Sagebrush Studio is smaller than I expected. Beige stucco baked flat by the sun, a sunburned lot with weeds, a guitar pick decal half peeled from the glass. I’ve never been here, but I know the type. The outskirts of Old Vegas are lined with buildings like this one.

The door sticks. Troy yanks it like it insulted him, then lets it swing too hard. Inside smells like old coffee and dust. A corkboard holds paper schedules from a long time ago. A Sharpie note says DON’T MOVE THE MIC STAND in block letters.

“Is that her?” I ask, pointing to a photo on the wall.

He cocks a brow up at the faded picture. “Yeah. That’s Mom.”

She holds a bass guitar head down, headphones on, blond hair draped down her back. Talia Turner is a legend at Sagebrush.

“Back to where it started,” I say.

He rubs both hands over his face and through his light brown hair. It goes in five directions. His blue eyes are tired. “It’s not the building, Lou. It’s me.”

“Sometimes a place helps.” I shrug. “You and your brothers learned music here. If you want to write a new album, this has to be the spot.” We’ve tried everywhere else. This has to work. We’re lucky no one had booked the place before I did. But seeing what’s here, I understand why they weren’t busy.

He sighs and drops a bag on the sunken couch, pulls out a laptop, and a notebook that’s more scuffed than used. He slings his guitar on and rolls the chair up to the desk.

A ficus has given up by the window. The carpet is older than both of us. The glass between the rooms is cloudy if you look from an angle. I sit on the couch and try not to breathe too deeply. I open Notes on my phone and stare at a blank screen.

It gives me a sense of camaraderie with Troy. I’m stuck creatively too.

I grew up two miles from here and a lifetime away. I was left in a diaper bag with a locket and a phone number that didn’t work. I left for San Francisco the second I had enough cash and a car that would make it. Seven years of gray skies and cold weather later, I’m back in Vegas, trying to help my boyfriend get his mojo back.

And mine.

Troy strums, stops, scribbles, scratches out. He taps a beat with two fingers and frowns. I’d ask what’s wrong, but I don’t want to interrupt his process.

He hits record, sings a line, swears, deletes, and starts again. He cracks his knuckles, shakes out his hand, checks the tuning, blames the room, blames the strings.

“It’s flat,” he says.

“It’s a start.”

He looks at me like I’m the problem. “I can hear it, and it won’t come out.”

“Then give it time.”

“It’s been time, Lou.” His voice spikes and bounces off the dead walls. “It’s been nothing but time. It’s not coming.”

If I don’t keep my cool, he won’t either. I try for placid. “You wanted a reset. This is a reset. Not magic. You have to do the work.”

He spins the chair, pushes too hard, and bumps his knee. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you forget.” I remember the guy who wrote hooks in a kitchen and didn’t wait for praise. I don’t see him. I see someone waiting for a headline to land in his lap. Someone who wants things handed to him.

I miss the other guy.

His eyes fall to slits. “I need quiet.”

“I didn’t talk until you did.”

He sighs. Plays four chords too loud, like volume can knock a lyric loose. Sings, misses, swears. Throws the pick. It hits the glass and drops.

I can’t get anything done with him throwing a hissy fit. I am so over this bullshit. “You’re spiraling. Breathe⁠—”

“Don’t tell me what I’m doing.” He points without looking. “You don’t even make art anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“What are you even doing here?” He gestures at everything. “Why sit in a studio when you could be doing anything else? You used to be a designer.”

“I am a designer.”

“You used to be good.”

My jaw clenches without a thought. “You mean when I used my skills to build your site, your rollout, your merch, your singles, your everything? When you depended on me and listened to my advice?”

He opens and closes his mouth. “That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“It’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

The ficus droops. The clock ticks like it wants to be elsewhere. Vegas keeps the bones and swaps the skin. New towers where old signs used to blink. Same heat. Same casinos that smell like air freshener and regret.

I can’t imagine staying here one minute longer than I have to. Especially not with him. “This is what you do. You push until I absorb it. Then you say I heard you wrong.”

He huffs at that. “I’m under pressure.”

“So is everyone.”

“Not like this. No one knows what it’s like to be me.”

“Right.” I roll my eyes. “No one has ever written a song before you.”

“You’re not listening,” he says, breath fast as he starts to pace. “I need to get this before people forget my name.”

“People forget their own names every day. You’re not special because you’re spiraling.”

He barks a laugh, sharp. “Right. I forgot. You do fonts. You wouldn’t understand real creative work.”

I stand. “You didn’t say that when I built your brand from nothing.”

He squares up to me. “I was never nothing. I had the name.”

“I gave it shape. I gave it something people could link to you.”

“You gave me a logo. Congratulations.”

The heat in my face is controlled. I plop back down because I choose to. I don’t have much fight left in me for this conversation. “You asked me to be here, Troy. I am here. You want quiet, ask me. You want me gone, ask me.”

He stares, chest moving like he just ran stairs. He reaches for the laptop, opens a fresh session, names it Untitled Again, hesitates, renames it Start Over.

Which is probably what we should do.

He sings a verse under his breath. It could work. He stops and deletes it. “Nothing,” he barks.

“It’s not a crime to be stuck.”

“You can say that because no one cares what you do.”

“Go to hell.” But I say it without bite. I just… I’m not even sure I care about his insults anymore.

He’s looking for a fight because he’s got nothing else. He stares at his hands. His nails are bitten down. The tattoo on his wrist disappears under his sleeve when he flexes. “You make everything sound simple.”

“It is simple. Not easy.”

“Same thing to you.”

“No. I’ve done hard. I just don’t dress it up like it’s more than it is.” I hold his gaze. “Like you do.”

“That’s your problem, you know that, Lou? You think you know everything because you drew some pictures. You have no idea the pressure I’m under for this fucking album! A five-year-old could do your job⁠—”

The front door opens. Voices.

Troy freezes, then bristles. “What the⁠—”

Knox Turner walks in first. Medium height, solid, brown hair a little shaggy with streaks of silver at his temples, deep brown eyes that miss nothing. Tattoo sleeves with edges that trail beneath his T-shirt.

Houston follows, tall enough to block light, sandy-blond ponytail, green eyes steady and watchful. Looks younger than Knox, but still has a dusting of gray in his roots. It just makes him look distinguished. More handsome in person than in his music videos.

Salem brings up the rear. Shorter than his brothers, still taller than me. Ripped. Black Caesar cut that’s turning to salt and pepper, sharp goatee, bright blue eyes that telegraph mischief as if he plans anything he does.

For half a second, I’m fifteen with posters on my shared wall in one of my foster homes, fighting with my roommate about taking them down. Then I’m here, twenty-five, with a boyfriend about to make a scene with either me or his older brothers.

“What are you doing here?” Troy snaps.

Knox takes in the tipped chair, the shut laptop, my face. Not surprised. “Recording. We’re booked for the hour.”

“I’m here now. Get out.”

Houston nods at me, a silent hello. “Troy, we can share the space.”

“I don’t share with you.”

Salem’s mouth curves. “You never knew how to share in the first place.”

“Don’t start with me,” Troy says, moving like he’ll square up. He doesn’t get far. Houston’s stance shifts half an inch.

The threat is clear.

Knox clears his throat. “We’re not here to get into it. We’ll use Studio B.” He nods at me. “You must be Lou.”

I swallow. “Hi.”

“Want coffee?” Houston asks, voice low. “Machine works.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” My inner fifteen-year-old is squealing.

Troy cuts a hand through the air. “Don’t talk to her.”

I frown at him. “What did you just say?”

“We’re in the middle of something. They don’t need to talk to you.”

“We were in the middle of something, but then you were a dick to me, and I’m not having it.”

Knox exhales. “We can come back.”

“No,” Troy snaps. “You always come back. You kicked me out and still manage to be everywhere.”

“Wait, what was that?” I look at him. “Kicked you out?”

His gaze flicks over my shoulder. “It was mutual.”

Salem snorts. Houston gives him a look. Salem lifts his hands, innocent-ish.

Knox looks tired. “If I knew you were struggling this hard, we would’ve gotten you anger management instead of kicking you out of the band.”

Clean words. No spin. They redraw the room. I look at Troy. “You told me you left. You said it was creative differences.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. You lied to me.”

He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“It matters if the person I sleep next to tells the truth.” I turn to the brothers. “Two months ago, he told me he was in Tokyo with you on a secret project. Was he?”

Houston shakes his head once. “No.”

Knox says, “We were in Tokyo. He wasn’t.”

Salem leans on the frame. “We’d have noticed. Troy makes a mess wherever he goes. He would have left Tokyo like Godzilla.”

I look back at Troy. “Where were you?”

“If you must know…” He folds his arms over his chest, smirking. “Ibiza.”

“Doing what?”

“Partying. Yacht. Making connections. Things you’d understand if you were in the business. That’s why I didn’t tell you. You never understand me, Lou.”

I think about those two weeks. I waited at his house like a pet at the door. I watered plants. Picked up his mail. I turned down work because I didn’t know when he’d walk in and tell me to drop everything. I need quiet to do my best. I can’t start if I’m waiting to be interrupted.

He knew that. He counted on it.

“You lied to me.”

“It’s the business.”

“This isn’t business. This is you on a boat with strangers while I keep your life from falling apart.”

“You want to see business?” He swipes, grins, holds the screen up, and shoves it in my face.

Girls in bikinis with his arms around them. Touching them. Kissing… What the fuck?

He swipes again, proud like a kid with a good report card. “I don’t remember their names. But I remember what they looked like naked.”

Something old in me folds up and walks out. “It’s not the first time, is it?”

He doesn’t blink. “No. I figured you knew.”

I look at him and see the person I kept drawing on top of him. He isn’t here. Maybe he never was. “Thanks for telling me.”

He frowns. “That’s it?”

“You said you thought I knew. What reaction did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” He looks so disappointed. “Something else.”

“Well, now we’re both disappointed.”

There’s a glint in his eye. “You knew what this was, what I am.”

“I wanted a grown man. Instead, I got you.”

Salem’s eyebrow kicks up. Houston’s mouth flattens. Knox doesn’t move.

Troy steps toward me, fists balled. “You bitch⁠—”

“Nope,” Salem says, straightening. “It’s time for you to go.”

Troy laughs. “Make me.”

Houston doesn’t raise his voice. “Don’t do this.”

Knox puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on.”

Troy jerks away. “You don’t get to⁠—”

“You’re done here, Troy Boy,” Salem says. Softer. Worse.

I didn’t see when he grabbed Troy’s other shoulder, but his hold is firmer than Knox’s. Gripping. When Troy squirms, he can’t get out of it.

“Fine, I’m fucking going,” he grumbles. Only then does Salem release him. He grabs his gear and storms out. The door hits, rattles, stops.

“You okay?” Houston asks.

“No,” I say. “But I will be.”

“Do you want water? A ride? Space?”

“I don’t know what I want.” Didn’t realize I was shaking until now. I’m not upset about losing him—honestly, I lost him months ago. But I’m pretty sure he was going to hit me. Actually hit me, not just get in my face.

Knox perches on the desk, not crowding me. “I should’ve said it different. About the band. You didn’t need to hear it like that.”

“He told me he left because the groupthink was killing him. He said he had to take risks. I believed him.” I take a deep breath. “I’m an idiot.”

Salem whistles, low. “He’s good at lying to himself and to everyone around him.”

I huff a laugh that doesn’t rise. “I built my life around him. I said no to projects so I could be on call…” A professional girlfriend.

Now that I’m no longer a girlfriend, what the hell am I?

Houston’s jaw flexes. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your job to be sorry.” I pick up my bag. Light. Most of what I own is in his hotel room. “I’m not your problem.”

“You’re in our place,” Salem says, gesturing around us. “That makes you our problem for at least tonight.”

