t selling like they used to and hit singles were few and far between. He’d rather die than have his new love interesting thinking he was passé.
“She hasn’t said anything.” Vegas arched an eyebrow. “At least not to me. What’s gotten into you, man?”
Cary slid down in his seat and scrolled through his phone. “Nothing,” he said dismissively, not wanting to talk about it even though he’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. Tyler was the first woman in years, maybe ever, who’d made him feel insecure.”
―
Hunter Snow,
Rock Crush and Roll
