ASBOF—Asexual Battery-Operated Friend. The ultimate G-spot–finding, mind-blowing O-giving, can-do-everything-a-man-can-do, except cuddle and break my heart, vibrator.
ASBOF is my electronic way to a much-needed orgasm.
I use the term asexual for my vibrator, so I don’t think of it in a male sense in any way. I don’t want to think of men in a sexual way at all—well, except when trying to reach the O with ASBOF. Of course I need some mental stimulation, so yes, on some occasions, I do visualize a faceless man, or maybe the hot guy who serves my coffee at Starbucks. But I promptly scrub the guy from my mind as soon as me and the O are done.
Anyway, back to the now…and the fact that I’ve been staring at Zane for a ridiculous amount of time, like he’s got three alien heads on his shoulders.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I’m hoping my hearing is off, and I misheard him.
Zane leans forward and speaks into the microphone again, enunciating each word as he says them, “I said, your vocal was off.”
I’m guessing he’s annoyed at having to repeat himself.
And, no, I didn’t mishear him.
My back stiffens.
My vocal was not off. No freaking way. It was so not off that it’s on the other side of the Not-Off Bridge.
I know my songs. I know this song inside out. There’s no way I was off.
Face pricking, I stare down at the Keds on my feet, trying to control my rush of anger.
I don’t do criticism well. It’s not my friend. And to hear this criticism from Zane stings badly because I respect his opinion.
I’m passionate about my work. I love my job. I love singing. I live for it. My band, this album—they’re everything to me. My whole world.
I spent years and years singing in shitty bars and clubs, chasing the dream. Finally, I hooked that dream and then spent months and months working on the album—seven days a week, day and night, barely sleeping. I was so desperate to perfect it that I thought I might have a nervous breakdown.
Now, to hear I’m flunking—from Zane of all people—is not good. He hasn’t had a problem with my vocals on any of the other tracks. And today of all days, I could do without hearing this.
I feel like I just got an F on my paper from my favorite teacher, and like a child, I want to have a colossal temper tantrum about it.
Not mature, but I don’t care.
Deep breaths, Lyla.
This is Zane Fox. He won’t take kindly to a creative temper tantrum from a small-time singer who just signed with his label.
Taking a calming breath, I force nicety into my voice. “Okay, so maybe my pitch was a teeny, tiny bit off”—I don’t mean that at all—“but—”
“You weren’t a tiny bit off,” he cuts in. “You were way off, so fucking off that it isn’t even funny. Nothing about that was working. Seriously, you sounded like the cleaner when she’s singing with her headphones on.”
What the hell? Okay, just exactly what the hell has crawled up in his ass and died today?
I open my mouth to speak, but he beats me to it.
Thankfully, his voice is a little less acidic. “Your usual kick-ass vocal just isn’t here today, Lyla. The tone that makes your voice so distinctive, so unique, seems to have disappeared. I’m wondering, what the hell? So, tell me now, is there anything I need to know before we carry on?”
He’s giving me an expectant look.
“Um…anything you need to know, as in?”
“As in, I don’t know, and that’s why I’m asking you.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re on edge.”
“I’m not on edge.”
Okay, I might be on edge.
I took a phone call from my Aunt Steph right before I stepped into the studio, and it’s knocked me sideways. She called to let me know that Dex signed with a new band. And that band is based in LA. He moved here a few days ago.
To say I feel on edge is putting it mildly.
Dex being in New York and me here in LA was working just fine for me. Thousands of miles apart with no chance I could run into him helped keep the gut-wrenching, heart-shredding pain I’ve felt since I caught him with Chad at bay.
But now knowing that Dex is here in LA has brought that all back in full force.
I’m glad Aunt Steph told me. I mean, if I ran into him, unprepared, that would be a killer. But I just wish he wasn’t here.
I held it together while Aunt Steph told me. She doesn’t know the reason behind Dex and I not speaking.
Dex hasn’t told her, and I can’t bring myself to do it. She respects our wishes and doesn’t push, but I know it hurts her that Dex and I don’t communicate anymore, which is not for his lack of trying.
I know she thinks if she knew what the problem was, then she could fix us. But she can’t.
There is no fixing things between Dex and me. It was broken the moment he started screwing my boyfriend.
I feel the familiar burn in my chest. Bringing a hand up, I rub at the burn.
“You are on edge, Lyla,” Zane says, unconvinced. “If it’s personal and you don’t want to share, fine. I get it. But we’re on precious studio time right now, so you need to leave your personal life at the door before you step in here.” He points to the exit. “And you find a way to channel those pent-up emotions into the song, and you sing it as good as I know you’re capable of.”
He’s right. Business and personal should never mix.
I’m tougher than this.
Sure, I have a Texas-sized lump in my throat, and I’m aching with the pins and needles of pain, knowing Dex is so close-by.
But I’m strong. I don’t even cry anymore. Haven’t for ten months.
I think my tear ducts dried up when I cried a river over Dex and Chad.
I lock my gaze with Zane, and with determination in my voice, I say, “You’re right. I’ll get it perfect on the next run.”
He stares at me for a long moment and then something softens in his gaze. “Do you need to take a quick break before we continue?”
His kindness throws me off my strength kilter for a second.
I lift my chin and suck it up. “No, I’m good now.”
“Okay.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s get this track down!” Zane moves away from the microphone and pats Gray, our sound engineer, on the shoulder.
I give a quick look to Cale, Sonny, and Van, who are sitting in the studio with Zane. They put on the music for the track we laid down yesterday. For this song, Zane wanted the music and vocals recorded separately—hence, why I’m in here, singing, on my own.