“That’s sweet, but⁠—”

“You don’t have to do it alone.” Houston says it simple.

“I’m good at alone.” Or I was. Before I met Troy. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Or,” Salem says, drawing it out, “we take you out. Debauchery on the Strip. Sticky floors, loud music, bad decisions. You pick the bar. We can be your consolation prize.”

Houston snorts. Knox shakes his head but says nothing.

I laugh at first, but they’re serious. I weigh the picture. Me in a cheap room, thin pillow, the ice machine rattling through the wall. Or me out with three men who haven’t been lying to my face for the past few months.

I’m not stupid. I’m also done auditioning for martyr. “One night?”

“One night,” Knox says. “No pressure.”

“No Troy.” Salem smirks. “We’ll run interference if he shows up.”

“No cameras,” Houston adds. “We’ll keep an eye out.”

“You pick the place,” Knox says. “If you change your mind at the curb, we turn around. No questions.”

A night out with three guys I’ve crushed on for ten years, paid for by them? I can think of worse ways to handle a breakup.

“One night. Let’s go.”

Salem is the reason we’re leaving the studio. I should expect nothing less by this point. We’re in our forties, for fuck’s sake. He’s always angling us toward trouble, or at least toward a story. Consoling our brother’s ex doesn’t sound like a headline that ends with a mugshot.

Probably. But I’ve learned to never say never with Salem.

We spill out into the late light. The lot behind Sagebrush is bare and hot. Our bikes sit where we left them. Houston straddles his, waiting for us to do the same. Salem twirls his keys on a finger and grins at Lou like he’s found something he wants to steal and keep. I step between that look and its destination without making a scene.

Lou is guarded, not like the girls Troy usually dates. She’s got that long dark hair up, copper streaks catching the light, pierced ears, and a black tank top and leggings combination. Curvy. There’s something nerdy hot about her. Might be the tank top—it reads, I’m not a nerd. I’m just smarter than you.

In Troy’s case, she’s right.

She stops short beside the bikes. “Where do I…ride?” She gestures at the lineup like there’s a wrong answer, and somehow it will be her fault.

Salem’s eyes light. I know that look. His go-to solution for fear is speed and flirtation, preferably layered. He lifts his chin at his ride. “With me.”

“Hold up,” I say before Lou can even process the invitation. I keep my voice light. “Ride with me.” I slap the back half of my seat and offer her my spare helmet. “I’ve got more room and a more comfortable bike for two.”

Salem rolls his eyes at me, the exact way he has since we were kids and I took a match out of his hand on a windy day. That’s how I know I made the right call. If Salem hooks up with Lou tonight, we lose any shot at smoothing things with Troy later. And no, that isn’t the only reason. But it’s a good one to tell myself while I ignore the rest.

Lou glances between us. There’s a flicker of relief, then a shrug that tries to look like it doesn’t care. “Okay.” She takes the helmet, fits it, and tightens the strap with quick fingers. She steps close and climbs on. Her hands hover like she doesn’t want to assume. I reach back and guide them to my waist.

“Hold on. Lean when I lean.”

Houston swings onto his bike. “We’re taking surface streets,” he says for Lou’s benefit. “No freeway.”

“Boring,” Salem mutters.

I roll my eyes. “Safe.”

“Same thing,” he shoots back, grinning.

The engines come alive, a chorus I know in my bones. I check the mirrors, Lou’s grip, the quiet in my chest that shows up any time the road opens. Lou fits against my back like she belongs there. She doesn’t squeeze too tight. She doesn’t float either. She does exactly what I ask and leans when I lean. The city unfolds in low stucco and palm trees before it spikes into glass and glowing lights.

The Strip grows from glare to structure, all screens and moving color. Valet lanes snake like rivers in flood. Houston cuts into ours first. The crew out front knows us. If they didn’t know us before we were booked for a residency, the residency taught them our names, our tells, our tips. Heads turn, phones tilt, but it’s early evening, so most people pretend to be casual. There’s always paparazzi outside of The Gold Bar Resort, but we’ve gotten good at ignoring the shouts and flashbulbs.

I park, kill the engine, and kick the stand. Lou peels off the helmet and hands it to me. Her hair’s a little wild from the ride. It looks good on her. She looks like she could do math on a napkin and hand you the answer before you finish your drink.

“You okay?”

She nods. “Better than okay.”

I nod too. I don’t press.

Salem hops off and stretches. “The suite first?”

“The suite,” Houston confirms. He clamps a big hand on Lou’s bag like he’s worried gravity might steal it and gestures her toward the doors. The lobby swallows us in cold air and golden lights. The elevator opens on our floor. I tap the key and swing the door wide.

The suite fits us without effort. Living room, bar, a wall of glass that sells a view people would pay rent for. Six bedrooms split off to either side, each with a bath big enough to qualify as its own room. There’s an extra den we use for gear or naps.

Lou steps in and stops. She keeps her bag on her shoulder like this is temporary and she plans to move through clean. That’s fine. It’s her call.

“You can put your things in here,” Houston says, opening the door to a spare bedroom. “It locks from the inside.” He sets her bag on the dresser and steps back so she doesn’t have to walk around him.

“Thanks.” The word is small and flat. It’s the voice of somebody who learned a long time ago not to owe anyone for a favor. Guarded. Careful.

Salem drops his keys in a bowl by the bar. “We’ve got a few hours before we go out. Food, showers, decisions worse than average. Pick your poison.”

“We’re getting cleaned up,” I say before he can talk her into anything on the wrong side of smart. “Then we go.”

Lou brushes a hand over her hair like she’s thinking about what it would take to tame it. “I don’t have anything to wear.” She says it straight, no apology. “I packed for a cheap hotel.”

“Easy fix.” I pull out my phone and call downstairs. The concierge picks up fast. I keep it simple. “We need options for a night on the Strip,” I tell them. “One guest. Dresses, jumpsuits, shoes. She’s five foot four, curvy. She’ll make the choices. Bring a variety. Ten minutes.”

“Of course, Mr. Turner,” the voice says. “We’ll bring a range.”

I hang up. Lou stares at me like she’s waiting for the catch. “You didn’t ask my size.”

“We’ll send back what doesn’t work.”

“I don’t want you spending money on me.”

“It’s the hotel’s money,” Salem says without missing a beat. “And if it wasn’t, it would be mine. Let us be useful.”

She looks at him, then at me. The smallest edge of her relaxes, not enough to celebrate. “If it’s not a problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” I explain. “You can pick and wear whatever makes you feel like you.”

She nods once and disappears into the spare bedroom, shuts the door, and locks it.

Houston opens the bar fridge and sets waters on the counter. “You good?” he asks me.

This is the part of the day I understand. Logistics. People. Steps in order. “I am. You?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Troy’s going to call.”

“He won’t.”

“Let him,” Salem says. “I’m going to answer.”

I look at our brother. Salem is flipping through the room service menu like it’s a zine. “He won’t say anything that makes tomorrow worse.”

“We’ll see,” Salem says without looking up. “Do we want fries now or fries later?”

“Later. We’ll eat out.”

There’s a knock at the door. Two attendants wheel in a rack with covers and boxes that look like gifts. “Perfect. Thank you.” They give quick nods and zip out.

I knock on the den door. “Packages.”

Lou opens it, face set to neutral. I can tell she’s not used to this, and I don’t push. “You can say no to everything. Try it all, send it all back. We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay.” She looks at the rack like it might bite. Then she reaches for a garment bag, unzips it, and something in her face shifts. She pulls the dress partway out, and the color picks up the warm tones in her skin even from across the room. She doesn’t smile. Her mouth softens like she remembered an old word and how it fits in her mouth.

I take a step back. “Take your time.”

She nods and closes the door again.

Salem leans around me. “Did you see⁠—”

“No. You’re going to your room.”

He scoffs, mock-offended. “You’re no fun.”

“That’s literally my job. I’m the oldest.”

Houston laughs once, low, and heads to his room. The suite gets quiet. I set my phone to vibrate and drop it on the bar. I don’t call Troy. There’s no reason to invite him into this.

Lou deserves a night of peace.

And if I’m honest, I don’t want him here tonight. Not after what we saw with him. Fucking shameful behavior. Hard to believe he’s even related to us.

I look at her bedroom door again and then look away. This isn’t about me. Lou isn’t a problem to solve; she’s a person who just got the truth pulled like a splinter. Anything would feel like kindness after the day she had. I’m not going to stand here and take credit for basic decency.

The shower in my room hisses to life in my head before I turn it on. I grab clothes, nothing dramatic. Dark jeans. Black shirt. Jacket I can ditch if the night goes off-axis.

I turn on the water and let it heat while I strip down. I step in and let the day run off and go down the drain. Sagebrush. Troy’s jaw set hard. Lou’s face when the truth landed.

It’s hard when your little brother continuously disappoints you. On some level, you feel responsible. Troy was Mom’s surprise pregnancy. Technically, we all were. But she thought she was too old to get pregnant when he came along. Troy is twelve years younger than me, but in some ways, he feels decades younger.

I made things too easy on him when he was a kid. So did Mom. If we had done things differently…doesn’t matter now. He’s thirty-two. He’s responsible for his own actions.

Still sucks, though.

When it comes to Lou, I’m not looking for trouble. I’m looking for a clean night and a clean exit. We’ll take her out for a good time, we’ll keep her off the radar if she wants, we’ll make sure she gets back to her hotel or stays here with a locked door. Like we all said, one night of fun.

When I step out, steam has blurred the mirror. I wipe a stripe with the side of my hand. Same craggy, lined face. Same hair that’s turning silver sooner than I’d like. Less dust. I dress. I keep the wallet light, the phone charged, and the pockets empty except for what a night might need. I leave the jacket open. It makes people think I’m not about to say no to the next idea. It also makes it easier to move if I have to be the one who says it.

No clue what to do for Lou. I don’t know her yet, so I give her space and head for the bar. The least I can do is make her a drink.

I take stock. Citrus. Soda. Simple syrup. Decent bottles. Ice that doesn’t taste like the freezer. Glassware clean. The suite gives us what we need if we know what to ask for. I line up three rocks glasses and a coupe, then glance over.

She comes out of her bedroom, dressed in a little black number that hugs her body and fuck-me heels she can barely walk in.

I hope she’s thinking of changing them, but I’m not about to say it. “Anything you won’t drink?”

She thinks. “Nothing too sweet.”

“Citrus okay?”

A nod.

I wash the limes, roll them on the counter, and cut clean wedges. The knife makes that soft click against the board. I fill the shaker half with ice. Mom loves a solid cocktail, so I’ve been making them since I was a kid.

Tequila, lime, a breath of agave, a pinch of salt, shake until the tin sweats, strain into the coupe, neat rim. I build two highballs with soda and citrus for backup. Water too. Always water.

I slide the coupe to the spot in front of her and push the water within reach. “Test drive.”

She takes a sip. The corner of her mouth lifts at the same time her shoulders drop. Not a full smile. Something better. “Perfect.”

“Good.”

The Strip glows through the windows, but the suite is quiet in the right ways. I lean against the bar, not crowding. Lou stands, then sits on the arm of the couch, as if she’s not ready to commit to the whole seat. The dress Knox arranged looks like it chose her, not the other way around. No glitter, no fight with the fabric. She fits it, it fits her. Her hair is loose now, and the copper streaks catch the hotel light.

I stir my soda with a straw and take a sip. “How’d you meet Troy?”

She makes a face at the glass, not at me. “Backstage pass thing. His breakout solo tour last year. I went with a friend. She lost interest halfway through the set. I didn’t. Somebody in a lanyard asked if we wanted to meet the band. Troy thought my friend was pretty, and my friend thought he was loud, so she shoved me in front of him. We clicked. He was funny that night.”

