My diary is one of the most important things in my life. People rely on their phones and tablets for everything, but I’m old-fashioned and rely on pen and paper. My life is crammed in that little dairy. It went missing in action right after my meeting with The Wakening of Gods, a band I’m currently managing.

We’re at the State Farm Stadium in Atlanta, Georgia for their last performance. I’ve been on tour with The Wakening of Gods for three months. Three months of babysitting a bunch of grown men who act like children that can drive you to pop a Xanax. After I finish managing them, hopefully, my dad will see all the hard work that I’ve been putting into this company and make me CEO of Sacrifice Records. I’ve been gunning for it since I graduated with my business degree from Harvard last year. Sacrifice Records is one of the top labels in the United States. My great grandfather started this business, so it’s been passed down from generation to generation. My dad is ruthless and cutthroat as the CEO, just like the music industry. He’ll be stepping down in the next couple of months for retirement, and hopefully, he won’t give the position to my brother.

I move to the next empty drawer, then I bend down on all fours. My romper rides up my ass cheeks as my curly jet-black hair falls over my shoulders.

“No, no, no, no. It has to be here. It’s the only place I had it.” My words bounce off the wall. I crawl on the gray tiles, to the indigo couch tucked away in the far corner, getting my hands and knees dirty. I’m greeted with dust mites, a few used condoms, chewed bubble gum that stuck to the floor.

Gross. I’ll just have to buy another diary. I hope no one has read it because I wrote some filthy things in there.

“You keep bending over like that in front of me, you’ll find yourself fucked against the floor, Thumbelina.” A deep smoky tone threatens the air and his words are little ants marching up my spine.

My heart skips a beat like a rock skipping over a pond, and my nipples harden against my bra. I hurry up and get off the grainy floor and stand face to face with the man of my wet dreams.

Felix Sawyer is the drummer and he’s known for his awesome solo performances. He’s known as the broken god, and he’s broken as a shattered glass. That fire-breathing ex of his did a number on his heart by sleeping with his ex-manager. I don’t know the full story, but the tabloids and gossip blogs made a mockery of the incident, and I never asked him about it. Because I don’t ask people about their business if I don’t know them personally.