Hey guys! Happy almost New Year! Thanks to EVERYONE who reviewed for Postcards to Hailey! I is SOOOOOO excited. And sorry I haven't updated in a while. Hehehehe…I've uh…been…busy? Actually there really isn't an excuse. Sorry.

Enjoy this LOOOOVELY (at least…I think it's lovely) chapter.

Enjoy and, like always, ignore the stupid mistakes that I may have made.

Bad Luck

"You could sleep you know."

Max shook her head then rested it against the window. "Nope," she muttered. Her breath fogged up the window and she closed her eyes again.

"We still have twenty minutes," I told her. "You can't even keep your eyes open."

She peeked over at me. "And I'm supposed to believe that you won't kill me?"

I rolled my eyes. This was the Max I was used to. The one who was pretty much obsessed with death.

"That's a fantastic question, Max" I said. "You see, in reality, I'm not a super famous incredibly good-looking pop star. I'm actually…a serial killer." I paused for effect. "I take girls—preferably hot ones around the age of seventeen—and brutally murder them. I cut off their limbs, put them in my closet then sing them lullabies until morning light."

There was silence for a second. I looked at her and she looked at me with a hint of disbelief.

"How do you come up with that stuff?" She exclaimed.

I smiled and shrugged. "Overactive imagination I suppose."

She fidgeted with her necklace and I couldn't help but notice that she scooted even farther away from me. "It's scary. I'm actually a little worried about your mental state of being."

I smirked. "I am too." I gave her an evil grin. "I enjoy my insanity."

She shook her head and closed her eyes again. "Whatever you say, Fang."

We were quiet for a couple minutes. I looked over at Max again. She was definitely asleep.

A small smile tugged at my lips. She was much more agreeable when she wasn't talking. I took a deep breath and looked at the time. Four. In the morning. I cradled my forehead in my left hand with my right hand steering loosely.

There was so much to do…studio time, photo shoots, interviews—the list was endless. The single came out but my new album was far from ready; I only did the L.A. show for promotion.

"Can you turn on the radio?"

I jumped at the sound of Max's voice.

"Um…sure." I pressed the button and the truck was filled with Jesse J's "Domino".

"Uh-uh," she muttered in disgust. She leaned forward and changed it to a local country station. Hunter Hayes' "Wanted" was on. She gave a satisfactory nod then settled back down.

She was singing the lyrics softly under her breath and I couldn't help but notice a special smile spread across her face.

"Do you listen to country often?" I asked.

"I listen to anything that inspires me. And it must have a good beat and meaningful lyrics. That includes pop, rock, country, inspirational, classical, rap, alternative…anything and everything."

I nodded. "Interesting."

She shrugged.

I shifted my weight and thought about it. I listened to lots different artists but I didn't wander too far from the pop and rap world. "So…examples?"

She gave me a peculiar look. "What do you mean?"

"Well…what's your favorite song from each genre?"

She raised her eyebrows. "You are asking a dangerous question."

"I'm all ears," I assured her.

She shook her head slowly. "Nope." She looked at me. "I don't believe I'll say anything."

I gave her an incredulous look. "Why not?"

She leaned towards me. "Because."

"Because, why?"

"Because I said so, that's why!" She told me indignantly.

"I'm guessing your list doesn't include my music?"

"It doesn't. And it's not your music."

I looked over at her, startled. "What do you mean?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not stupid, Fang. I can tell if a piece of music is being sung by its creator or not. And you are a definite not."

Fury built up inside of me. Just because I didn't write my own songs didn't mean my music wasn't good. "There isn't a difference," I told her firmly.

Max looked at me like I was stupid. "It makes all the difference."

I didn't say anything after that and neither did she.

A couple minutes later I pulled up to her friend's house.

She got unbuckled then turned to me. "Well…it's uh been nice hanging with you, Fang."

She stuck out her hand for me to shake.

I looked at it in disbelief. Something sounded unbelievably final about that sentence.

"You know," she continued, dropping her hand when she realized I wasn't going to shake it. "Thanks for not killing me and for the food and uh…yeah. Have a nice life, Fang." She winked. "I'll be watching the tabloids."

I watched, stunned as she hopped out of the truck and ran to the door.

"Wait! Max, wait!" I fumbled with my seat belt then bolted out and ran after her, leaving the truck door open.

"What the hell does that mean?" I yelled.

She reached the door and stepped in, closing it behind her.

"Max!" I whispered, not wanted to wake the whole neighborhood. "Come on, Max, open the door!"

The door opened a crack. "You said one night Nick Walker and that's what you got. Now go away!" Then she shut it again.

I heard it lock and slammed my hands against the doorframe. "Damn it," I hissed.

I kicked the ground and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

Great. Just fantastic. Now how was I going to get to her?

Poor Fang. Poor…poor Fang. Sniffles. Guess you guys will have to review to find out what happens won't you? ;) And check out Legendary Truths if you haven't yet! I may move that to FictionPress as well but for right now it's in the MR fandom.

Review people! Love ya'll.

Dreams86