“He has a good sense of humor. Or, he used to.”

She taps the stem, a tiny rhythm. “I didn’t know he was such a big jackass—” She stops herself and looks up. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk about your brother like that.”

“He’s a jackass.” I take the sting out with a shrug. “I didn’t want to see it. Knox and Salem kept telling me we had a problem. I kept giving him chances.”

She waits. Not pushing. Not letting me off the hook.

“When he was in the band, he always tried to soak up the light. Most solos, most screen time, most press. If a camera panned left, he went left, even if the part didn’t call for him. To him, it didn’t matter that we were a band and brothers. The spotlight was the job.” I sigh. “That’s not how this works.”

Her fingers stop tapping.

“And then money started going missing.” I keep it simple. “Band accounts. Shared expenses. Tour float fund. It took me too long to call it what it was. He called it borrowing. But it’s not borrowing if you never pay it back. Eventually, he started bucking for top billing and trying to con our financial manager into giving him a bigger cut. We had to put a stop to it.”

She takes a long drink and sets the glass down. “Why didn’t you go public with that? People would want to know what he did.”

I tilt my head, let the question sit one beat. “You don’t have siblings, do you?”

Her mouth pulls into a flat line. “No.” She pauses. “Maybe.”

I nod. I’m not sure what she means, but I’m not going to pry if she doesn’t want to say it.

She looks down at her hands, then reaches for the chain at her neck. The silver catches and slides. She brings out a small locket and lays it in her palm.

“I’m an orphan.” She says it plain. “Aged out of foster care. I don’t know much about my family. This was with me when I was surrendered into a safe haven baby box at a hospital.”

She opens the locket. Two tiny faces stare back. A pretty woman. A handsome man. The photos are old, the kind where every highlight goes to white. She looks at them the way people look at landmarks they’ve never visited and still know by heart.

“I think they might be my parents. I’ll never know.” She flips the locket. “The back says ‘Navarro.’ That’s how I got my last name.” A small breath. “One of the nurses at the hospital liked Louisa May Alcott. So I got Louisa May.”

The little click when the locket closes hits harder than I expect. I’m fine with noise. This quiet doesn’t sit right with me. Not after that sad story. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m used to it.”

People get used to standing in the rain too. Doesn’t mean it’s right.

“My brothers and I don’t know who our fathers are.” I lean back on the bar, keep my voice even. “Our mother had a busy social life when she was touring. She named us for the cities she thinks she conceived us in.”

She snorts at that. “Really?”

I nod and smile. “We laugh about it because it’s easier than thinking too hard about how her life was back then. She got pregnant with Knox when she was nineteen. I can’t imagine how hard that was for her. She kept going, met my bio-dad, and a few years later, Salem’s. Whoever they were.” I sigh. “Three kids, boom, boom, boom, when she was barely an adult herself. That’s why she settled into studio work. To raise us with a steady paycheck and a stable home.”

“That’s a good mom.”

I grin. “Yeah, she is. We’re close with her. If I didn’t have my family, I’d be lost.”

Lou turns the locket over with her thumb. “Your mom named you Houston because…”

“Houston, Texas.”

“Knox?”

“Knoxville.”

Her mouth almost smiles. “And Salem is obvious.”

“Almost always.” I take another sip of soda.

“Yeah, he doesn’t strike me as the type to do subtle.” She looks at the door to the hall, to the door of Salem’s room, to the door of Knox’s, like she’s measuring what that costs and what it gives back. “Must be nice having family that’s so close to each other.”

“It is. It’s a lot of work too.”

She takes another drink. The glass sweats, and she traces a circle in the ring on the table with one finger, then wipes it with her thumb like she can erase it. “I tried to build a life that didn’t need anybody. It worked until I met Troy.”

“It’s allowed to stop working. You readjust and move forward.”

“Tell that to my rent.”

I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Rent listens to no one.”

“You really think he’s a jackass?” she says after a minute. “Your brother.”

“Yes. I also think he’s talented and scared and used to getting away with it. All those things can be true at once.”

“Why is he like that?”

“Some people hear a crowd and it sounds like a hunger they have to feed.” I look at the window where the Strip flashes like a fish trying to shake a hook. “I like playing. I like the work. I like the room. I don’t need the part where everyone’s eyes are on me. He does.”

“And the money?”

I shake my head. “We grew up counting every dollar until we hit it big, and we hit it big when he was too young to remember the hard parts. He thought we always lived in a mansion, that we always had money. Earning it never occurred to him. He hated that part. He decided the rules were for other people.”

Her mouth presses thin. “And you still don’t go public.”

“We’d rather our music be the headline. Not some family squabbling.”

She tips her head, considering it. “So what happens next?”

“Tonight, we have some fun. Dinner, dancing, see the sights, whatever you want.” I set the shaker in the sink, run water over it until the metal loses its bite. “Tomorrow, we figure everything else out.”

She looks down at her locket again, then tucks it under the neckline of the dress like she’s putting the past back where it sits most days. “I don’t have siblings. But I had a girl in one of the foster homes who let me copy her homework and pushed me into the cafeteria line before all the good stuff was gone. I would’ve kept her secrets if she’d asked.” A half shrug. “I get it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s not a sibling relationship. That’s barely a friendship. This poor woman.

I line up the bottles so the labels face forward. Habit. “We didn’t protect him because he’s famous. We protected him because he’s ours. Until he made it impossible.”

“And then?”

“And then we stopped.”

She watches my hands, not my face. “I didn’t know about the money.”

“Not your fault.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She finds the seam on the arm of the couch and rubs it with her thumb. “I mean, I didn’t know any of this. He said he left because the band was holding him back. He said you were jealous.”

I don’t react. There’s no point. “We were relieved. That’s not the same as jealous.”

Her mouth wants to argue, then doesn’t. “He’s good at being the main character.”

“He’s a hell of a dancer, better than the rest of us. Decent singer. Not much of a songwriter.” I drag a hand over my hair. “If he was half as smart as he thinks he is, he would apologize and come crawling back to us. Instead, his next album is going to bomb if he’s not careful.”

“Since he hasn’t been able to write a single song and the album is due in two months, yeah. It is.”

“What do you do when you’re not working?”

She blinks like she has to replay the question. “Work is most of it. Or, it was.”

“On purpose or by accident?”

“Both.” She takes a breath, lets it out. “I used to draw for me. Then I started drawing for other people. Then I started drawing for him. Somewhere in there, I forgot that drawing for me was allowed.”

“Start small. Lines. Boxes. Shapes.”

She gives me a look like she’s not sure if I’m joking. “You draw?”

I tap the bar. “I build. Same rules. You don’t start with the roof.”

She thinks about that and decides it’s not a line. “What do you build?”

“Sets. Schedules. The deck around my beach bungalow. Whatever needs building.”

She glances around, soaking in the quiet. “Thanks for this.”

“The drink?”

“The way you ask questions.”

I nod. “You’re kind of our date tonight. I want you to have a good time.”

A breath that almost turns into a laugh. “Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

She slides off the arm of the couch and sits properly, like she’s telling herself to stay. “I won’t be a problem.”

“You don’t have to be anything. Just yourself.”

Her eyes flick to my face and away. I’m not sure what that means for her.

Salem’s door opens. He steps out in all black, glam-goth if you squint, metal at his ears, sharp line at his jaw, boots he can run in. He looks like he’s about to lead a band into a bad idea and laugh about it when the lights come up. He throws his arms wide. “Ready?”

Lou looks, takes him in, doesn’t hide that she likes what she sees. Salem notices the noticing. That can only mean one thing.

Trouble.

He grins at me over her shoulder, a signal and a dare. I don’t blink. I check the time, the keys, the plan. I move the water bottle closer to Lou’s hand and take my spot by the door.

It’s gonna be a long night.

Houston has her laughing when I come out. Not loud, not wild—just that soft sound people make when they remember their throat isn’t only for holding back. He’s got a coupe in front of her and water next to it, because he’s Houston, always thinking about other people.

“Somebody’s ahead of me,” I say, sliding to the bar.

Lou looks over. The dress Knox had sent up fits like it was waiting in a box with her name on it. Stone-cold killer. Simple lines, smart neckline, black and clingy in a way that says yes to walking and whatever comes after.

“I need a cocktail if I’m going to catch up to your blood alcohol level,” I tell her. “Houston’s a bad influence.”

“He’s a good influence,” she says, smiling into the rim.

“Same thing if you do it right.” I open the bar. Tequila’s already out. I reach for mezcal instead, a squeeze of lime, a touch of agave, a fat cube in a rocks glass. Stir, strain. I lift it. “To better nights.”

“And clean exits,” Houston adds.

Lou clinks the edge of her glass to mine. “To fries.”

I like her immediately.

I take a sip. Smoke, citrus, that burn I know on a first-name basis. I lean on the bar, hip to the wood, and aim my attention where it belongs.

“So, Lou. Tell me something I don’t know yet.”

She eyes me carefully. “You don’t know anything yet.”

“Not true. I know you like clean drinks and dirty fries. I know you don’t like to owe anybody. I know you ride well.”

A small laugh. “You watched me ride?”

“I see everything.” I tip my head toward Houston. “He does too, but he pretends he’s not taking notes.”

Houston just sips his drink and looks bemused. Or annoyed that I gave away his secret.

Lou bites the inside of her cheek. “You like pissing off your brothers, don’t you?”

“I like honesty.” I take another sip. “Speaking of honesty, you look like trouble in that dress.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is when I say it.”

She looks at my hands. People always do. Unlike most of my body, they’re bare, unless it’s a jewelry night. Tattoos climb my legs under the black pants, but my hands are clean tonight. No rings or bracelets. The piercings under the shirt and underwear are mine and nobody’s business unless I make it theirs.

Not tonight. Maybe later. Or not.

“How many drinks before you start trouble?” she asks.

“I don’t need drinks to start trouble, but they make me find it faster.”

She laughs. Houston smiles into his glass. Good. We’re warmed up. I point at the couch. “Sit. Tell us what you actually like, not the polite answer.”

She moves, perches, then settles. “Fonts,” she says, deadpan.

I love her for it. “Serifs or no?”

“Depends on the job.”

“You have a favorite?”

She considers. “The one everyone thinks is boring until it’s on a billboard.”

“Classic,” Houston says. “That’s how I feel about four-on-the-floor.”

I whistle. “She had you at kerning.”

Lou glances at him. “He had me at the cocktail.”

We’re all smiling now. That’s the point. I make messes. I also make this—rooms where people can breathe. People forget those are related.

“Vegas looks different,” she says, face to the window. “I was gone seven years, staying in San Francisco. I feel like I missed a rebuilding montage.”

“You did,” I say.

“What stayed the same?” Houston asks.

“Heat. Palms. Men trying to sell me party buses on the sidewalk.”

“You want a party bus?” I ask.

“No.”

I prop my ankle on my knee and balance the glass on my thigh. “What’d you like about San Francisco?”

“Fog. The way it shuts people up. Rent wasn’t cute, but my loft was quiet. The quiet worked for me.”

“You’ll get it back,” Houston says.

“Maybe.” She takes a small sip like she’s rationing good things. “Maybe I’ll just get different.”

I nod. “Different can work.”

Knox walks out then. Dark jeans, black shirt, jacket that fits like he stood still a long time while someone pinned it to his bones. Responsible, clean, hair shaggy and glinting silver in a way that suits him. He clocks the room in a second—our glasses, her seat, my posture, the way Houston’s at ease—and finally lets himself unclench.

“You need a drink,” I say, already reaching.

He lifts his chin. That’s a yes.

I build fast. Mezcal for me, bourbon for Knox, another light pour for Lou if she wants it, soda for Houston because he plays the long game. He always does. I line them up. Knox takes his and stays standing, like he trusts the night more if he has a view of every door.

We fall into talk. Fries vs. onion rings. Worst hotel carpet we’ve ever seen. Best bathroom tile we’ve ever stolen. Random, silly shit.

I pour another round.

Lou smiles. “Okay, dumb things I do every day, let’s see… I judge restaurants by the design of the menu. The font, the logo, anything they use for branding. If it sucks, I’m not going.”

Houston huffs a laugh. “I judge our venues by the backstage smell. If that’s rank, I’m not using their bathroom.”

“I do my best not to judge anyone,” I begin.

But then Knox boos me. “Bullshit.”

“You remember that promoter in Tampa? The guy who wore two watches so he could be late in two time zones at once? Didn’t judge him.”

Lou laughs hard enough that she has to put the glass down. “I kind of think you’re judging him right now.”

I lift my brows to tease. “Nah.”

Her giggle is music.

Rochester flashes through my head. One girl, one night, shared because she asked for it, and it made sense, and we had a fucking blast. Tampa was different—two best friends who turned the hotel room into a dare and left the next morning, having covered our room service bill. That was one hell of a surprise perk.

There were others. There always are. We’re on the road more nights than off it, so meeting random women comes with the territory. We don’t do it because we’re bored. We do it because sometimes a night works better if nobody has to pretend they’re someone else.

When a woman hooks up with the Turner Brothers, she knows it’s a fling. We’re not serious guys. Even the women who tried to make things last with us gave up after a while. That’s just the nature of the beast.

If Lou wanted that kind of night, I’d be down. If my brothers were down, I’d be more down. If Knox raised a hand, I’d back off. There’s a rhythm to it. He has a good head for these things, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve followed his lead.

Lou tips her head. “Do you always dress like a vampire?”

I look down at the black. “Daywalker edition.”

Houston snorts. Knox hides a smile in his glass.

“You look good,” she says, straightforward. “All of you do.”

“And you look like you eat hearts,” I tell her.

“Is that a compliment?”

“It is when I say it.”

Houston shakes out his shoulders. Knox checks the time. We are one drink from leaving. I feel the street pulling on the seams of the night.

Knox leans his hip into the bar, eyes on Lou, tone easy. “You worried Troy brought home more than photos from Ibiza?”

The air tightens one notch. Responsible. Necessary. I appreciate him for it, even when it cuts the mood.

Lou blinks, doesn’t look away. “You mean an STI.”

He nods once. No flinch.

She takes a breath and sets the glass down like it’s a piece of evidence, and she’s done with it. “We haven’t…since Tokyo.” She stares at a spot on the table. “Fake Tokyo. He’s been pulling away for months. The more the songs died, the more he did.”

My jaw wants to click. I swallow it. Houston doesn’t move, but a line draws straight down his back. Knox’s mouth goes thin and kind at the same time.

“Troy was bad at a lot of things. Honesty. Being a boyfriend. Kissing…” She huffs a breath that might be a laugh.

“He wasn’t great at songwriting either,” I say, because if we’re going to say it, let’s say it. “Houston writes most of our songs. Always has. Troy never got the hang of grinding a hook until it stops squeaking. He wanted the chorus to show up already dressed.”

Houston tries to wave it off. It’s true. No point pretending otherwise.

“I write sometimes,” I add, because modesty isn’t in my kit. “Knox does, when he thinks we aren’t looking. Troy was good at being loud. That’s about it.”

Lou looks at Houston like she’s suddenly hearing harmony lines she didn’t know to listen for. “You write them.”

He nods. That’s all. He never sells himself hard. It’s why I do it for him when I feel like it.

“I could write one about you,” I say to her. “Tonight.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “About what?”

“Your mouth.” I let it hang there, clean, no smile to ruin it. “If I knew what you tasted like.”

Houston’s mouth curves. Knox pretends to examine the bottle for flaws it doesn’t have. Lou cuts her eyes at me and then at Houston, testing for static or sparks. He’s amused. I’m wired. We’re fine.

“You’d write a song about me if I kissed you?” she asks, a little tipsy, a little giddy, the good kind that makes brave decisions feel like choices, not dares.

I nod.

She stands, closes the space, and kisses me.

I’m kissing Salem Turner.

That’s the whole headline. Mezcal and lime and heat, his mouth confident, mine greedy. The rough edge of his salt-and-pepper goatee skims my chin. His hand is warm at my jaw. He tastes like trouble.

A few hours ago, I rode a motorcycle for the first time. Now I’m here, in a dress some concierge guessed right about, making out with Salem Freaking Turner like I’ve been doing this my whole life. He kisses better than Troy. Better than anyone I’ve kissed. No contest.

He sets a pace and waits to see if I’ll meet it. I do. He answers like he was counting on that.

“Okay?” he says against my mouth.

“Very.”

Houston is a quiet shape at my side. He slides a water my way without crowding. I take a sip without breaking eye contact with Salem. Cold helps. I hand the glass back. Houston’s eyes say, I’m good if you’re good.

I am.

Knox stands where I can see him. Leather bomber jacket open, steady face. The watch at the door, the read on the room. I see him seeing me. He’s not judging. If anything, he looks curious.

Salem kisses me again, and I stop thinking. He knows exactly when to press and when to lean back. I follow and push. He pulls a small sound out of me that I didn’t plan to make. I don’t blush. I double down and drag my nails up the nape of his neck.

That earns a short growl out of him that warms me to my core. He breaks long enough to breathe. “Still okay?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His thumb skims the corner of my mouth. “Rules?”

I’m not completely sure what he means. “About?”

“This. Now. Here.”

Houston nods. Knox nods.

Salem’s grin tilts up. “We can follow rules.”

We. We.

Oh. OH.

Huh. I mean, sure, I’ve thought about it. What woman hasn’t? And with the three stars I’ve wanted since I was a teenager? Dream come true.

But they’re also my ex’s brothers. He’s right. We need rules.

So, I say the only one that springs to mind. “Anybody gets weird, I’m out.”

“Fair,” Knox says.

Houston’s voice is low. “You’re in control.”

Salem offers his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me to the bedroom with the other two following. I’m not sure if they want to watch or participate, and thankfully, the tequila isn’t letting me ramble about that. In fact, I’m not sure what to say, so I’m keeping my mouth shut.

Until Salem kisses me again. The kiss picks up where it left off, his tongue sliding into my mouth. His hands settle on my hips and wait. I say yes, and he moves. He kisses like he plays—tempo solid, then a syncopation that makes me chase him a little because he likes what that does to my breath. I chase. He rewards it.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs.

“To stop thinking.”

“We can do that,” Knox says as he comes up from behind.

My mouth goes dry, but that’s the only part of me that is. “Is this something you three do a lot?”

Salem lifts a shoulder. “Now and then.”

“We’re good, Lou,” Houston says from the side of me. “We get tested all the time. All of us have a clean bill of health.”

Knox lifts my hair, setting it over my shoulder. Then he kisses the back of my neck. “Tell us if this is what you want. The three of us. If not, we back off, no hard feelings.”

“Just hard cocks,” Salem says, devilish blue eyes dancing.

I snort a laugh and roll my eyes. “That an offer?”

“Yes.” No joke in his tone this time.

Okay. So, they aren’t just here to watch. Am I really going through with this?

Salem, those eyes still on me, takes his shirt off. The first thing that hits is the muscles. The man is ripped, veins popping, a faint dusting of black body hair. His nipples are pierced—barbells. I want to trace the lines and ridges of his chest with my tongue.

I blink twice. “Yes.”

“Thank fuck,” he says as he hooks his hand behind my neck and pulls me against him for a searing kiss.

Knox works the zipper on my dress as we make out, and Houston’s shape moves out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t see what he’s up to until Salem breaks the kiss.

Only then do I take in the room. This must be Salem’s bedroom—there’s his famed signature purple bass in the corner. Why it’s not in a case, I don’t know. But the rest of the room matches the hotel interior. Dim golden light, bisque walls, gray furniture—not the generic stuff with no shape, but the kind that interior designers get paid way too much for. The bedroom is interior, so there’s just one floor-to-ceiling window at the far end, away from the bed and standing by the jacuzzi. It overlooks the desert.

My dress is loose, and Knox shimmies it down. I hadn’t exactly planned on this, so I skipped a bra. Now, I’m in heels and black lace underwear. Houston lets out a low whistle, and I glance over at him.

He’s prepped the bed. It’s huge, and the crisp white covers are turned down. There are glasses of water on the side tables. And candles. The big man really thought of everything.

He’s also standing there in blue silk boxers and a purely male smile. The man is a tall wall of muscle in his own right, big and smooth. “Salem, let the girl breathe.”

But Salem presses himself against me from behind. “Now why would I do that?” His hand snakes around me, coming to rest on my throat. Possessive, not pressure. He tips my head gently to the side, then slowly licks up the exposed skin.

There is no silencing the moan that escapes me.

Knox steps in front of me, somehow already shirtless. He wasn’t a second ago, but these men move fast. His chest and arms are covered in muscles and tattoos. No body hair—makes sense, I guess. Rumor has it that he’s half Choctaw.

He traces lines from my shoulders down to my breasts with his fingertips, then cups me there with both hands. So warm. So sensitive. I try to bring myself closer to his touch, but Salem’s hold on my throat means I can’t budge.

Knox improvises by running his tongue between the valley of my tits as he kneels. When he gets eye level with my panties, his fingers wrap around the sides. “Last chance to turn back.”

“I want this,” I whisper. “I need it.”

“Good girl,” Salem growls in my ear.

Knox pulls down my underwear and pauses, taking in the sight of me. I step out of them, and as I do, he snatches my leg to lift it over his shoulder. I’d tumble, if Salem didn’t support me from behind. Before I can even react to being off-balance, Knox shoves his face against my pussy, his tongue ready.

My brain shorts out, and I gasp loudly. Then it all happens so fast. Salem’s fingers tweak my nipples while I lean back on him. He matches Knox’s pace on my clit until I’m pulsing and squirming.

Across the room from us by the bed, Houston’s cock is in his hand—boxers are gone—and his eyes are glued to me. “You like that, don’t you, precious? Having two men on you. Taking all that pleasure at once.”

I’m riding Knox’s face, still off-balance, still ready to come when Salem growls, “He asked you a question, angel. Answer him, or I’ll stop⁠—”

“Yes!” I chirp.

“Good girl.” He keeps going. All of them do.

Knox’s fingers slide up my wet inner thigh until he reaches my pussy. He doesn’t enter. It’s more insidious than that. His fingertips lightly touch me on the outside while he acts like he’s never eaten in his life. My brain can’t keep up, and then, a finger breaches, and I come all over him, moaning like a madwoman.

Salem scoops me up into his arms, and my heels fall off on the way to the bed. It’s soft, but bouncy, thanks to him dropping me a little higher than I expected. I laugh from the surprise of it, but then Houston is there next to me. His deep green eyes capture me as he brushes some of my hair from my face. “So beautiful. Open up, precious.”

I part my lips, and his finger slips between them. I’m distracted from waiting for his next command when someone separates my legs. Before I can look down, though, Houston says, “No. You’re with me now. Suck.”

My cheeks hollow at the order, taking him that way. His grunt is palpable, but other fingers—lower fingers—press their way into me, and I’m still throbbing from that first orgasm, so this time, it’s more intense. But I don’t look down. That seems to be his rule.

“That’s it, precious. I’m done waiting.” He pulls his finger from my mouth and rolls onto me. Whoever was down there moved out of his way. His hard cock thumps against my hip. “Question is, can you handle all of us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you handle being spit-roasted and taking one up that stunning ass of yours?”

I take a quick breath. “I don’t know.”

“What limits are we working with, angel?” Salem asks. I hadn’t realized he was perched on the pillows by my head. “We are a creative bunch, and I’d hate to overstep. If I were to grab your gorgeous throat again and shove my cock in there, would you like that, or is that off-limits?”

I swallow. “I want that.”

“And if I did that while Houston buried his cock in your sweet pussy?”

Houston’s fingers wedge into me, by means of illustration. “Like this, but much, much bigger, precious.”

I can’t stop riding against him. Feels too good. Thick, thick fingers. Two, at least. “Yes!”

Knox’s hand hooks over my thigh, then dips below Houston’s fingers, just breaching the rim of my ass. It feels…different. Not bad, but strange enough to make me gasp all over again. “And if one of us gets a shot right here and we take it, do you want that?”

My head is foggy. I feel too good on them. Those talented fingers. “I want everything!”

“That’s a good girl,” Salem says like he’s coaxing a spooked horse. He kisses my forehead, then dips back.

Knox pulls away too, right as Houston parts my legs wide. He presses his forehead to mine, his huge body covering me. His cock lays on top of my clit, and he thrusts through my wetness, sparking my fire. When I try to angle myself to take him, though, he pauses. “Birth control?”

“Pill.”

“Condoms?”

“Don’t need them. I need you to fuck me right the fuck now!”

Houston rasps out a laugh, then shoves in halfway. My back arches from the pleasure of it, just as he reaches beneath us and rolls over, taking me with him.

I’m on top now, mindlessly working myself down his length. His girth stretches me, and it’s hard not to lose my mind right now. He cocks his hips up when I buck. His arms are beneath his head—he’s enjoying the show. “Greedy, precious. You need all that cock in you?”

“Yes!”

He laughs. “Yeah, you do.” He grabs my hips and slams me down all the way on him, and my whole body is hit by the shock of it. Almost enough to make me come again.

But then Salem appears, one foot on either side of Houston’s torso, his cock aimed for my mouth. He’s pierced there too. Well, at the base. He takes a fist of my hair like a handle to pull me onto him, and I choke at first. “You look so pretty like that—your mouth full of me, cheeks red.” He pulls back a little to let me breathe. “Show me what you can do, angel.”

I suck him down, running my tongue along the underside, the head, the shaft. But then Houston thrusts up again, distracting me. Between his cock hitting my G-spot, his pubic bone grinding on my clit, and Salem’s cock cutting off my air with every thrust, I’m lit up. One more⁠—

A finger skates down my spine, ending at my ass. Knox’s body heat covers my back as he closes in. His finger is wet—lube, I hope—and he runs circles around my hole. Another finger scoots up, joining Houston in my pussy.

So fucking full. And we’re not there yet.

“I think she can do a lot, Salem,” Knox says, voice low. “We’re about to find out.”

“Don’t go easy on her,” Salem grunts. “She can take it.” The head of his cock presses into my throat, and it’s all I can do to breathe. Still haven’t reached the piercing at the base.

But then there’s Knox. Right there.

When he swaps his finger for his dick, it’s too much. My fingernails dig into Salem’s hips, and I didn’t even know I had grabbed him. Jagged sounds flood from my lungs out of my body, curses pour around Salem’s cock in my mouth, tears stream, and then, Knox is in.

And I’m out. Out of my body, mind, and soul. It hits, and something else takes over. I’m coming so hard I see stars. Can’t breathe. Heat pours through me. I barely hear them until their sharp curses fill the air.

“Fuck, she’s coming on me!”

“Teeth! No, wait, fuck, keep going!”

“Sonofabitch,” Knox snarls behind me.

Another orgasm takes me to some other realm, and I’m so blissed out that I don’t know up from down. Then, the world is shaking. Earthquake? No—they don’t notice it. Until they do.

Strong fingers poke at the sides of my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Salem crouches to my side. “Damn, angel. I never…fuck.” He kisses me, irrespective of his cum in my mouth. Or maybe he likes it.

Houston gentles me off of him. I don’t know when Knox pulled away, but I hear him in the bathroom. The other two sandwich me between them, warm and safe. Houston holds a glass of water to my lips. Thank god. I never could have done that for myself. Not after that.

Salem spoons me and murmurs, “You’ve got a bite like a goddamn pit bull.”

I giggle. Can’t help it. “Sorry?”

“Nah, I liked it. Spicy.”

I snort a laugh at that and snuggle into them, trying not to think. They make it easy not to.

What the fuck was I thinking? Bad idea. Full stop.

So why didn’t I stop?

The suite is quiet in that heavy way after the night has taken what it wanted. Salem is out cold on the couch, boots off, one arm thrown over his eyes. Houston made it to the armchair and half folded himself into a position no chiropractor would endorse, head tilted, hair loose. The TV glows blue with no sound. The Strip stutters at the windows. Ice melts in a bucket we never used.

Lou sits at the edge of the rug with her back against the couch, knees up, dress smooth, eyes open. Calm. A little dazed, but not lost. She looks like someone who finally found a chair in a crowded room and decided to keep it.

Bad idea, I tell myself again.

She looks up at me, like she heard it. “You okay?”

I nod. “Shower?”

A blink. “Yeah?”

“Clean up. Talk.”

“Okay.”

I hold out a hand. She takes it, and I pull her to her feet. Warm palm. Steady grip. No tremble. That helps with the guilt.

We move down the hall. I check the door to the suite out of reflex. Locked. Chain set. Salem snores once like a motorcycle turning over and then goes quiet again. Houston doesn’t move.

In the bathroom, I set towels on the counter, turn the water on, hand under the spray, and adjust until it’s right. No hotel scald today. These big resorts like to provide the best of everything, but between the high-pressure showerheads and the extreme heat, I have to be careful not to power wash my skin off with them.

She leans on the jamb. “You always this careful?”

“Yes.”

A small smile. “Okay.”

I close the door. The fan hums. The mirror fogs fast. I should say something smart, something like, We keep this to ourselves. I’m the one who has to be the adult when the others won’t. I clear my throat. “You’re not going to tell Troy, right?”

She laughs once, sharp and clean. “I’d be happy to never talk to him again.”

The knots in my shoulders loosen. “Good.”

Her mouth flattens. “Things were bad for a long time. Today just…finished it.”

“That’s between you and him.” I keep my voice even. “I’m not trying to get in the middle of anything.”

“There’s nothing to get in the middle of,” she says. “He lied. A lot. I kept pretending it was a misunderstanding.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I want to.”

So I shut up and let her.

She slides her locket off and sets it by the sink. She watches her hands as she talks. “He started pulling away months ago. Every time the songs didn’t show up, he went colder. I tried to be quiet so he could hear himself think. I erased myself so there wouldn’t be any noise to blame. It didn’t help. It just made more room for him to be mad.”

Sounds like him. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “I kept saying I was fine. Nobody was asking me to, I just did it. It turns out that’s a terrible strategy.” She smiles sardonically.

And I smile with her. “It is.”

The water hisses, steady. I should offer a plan. That’s my job.

All I have is a simple one. “We’ll keep him out of your way.”

Her eyes soften. “Thanks.”

I motion toward the shower. “You first.”

She steps past me and then stops. “You coming with me?”

I swallow. “If you want.”

“I do.”

She reaches for the zipper at the back of the dress and finds it. The sound is small and final. She slides the fabric off her shoulders and down, and doesn’t turn her back like she’s hiding. Not shy.

I’ve always liked that in a woman.

I strip down slower because motion is the only thing that keeps my head from shouting. We step into the shower. Heat wraps us. Water drums shoulders, neck, scalp. We stand under it and breathe for a long thirty seconds. My heart finds a pace that isn’t a march.

She tips her head back and lets the spray hit her face. She comes back up with water sliding off her lashes. “This is the first time in months I’ve felt at ease.”

“Stay.”

She looks at me like she wants to. “You offering me the night or the illusion?”

“The night.”

“I’ll take it.” Her eyes dip to my mouth.

Guilt flickers. Our ages come to mind—she can’t be more than twenty-eight at the most. I’m forty-four. That’s a big difference. Then there’s Troy, for what it’s worth. I’m not trying to make things worse for him. There are so many reasons to shut this down. They hit, fade, hit again, fade again.

She watches the whole thing move across my face. “We can stop if you want.”

But I’ve lost the argument in my head. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Then don’t.”

“Bad idea.”

“So is living. We still do it.”

Water steady. Tile warm where the steam has done its job. I reach for shampoo and pour a line into my palm. “Turn.”

She does. I work the shampoo through her hair, slow, careful not to tangle, fingers strong enough to say I’m here without grabbing. Copper streaks darken, then glint under the light when the water hits them. She exhales like the sound is new to her. “You’re good at this.”

“Thanks.”

I rinse her hair and step closer to keep the soap out of her eyes. She doesn’t flinch. I reach for body wash, pump, rub my hands together until the slick feels right, then smooth it over her shoulders, down her arms, slow over forearms, careful at elbows, palms wrapping wrists where old stress likes to sit. She leans into it like she thinks she can depend on me.

“Okay?” I say.

“Mm.” Not an affirmation, but her moaning tone is.

I keep it methodical. No rush. Collarbone. Down the sternum, a respectful pass that asks and waits. Her breath deepens. “Yes,” she says, and my hands keep going. Ribs. Waist. Hips. Thighs. The girl is hot, there’s no doubt about that. And after she took my cock in her ass like a pro, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.

But right now, I want to make her feel good. I kneel because angles matter, and I won’t make her do the work. Water beats my shoulders. The tile is cool under my knees. The scent of clean soap and hot air fills the space.

She rests a hand on my head, fingers light. “Look at me.”

I look up. Her eyes are steady and dark. Water streaks her face and doesn’t blur her expression.

“Come here.”

I stand. She steps in and fits against me, wet skin to wet skin, hands sliding over my back. She kisses me. Just pressure and heat and intent. I answer with the same.

“Keep talking,” she says against my mouth.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Whatever you haven’t said because you’re busy parenting grown men.”

“Harsh.” But I laugh anyway.

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m the oldest. It’s kind of my job.”

“Your job is rock star. Not nanny.”

I shrug. “This is how it’s always been. I do what needs to be done. If that means corralling my brothers into better choices, so be it.”

“And I’m guessing you’re a planner too, right? The one who picks where you’re going, what you’ll be doing, all of that?”

Damn. She’s got a read on me. “Yeah. Normally, I don’t like surprises. Tonight was a surprise.”

She goes a little stiff. “Good or bad?”

“Yes.”

She laughs into my mouth as she kisses me again.

My chest loosens. “I thought you wanted to go out. You know Vegas—doesn’t matter what time of the night, there’s something to do. How come you wanted to stay here?”

She takes a deep breath and sighs. “Tonight, as it turns out, I want this shower instead.” She puts her palm on my sternum, then slides it down. I let a breath out slow when she reaches my cock.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Say stop whenever you want⁠—”

“I will.” She smiles up at me. “I know how consent works, Knox. And it goes both ways.”

I nod once and reach past her for the water, adjusting it a notch warmer. She shivers with it and then settles. I pull her back under the spray, shoulder to shoulder, side to side, bodies lined up. Hands find places to fit. Mouths do the rest. The steam blurs edges and makes the room feel closer and safer.

Somehow, we become one.

I’ve got her pressed against the tile, my forearms bracketing her head. Her brown eyes are almost as dark as mine, and I can’t look away. Especially when my cock makes them roll back. Her face is flushed, rivulets racing down her cheeks from the showerhead. I suck her bottom lip into my mouth when she groans.

“Like that.”

I release her lip, nuzzle against her neck, and mutter the only thing on my mind. “Fuck, baby, I can’t get enough of you tonight.”

“Then keep going,” she purrs as her pussy tightens on me.

Time thins. Breath shortens. The sound she makes when she’s close is quiet and sure. She clenches my shoulders and lets out a low yes that turns into a laugh at the end. It’s the best thing I’ve heard all week. I follow over that edge with her, not because I force it, but because I have no other choice.

We stand under the water while our pulses come back down. My guilt hasn’t vanished. Real guilt doesn’t evaporate. It’s worn smooth around the edges. Manageable. I can pick it up later and carry it without dropping everything else.

“You okay?”

She blows out a breath. “Better than.”

I kiss her earlobe. “Good.”

We turn off the water. The sudden quiet rings in my ears. I grab a towel and wrap it around her shoulders, rub her arms briskly, then take a second towel for her hair. Another for me.

She watches me in the mirror while I blot my face. Steam gives us blurred versions of ourselves that look softer than we are. She looks younger like this, which is saying something. But there’s a maturity in her eyes that speaks to decades of hard times. I don’t know her whole story, but I bet it’s one hell of a ride.

Robes on, we step back into the hall. The suite is the same room we left. TV still blue. City still flashing. Salem now on his side, dead to the world. Houston awake enough to look up and track us with a small, satisfied line for a smile before sleep pulls him under again.

“You really thought this was a bad idea?” she asks me.

“Yes.”

“So why can’t you stop?”

I look at her and don’t try to hide it. “Because you’re easy to be around.”

She blinks at that, like it’s not what she expected. “That’s it?”

“Not a lot of people are.”

She tucks a strand behind her ear. “I’m not after anything.”

“I know.”

“I know what this life looks like. I’m not interested.”

“I know that too.” I can tell. She’s nothing like the groupies we usually hook up with. There’s no ambition, other than figuring out her next steps. No asking for money or favors. No bag of drugs that made an appearance.

Just a woman in a bad spot, thanks to our idiot brother.

My mind tries to jam every worry back onto the stage. I let most of them fall through the trapdoor. The big ones can wait until morning. The bigger one is already quieter than it was an hour ago.

I fall asleep thinking about the click of the lock, the yes in her voice, the way the steam softened everything that needed softening. Guilt’s still there, but it’s not steering. It can ride in the back.

Sometimes the bad idea is just a good one that came at the wrong time.

I’ll pay for the complications later. For now, I sleep.

Room service is easier than feelings. I order both.

Coffee. Tea. Fresh juice. Eggs every way, so no one has to pretend they’re not picky. Pancakes, French toast, bacon, sausage, steel-cut oats with toppings. A bowl of berries that actually tastes like berries. Avocado, toast, honey, jam. Yogurt, granola. Extra napkins. Real butter. Real maple syrup. Three carafes of water. I ask for it all on warmers and a stack of plates so it feels like a choice, not a lecture.

The suite is quiet. Early light. The Strip blinks like it forgot how to sleep in 1961. Salem is sprawled on the couch with one arm over his eyes, dead to the world. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t moved much in the night. Neither of us is good at sleeping in beds, so it wasn’t a surprise to wake up on a recliner.

My spine would have preferred the bed, though.

I knock once on her door, soft.

“Yeah?”

“It’s me.”

The lock clicks. She opens the door a few inches, hair messy, face clean, eyes clear in a way that tells me she slept.

“Hungry?”

“Maybe.”

“Good. I ordered breakfast and it should be here any minute.”

“Aiming for sainthood?”

I grin. “I’m shocked you can ask me that after last night.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles. “I’ll put some pants on⁠—”

“Entirely optional.”

She shuts the door, and room service knocks. They roll in two carts lined with everything they offer. It smells like heaven. Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.

Once they leave and she emerges in shorts and a tank top, we make our selections and sit at the breakfast table near the living room. My first thought is to check in. “Any changes since last night?”

“No.” A small sip of air. “I feel…wanted. Not like a problem. That’s new. And—” She rubs her thumb over her palm like she’s wiping off a word. “Free of him. Finally. I’m not sure what I want next.”

“You can take next slow.” I keep my voice level. “First question is simple. Is it safe to go back for your things?”

Her mouth goes tight. “I think so. He leaves late. Sleeps late when he’s being a jackass.”

“I’ll go with you.”

She holds my eyes. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

She nods once. “Then yes.”

Knox comes out of the den, hair a little wild, eyes steady. Salem doesn’t move.

I nod at him. “Ready for breakfast?”

Knox pours tea. He thanks me without words. He’s not a morning person.

Lou asks, “Are we gonna wake Salem?”

Knox snorts at the thought, and I smile. I say, “We could drop a bomb next to his head, and he might roll over, but that’d be about it. When he’s out like this, he’s gone.”

Lou wipes syrup from her lip with her thumb. “Does Troy ever notice what he does to people?”

“Not in time to stop himself.”

“Do you think he’ll try to make trouble if I go back for my things?”

“He’ll try to make noise. But that’s usually all he does.”

She glances away. “Yesterday, he started making fists before he stepped toward me. I don’t…” She sighs. “It’s over. But that freaked me out.”

I hate that I even have to ask this. “Has he ever hit you?”

“No. But yesterday was the first time I thought he might.”

I catch Knox’s eye, he nods once, and we both know what it means. Troy has gone off the deep end. Even if he never hit her before, women have a sixth sense about these things.

I hate this. But I won’t ignore it. And I won’t let her near him alone. “We swing by Sagebrush first.” I pour her water. “It’s on the way. And then we’ll get your things.”

Her mouth forms a small half smile. “Okay.”

“You make a list. We take it all. If he’s there, I handle him. If he’s not, we move quick.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We finish eating. Knox collects plates without a word. Salem groans, rolls over, and immediately falls back asleep.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Give me five,” she says. “I want to brush my teeth and put on shoes that won’t make me hate myself.”

“Take ten.”

She disappears into her bedroom with a nod.

Knox leans against the bar. “You good?”

“Yeah.”

He looks at the door, then back at me. “We’re not heroes.”

“No.”

“I know how you are, Houston. You don’t have to be the white knight and save her. Lou’s strong. She can save herself.”

I sigh at that. “Yeah, I’m sure she can. She’s been doing it for long enough. But what if people didn’t have to save themselves all the time? Don’t you think she wants a break from that? A hand? Anything?”

His forehead lines with thoughts. “Yeah. Probably.”

“She’s on her own, Knox. No brothers to help. No sisters to cry to. No parents to lean on. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with letting her lean on us for a day.”

“You big Boy Scout.”

I snort a laugh. “Yeah, well. You know me.”

“I do. That’s why I’m bringing it up.”

Lou comes out in a tank top and leggings, hair up, simple makeup that makes her look like herself. Sneakers. That locket with the sad story. A glittering reminder of why I want to help her.

We take the elevator down. The hotel morning is a softer animal than the night. Fewer phones. More coffee cups. The valet brings the bike around. The engine wakes under me. She climbs on and fits her hands at my waist, and we roll out.

The city is honest in the morning. Palms. Sun. Concrete that doesn’t pretend to be marble. Lou’s grip settles. Her chin touches my shoulder once and lifts. We take surface streets. No hurry.

Sagebrush looks smaller in full light. Beige and heat. The sign is tired. The door sticks. Thankfully, the air inside is cool. Mismatched chairs that survived three economic cycles sit around, taking up space. The control room glass appears wavy when viewed from the side.

“No one’s here on Saturday at nine. That’s not a rule. It’s a fact.”

She snorts. “Artists.”

I walk her to the back hallway, where the wall is a museum of what used to sell. Gold records. Newspaper clippings. A few of our first plaques sit to the side. Our mother’s session photos. Her bass. A set list from a night we barely survived because the soundboard died, and we finished acoustic on the floor.

“We crashed here between sessions. On the floor. On those old throw rugs. Used our jackets as pillows. Ate whatever the vending machine had. It was good. We were broke and tired, and it was still good.”

Lou studies the wall, then studies me. “You look proud.”

“We were working.” I touch the frame of a photo where we’re eight kinds of exhausted and still smiling. “Working is easy to be proud of.”

She stands next to me and breathes in like the room has a smell she missed until now. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“Wanted you to see our version of this place. Maybe wipe out the memories from yesterday. I doubt that was a good impression of the studio. Vegas changes clothes every year. This place stays ugly and useful.”

“Ugly and useful,” she repeats, amused. “I like it.”

We loop the live room. The drum kit is under a drop cloth. The piano waits with its lid down. The red light over the door is off. Good.

Lou runs her fingers over the edge of a music stand like she’s feeling the nicked paint and the invisible history. “I could work here.”

“You could do anything here,” I say. “That’s the point.”

She turns. The quiet in the room changes shape. The light is soft. Her mouth does a small, uncertain thing that makes me want to fix the air. I step closer, but not too close.

This is going somewhere I didn’t expect. “We’re here because I wanted to show you the wall. We don’t have to do anything else.”

She studies my face like she’s calibrating a lens. “And if I want something else?”

“Then we can make out like teenagers until someone files a complaint.”

She throws her head back and laughs, then moves first. A step into my space. Hand at my chest, flat and warm, testing the give of the shirt and the muscle under it. I hold still and let her feel me take a breath.

She leans in. I meet her halfway. Her mouth is soft and certain and tastes like her sweet croissant from breakfast. The first touch is a clean press. I answer with the same. We both pause, a heartbeat of confirmation, then tip into it.

Kissing slides into a series of moments. The shift of breath. The temperature of a lower lip. I keep my hands high—shoulders, the back of her neck, the line of her jaw—with the lightest touch. She makes a quiet sound that changes how I’m breathing.

Her fingers curl into my shirt, then slide to my waist, then around my back, pulling me closer. I go willingly. Our bodies align, and soon she’s grinding on me, her legs around my waist, my hands under her ass.

Damn that ass.

I take a long breath through my nose so I don’t rocket ahead. She catches it and smiles into the kiss like she appreciates restraint. I reward her for noticing with a deeper pull, a slow stroke that says I’m not made of ice. She answers with a small, involuntary exhale that I feel on my tongue more than I hear.

I angle us so her back finds the wall beside the plaques. Not pinned. Placed. She tests the space and nods without breaking contact. I slide one hand into her hair, careful of the locket, and the other to her hip, steady. She lifts onto her toes to meet me, and I bend, and we find the level where neither of us has to strain.

Her palm cups my jaw. The pad of her thumb traces my lower lip. My eyes shut for a beat. Open. Her lashes are dark and wet at the edges. It’s just what happens when a person gets kissed right.

Hands go places. Over clothes. Under them. When my fingers slip up the inside of her thigh over her leggings, she’s all too eager for me to reach where I want to go. I keep it focused. Mouth. Breath. Hands where they belong. No territory I can’t defend. No move I can’t take back if she changes her mind.

She doesn’t. She grinds her pussy on my fingers until she’s shaking.

We break to breathe and don’t go far. Forehead to forehead. A laugh that’s almost a groan. A sigh that’s almost a curse.

“Okay?” I say, quiet.

“More,” she says, and I give it.

She lets out a bloodcurdling groan, something that buries deep into my marrow, when she comes. She tugs lightly at my ponytail. My stomach drops in the good way. I chase the feeling and pull back just enough to run my mouth along the edge of her jaw, behind her ear, down to where her pulse is too obvious to ignore. I don’t leave a mark. I don’t need to. She arches into it anyway and makes a new sound I’m going to remember later when the day tries to get loud.

“Houston,” she says, more breath than voice.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Not planning to.”

So I don’t. I go back to her mouth and kiss her like I have answers and they’re all in the way our mouths fit. We wind tighter. The room disappears. My heart moves from a steady line into a syncopation I know I can play without dropping it. She shatters on my fingers again, shaking in my arms. I’d hold her all day⁠—

A key turns in the front door.

We freeze.

A cart squeaks across tile. A whistled tune. Footsteps. The janitor.

Lou’s eyes go wide, then bright with mischief. I put a finger to my lips, and she shakes with a silent laugh against my chest. I back us off the wall, grab her hand, and we move fast and quiet to the side door like teenagers who know which stair doesn’t creak.

We make it into the hall and out the back exit without proof that we were ever there. The door closes with a soft click, and we stand in the bright morning like we committed a victimless crime.

She leans into me and laughs for real. “You called it.”

“We’ll finish what we started later. If you want.”

“Yeah. You better.”

I know he’s a bastard, so I go to his hotel, text Houston that I’ll pick up her things instead. She shouldn’t have to deal with our brother. Not today.

Uber, not the bike. I don’t want a scene in the valet. I don’t want my plates in gossip site B-roll. I ping a ride, grab a hoodie and a cap, and head down.

The driver pulls up. Mid-thirties, clean car, curious eyes in the mirror. I slide in back.

“Short hop. Meter running. Wait for me when we get there. I’ll tip heavy.”

“How long?”

“Fifteen,” I lie. “Twenty if he’s mouthy.”

He laughs like he thinks I’m joking. “I’ll wait.”

We roll off the circle and onto the boulevard. Saturday, late morning, the heat is already up. The Strip is quieter than it pretends, like it’s catching its breath after last night. I know the feeling.

I check my phone. No new fires. Two texts from Knox—You good? and Don’t stab him.

I text back Good and No promises.

We turn into Troy’s hotel. Paparazzi swarm the front like flies on a dropped drink. Long lenses, stupid questions shouted at the glass, all energy and no aim. They don’t see me. Cap down, hoodie up, back seat. I tap the driver’s shoulder. “Around back. Service lane.”

He nods and cuts left. Loading dock. Employee parking. Concrete heat. A security kiosk with a bored guard and a clipboard.

I get out and lean in the window. “You’ll stay put, right?”

He taps his phone. “I’ll be right here.”

I walk to the kiosk like I belong. That’s half the battle with these situations.

The guard looks up. Mid-fifties, radio on his shoulder, a face that has seen worse than me. “Back entrance is closed. Move your car. This is for deliveries only.”

I smile like I’ve got a secret. “I just need five. Guest recovery. Very important guest recovery, if you catch my drift. He’s going to set off the smoke alarm with whatever he’s burning in there, and then you’ll have paperwork. Let me help us both not have that day.”

He snorts. “Name and room.”

“Guest is Troy Turner. You can call up, but he won’t answer.”

“You got ID?”

I prefer not being recognized. Makes things easier most of the time. Today, though, it could go either way.

I slide my license across the counter with two VIP laminate passes from the residency and a folded bill under them. He looks at the ID. He looks at me. He looks at the bill and leaves it where it is, which I respect.

“Two minutes. Use the staff elevator. Don’t make me need to know you.”

“You got it.”

“I’m a man who wants quiet,” he says, and buzzes the door.

“Understood.” Most security guards are.

Back corridor. Concrete block. Fluorescent hum. The staff elevator is slow enough to make me want to kick it. I don’t. He’s on the fifth floor. I step out onto carpet that smells like lemon cleaner and bad choices.

Must be a bruise to Troy’s ego to stay here. He was used to how we do things. Resorts, spas, the works.

I wouldn’t order room service in this place.

His door is open a crack. There are voices. A laugh that hurts my teeth. Music coming from a phone tossed somewhere.

I knock once, then push.

Heat, perfume, stale alcohol, the candy-sweet metallic edge of cheap vape pens. Girls and guys spill past me on their way out—heels in hand, shirts half-buttoned, one dude in a towel that isn’t his. Someone says, “Oh my god, it’s him,” like I’m a second course.

I ignore it.

Troy stands in the middle of the room, half-dressed, half-awake, eyes glassy, hair in twenty directions like he fought the pillow and lost. He blinks at me.

“What.” Not a question. A complaint.

“I’m here for Lou’s things.”

He laughs. It’s ugly this close. “Of course you are.”

“Laptop. Clothes. Whatever she left.”

He staggers a step closer and squints like the light is personal. “You fucked every other woman on the planet,” he says, volume rising. “Now you gotta fuck my used-up ex too?”

My hand goes to his throat, palm to larynx, thumb under his jaw. I walk him back until his shoulders hit the wall, and it rattles. He smells like old liquor and something worse. Pretty sure my hand is sticky from touching him.

“Choose your next words carefully, Troy,” I growl. “Houston isn’t here to save you today.”

His eyes flare. His mouth opens. No sound. I feel the beat of his pulse against my hand. I hold him just long enough to make the point, then I let go. He drops to the carpet like a marionette with cut strings and coughs until his face goes red.

I step back, let the room breathe again.

“Closet,” he wheezes, pointing with a weak hand. “Take the garbage out with you.”

I don’t rise to it. I go to the closet. It’s a mess. Clothes on hangers, clothes on the floor, the smell of cologne. Lou’s is the small, neat section—a black garment bag, a soft hoodie, leggings, a pair of sneakers tied together by the laces. Her laptop sits on the desk with the charger half-coiled and a sticker on the lid that makes me smile despite myself.

I unplug, wrap, tuck it into the sleeve sitting beside it. Chargers too. I check the drawers for anything that looks like hers and find a small pouch with pencils and a folded sketch. I grab the bag and hoodie and sneakers and sling the strap across my chest.

Click. Then a whispered “Shit!” followed by fumbling sounds.

Someone’s still in the bathroom.

I step to the side and look. A girl stands halfway behind the door, phone up, camera aimed at me and Troy. She’s twenty, maybe. Glitter on her cheekbone, smeared liner, a smile she thinks will save her from being held accountable.

“Phone,” I say, hand out.

She clutches it tighter. “It won’t help. It’s already in the cloud.”

I look at Troy. He’s on the floor, leaning against the wall now, rubbing his neck, eyes mean and bright in the way that always means he’s going to say something stupid.

“Don’t touch her,” he croaks. “She’s my guest.”

“She’s a stranger with your room key. Congratulations.”

The girl hits stop with her thumb, moves the phone to her chest like I’m about to snatch it. I don’t. Doesn’t fucking matter now.

I sigh and look back at Troy. “You want to be a headline? Here’s a faster way. Walk outside. Scream. Real paparazzi will eat that up.”

He coughs a laugh into his hand and grins. “You’re so tough when Houston’s not babysitting.”

“I’m so tired of your shit, Troy. And you’re boring me these days. Why don’t you surprise me and become a decent person?”

He just sucks his teeth and looks away.

I scan once more. Toothbrush that isn’t Lou’s. Makeup bag that isn’t hers. Earrings that aren’t hers. All set. I zip the garment bag and hook it over my finger. I take the hoodie and the laptop and the sneakers, and I stand in the middle of the room and look at him.

“You done?” His petulant tone grates on my nerves.

“With you? Years ago.”

He smiles wider, ugly. “You took turns on Lou, right? I’m sure she just loved that. She didn’t even like sex⁠—”

I take one step, and he bites the rest of the sentence in half. Good choice.

The annoyance spikes and flattens. It’s not worth a second round. I scan the nightstand in case she left another charger. Nothing. I don’t touch anything else.

The girl stands in the bathroom doorway now, arms folded. “Your brother was just having a good time. You don’t have to give him shit over it.”

“Here’s the part you don’t get. He’s going to use you, and you’re going to be nobody to him by noon.”

She looks at Troy. He’s impassive as always. But I’m not making her my problem. I’m here for one thing.

I turn for the door. Troy clears his throat like a ninety-year-old man. “Tell Lou I said⁠—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” I say without looking. “Keep whatever you think to yourself and try swallowing water today. You sound like shit, and your voice is starting to go. You’re too young for that.”

“Well, you’re too old for Lou!”

“Not my fault that guys her age don’t know how to touch her.”

Bathroom Girl snorts.

I open the door a crack and listen. Voices down the hall, not this door. Good. I slide out and pull it shut without a bang, then reverse my steps back to the exit. The guard looks up. He sees the garment bag, the laptop sleeve, the sneakers hooked in my fingers. He doesn’t ask. He buzzes the door without me touching the bell.

“Saint,” I say.

“I’m a man who wants quiet,” he says again.

Even though the load I’m carrying isn’t getting lighter, I have to ask, “I’ve never really had quiet. What’s that like?”

He chuckles to himself. “I’ll let you know if I ever get any.”

Outside, the driver straightens in his seat when he sees me. I load the garment bag in the back with a gentleness that would get me roasted if Salem from five years ago saw it. I slide the laptop onto the seat and climb in.

“Good?” the driver says.

“Good.”

He glances at the mirror. “You were fast.”

“There wasn’t much to take.”

The driver’s radio murmurs low. The city opens ahead like a hallway with too many doors. I lean my head back for one second and breathe.

I replay the grip on Troy’s throat, the sound of the cough, the way the girl’s thumb twitched when she said the word cloud. It’ll surface. It always does.

The headline hits my screen as Houston and I cross the marble toward The Gold Bar’s elevators.

Troy Turner’s Ex Moves On…With His Brother?

I don’t even have to tap it. The preview is enough. There’s Salem with his hand at Troy’s throat, Troy’s heels off the carpet. Troy looks like spoiled milk in human form. Salem looks like the devil if the devil did push-ups.

I set that alert on Troy back when we started dating. I thought monitoring the blast radius would help me keep us steady. It never did. I still have it. Of course, this is what it serves me when I’m finally breathing again.

“Lou?” Houston’s voice is low. He’s already angling his body to block anyone else’s sight line, like he can physically push the internet away from me.

“I saw it.” I keep walking. I’m not going to be the girl crying in a lobby. I’m not going to be any of the girls I’ve been when I was with him. Never again.

We ride up in a square of silence. I stare at my screen and watch strangers write their versions of me in the comments. I could mute the word “ex” and it wouldn’t matter. The picture does the work. The story is worse—the two of them bickering over me in Troy’s hotel room. Like I’m some kind of prize to fight over instead of a person.

Houston doesn’t say anything. He understands that a quiet person right now is better than a helpful one.

The suite door opens, and Salem is standing in the living room. I want to bite his head off.

But next to him, my laptop sits on the table, my garment bag is hooked over a chair, and my sneakers are tied together by the laces on the floor.

Knox is at the table with a legal pad and a list. The TV is muted on the news. The still on screen is the same photo burned into my alert.

I open my mouth to shout, but Salem cuts me off. “Before you see it and decide I woke up today choosing violence, I went to get your things, not to cause problems.”

I lift the phone a fraction. “You grabbed him by the throat.”

“He earned it,” he says without apology. “But I was there to help you. Not to beat him up. Hell, I didn’t even do that. Just roughed him up a little. It wasn’t hard to figure out what was yours—neat piles versus his scattered approach to organization. The place looked like a rat’s nest.”

That sounds about right. When I moved in with Troy, he had two housekeepers just to keep up with him. When he’s on the road, it’s worse, and the hotel staff and I have to make sure he doesn’t fall into a pit of sepsis.

Fuck me, why was I with him again?

Knox flips the legal pad around. Three columns: Keep, Donate, Trash. Lines under each like he’s about to turn grief into a grocery list. He meets my eyes. “You can stay with us for now. We’re here a month. Residency’s got this suite, so you have your own room. You can lock any door you sleep behind. No strings. We know you’re basically homeless right now, thanks to Troy, and since we’ve got the space, and we all get along pretty well⁠—”

“Pretty well?” Salem scoffs. “Do you remember last night?”

We all ignore him. I blow out a breath. “This is a lot to throw at me in two minutes, guys. I need to think.”

“Of course,” Knox says, nodding.

I set my phone face down on the bar so I don’t throw it. “I don’t do charity.”

“Good,” Salem says. “We’re not a charity.”

“What are you then?” I ask.

“Men with a presidential suite and the nerve to use it to make a bad situation less stupid.”

Houston slides a glass of water within reach. “You’re not a charity case, Lou. You’re a person we’d like to help.”

That shouldn’t land as hard as it does.

It is hard not to cringe at it, though. The idea of letting someone else take care of me in any capacity is…well, it’s weird. But I also don’t have anywhere else to go. I broke my lease in San Francisco when I moved in with Troy. We’ve been on the road for a couple of months. And my job is more past than present.

I look at my laptop as if it had forgotten me, and we both need to pretend that’s not true. “Thank you. All of you.”

“You didn’t cause this,” Knox says, nodding at the TV still. “It was already there. Today’s just when the light hit it.”

I breathe out. “I don’t want to be the reason you fight with him.”

Salem snorts. “We were already fighting with him. You’re the reason we did something useful between rounds.”

Houston checks the time. “We have rehearsal in an hour. Eat. Shower. Choose a room. If you want us to clear out while you get your head on, we do that.”

“I’m not going to break.”

“No one said you were,” Knox says.

The photo is still sitting in my head. The headline is nothing—lazy copy written by someone who’s never had to block death threats on a lunch break. The picture is the problem. Salem looks like he means to end a story. People like to fill in blanks with blood.

Troy has a small, but loyal fan base. If any of them get the idea to punish the girl who led to that picture, I’m screwed. I have to play this smart. “I’m going to work.”

“Good,” Knox says. “Work helps.”

They move around me without making me feel herded. It’s a neat trick. Salem kills the TV, finally, and tosses the remote on the couch like it offended him. Houston opens the balcony door a crack to let new air in. Knox circles items on his pad, then tears off the page and leaves it where I’ll see it when I’m ready.

I sit at the bar, open the laptop, and wait to see if it still knows my password. It does. My inbox loads like it’s been holding its breath and now wants to dump all of it at once. I filter for clients. Crickets.

The last handful of emails are months old and say some version of Hope you’re well—touching base—circle back next quarter. I scroll through the rejects, the near misses, the we loved your deck but went a different direction notes. I close the window before I drown. Or throw myself out of it.

Okay. Next.

I pull a sketchpad from the den—hotel notepads are good for grocery lists and lies, not ideas—and a pencil case that still smells like graphite and grade school. I draw a rectangle and then another inside it. Basics.

The basics turn into drawing Sagebrush from memory. The squat stucco box, peeled guitar pick decal, the cracked lot, the door with the heavy handle that tries to shake your arm off if you’re not ready for it.

I reduce it to what matters. No frills. A silhouette that reads at a glance. I write BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD in a condensed sans and make the baseline sit a little wrong on purpose. I place the studio’s outline underneath so the words feel anchored to an address, not a platitude. I mark up a second concept that tucks Sagebrush into the negative space of DRAWING like a ghost hiding where you’d expect a vowel. It works. It’s not genius. But it looks like me.

I check my email again because muscle memory is rude. Still quiet. Why wouldn’t it be?

I open a new folder on the desktop and title it LNC_Relaunch. I make subfolders and stop before I start color-coding; a brand-new system won’t save me if the work doesn’t come back. I jot a list in black pen, hard lines, no doodles. Brainstorm every idea until my hand cramps.

Salem pokes his head in. He nods at me, a question mark and a period. “You good?”

“I’m upright. That’s about as good as I can say I am right now.”

“That counts.” He wanders away.

I’m surprised he hasn’t apologized for making such a mess of things, but considering his scale of screwups—at least, the ones the public knows about—maybe this is nothing to him.

I put my phone on Do Not Disturb and answer two unpaid invoices with Friendly reminder attached subject lines and a level of chill I’ve earned. I archive three Are you available emails from people who want a free brainstorm under the heading of “coffee.”

No.

I go back to the sketch and push it into the laptop with a quick photo. I trace the shapes in Illustrator and set the type with a default weight while I test angles. I keep it rough on purpose. The point isn’t to make a poster the Strip would buy. The point is to remind my hand how to move.

It’s been no time at all, and my hand is aching to stop.

Suck it up, buttercup.

Half an hour in, the suite key clicks and Knox slips back in by himself. He takes in the room like he’s logging proof of life. He walks over and looks at the sketch without invading the desk. “That’s good.”

“It’s a doodle.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “That reads.”

“Haven’t come up with a client who wants honest.”

“You are the client. For once.”

I get what he means, but I’m not sure it matters. “I let my work get small. Not on purpose. I said yes to what was in front of me. The big stuff takes quiet and time. I got good at waiting for his keys in the lock. No quiet. No creativity.”

“Lost a lot?”

“Most of my regulars moved on. I don’t blame them. The few who stayed got the polite version of me. I hate the polite version of me.”

“You going to fix it?”

“I’m going to relaunch. Lou Navarro Creative. New site. New rules.”

He nods like we’ve already signed a contract. “Good.”

“I don’t know if there’s a market for a woman who wants to make things that don’t apologize.”

“Profound. But there is.” He taps the drawing lightly with one knuckle. “This says hire me because I know what I’m doing, not because I’ll say yes to your cousin’s opinion.”

“The cousin always has opinions.”

“The cousin doesn’t cut checks. Art Director crossed my mind when I saw that.”

I huff. “You’re sweet. I’m stubborn and scrappy. That’s not the same as Art Director.”

“It’s exactly the same. You point at the thing, say what’s wrong or right, and then you make people better.”

“People are the hard part.”

“Always.” He shrugs. “They’re also the part that pays.”

I look at the sketch again and try on the title Art Director in my head. It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t not fit. “Maybe.”

“Put it on the list,” he says. “Doesn’t cost anything to consider it.”

“You sound like a guidance counselor.”

“I’ll take it.” He smiles. “You need anything before I go back down?”

“I need to not be a headline.”

“We’re working on it.”

“Tell Salem I said thanks.”

“You can tell him yourself when we get back.” He squeezes my shoulder and heads out.

I open Notes and draft something I might post later, if I hate myself less. I’m okay. I’m moving on. Please leave strangers alone on my behalf; they don’t know me. I won’t be answering questions at this time. I add a line that says Don’t Google me and decide you know what I deserve. I delete that one. It’s too honest for the internet.

The internet does not do nuance.

I leave the note in drafts and close the app. My DMs are already boiling. Half the messages are from people who followed me for Troy and stayed to hate-watch. Half are from women who are tired. The first group thinks I’m a climber; the second keeps telling me to block the word “whore” and take a bath. Some suggest a toaster bath.

I don’t do any of it. Instead, I stand, shake out my hands, and refill my water.

The suite smells like coffee gone cold and hotel air. I prop the balcony door wider and let the heat in. Vegas is already moving past lunch with a hangover and a smile. I grew up in this light and spent years trying to get it off my skin. Today, it feels almost comforting.

I sit again and refine the Sagebrush silhouette. I add a sun disk behind it and then take it away. Too on the nose. I draw a broken pencil over the roofline and hate it immediately. I sketch a hand instead—just the outline—and let the index finger drag a charcoal line across the facade. Back to the drawing board sits on that line like it means it. Better.

I can live with that.

Just like living with my childhood crushes. Who I’m sleeping with. Who are my ex’s older brothers.

This won’t get weird at all.

Quincy arrives five minutes early, which is his way of reminding us he can still outrun our excuses. Tall, lean, white, late sixties, the last gray fringe holding on around a head that gave up on hair a long time ago. He takes the head of the small conference table off the backstage hall and sets his phone face down.

“Keep your noses clean,” he says instead of hello. “Deliver a new album recorded in the old studio in four weeks.”

Four weeks lands like a snare hit. Salem slouches deeper. Houston nods once. I sit straighter because someone has to.

Quincy looks at each of us to see if we’re going to blink. “Yes, it’s a squeeze,” he goes on. “You work well under pressure. You always have. The chatter’s loud. This Lou Navarro’s name is in it. That’s not good for the new album.”

I shrug. “Rumors move faster than facts.”

“Facts are for press releases. Rumor sells tickets, but the novelty wears off fast.” He taps the table twice. “We’re not going to feed it trash. We’re going to deliver songs so sharp that the rumor looks like a cheap coat over a suit.”

“No pressure,” Salem mumbles.

“I’m in a do-your-job mood,” Quincy says to him. He turns to me. “How fast can you get Sagebrush blocked out?”

It’s a reasonable question for any other studio. “This afternoon. It’s not like anyone books there anymore. I’m surprised they can keep the lights on. We’ll work days to avoid bleed from the night schedule at The Gold Bar. Engineer on call. We’ll need a runner. Gear list is the usual, plus a couple of ribbon mics. Old room likes ribbons.”

“Budget says yes to anything that gets me a record in four weeks,” he says. “Within reason.” He gives Salem a look that has history in it. “Reason means receipts.”

“I keep receipts.” Salem smirks. “They make great blunts.”

Quincy ignores the commentary. “Good. Now. Lou.” He lets the name hang between us. “You three intend to treat her like a person or a headline?”

“A person,” I say.

“She’s staying with you, I understand.” Not a question. Quincy always knows what’s going on, even if we never tell him. “Fine. Keep it boring in public. I’ll get her a stylist, so she’s more suitable for your image.”

“She’s not a prop,” Houston says slowly.

“She’s got a brain? That’s good to hear. She’ll appreciate my work.” Quincy turns his notebook, uncaps a thin pen, and draws a rectangle. “Album. We need a visual story that doesn’t look like you’re apologizing for stealing your brother’s girlfriend.” He looks up at me. “Ideas?”

“I want her to lead the visuals.” I clear my throat. “Art director for the album and tour branding.”

Quincy’s eyebrows move a millimeter. “Your new girlfriend’s the art director. That’s bold.”

“She’s a designer. Good. Fast. She sees clean. And she’s not my girlfriend.” I keep going before Salem can poke. “She’s from here. She’s already sketching. We can pay market and put a firewall in place so it’s not a handout. I want her in the room when we decide covers, posters, the lot.”

Quincy considers the pen like it’s a vote. “Deliverables?”

“Album cover system with variants. Two single covers. Tour key art. Venue packages—marquee, screens, posters, laminates. Merch routed through the same grid. A simple microsite to house the era. She’ll set a type system that won’t age like milk.”

Houston nods. “She already has a Sagebrush silhouette that reads from ten feet.”

“Show me when it’s done.” Quincy points the pen at me. “Money?”

“Fair rate with a kill fee and usage spelled out.”

He stands. “Noses clean. Record done. Visuals that don’t apologize. Keep Troy out of the goddamned studio. That boy’s a menace.” He gives us the long-suffering look that only a man who has dragged bands across decades can carry. “I’m too old for a bender detour.”

“We’ll keep him out.”

“Good. I’ll be in my bunker turning down clever ideas from clever people who have never made anything in their lives.” He starts for the door, pauses, and looks back at me. “Knox.”

“Yeah.”

“Leadership is a lonely trick. Don’t let it make you stupid with that girl.”

“I’ll try not to.” No promises.

“Try harder.” He leaves us to the quiet that comes after a marching order.

“We’ve done worse,” Houston says when Salem mutters something about four weeks.

“We’ve done dumber,” I say. “Don’t make me list them.”

I snap a photo of the whiteboard, block a calendar on my phone, and text the engineer we trust. Then I email Quincy the gear addendum and a budget skeleton for visuals. When I hit send, I loop Lou in.

I find her at the suite table with a sketchpad and her laptop, hair up, locket catching light, eyes on a vector she’s pushing into a shape I don’t recognize. She looks up when I sit, cautious for one second, then ready.

“Manager meeting went as expected. Four weeks. Album at Sagebrush. Keep our noses clean.”

She huffs. “Define clean.”

“Not giving strangers free content,” I explain. “No public fights. No headline photos. Deliver music so good the rumor mill gets bored.”

“Ambitious. Doable. Didn’t you guys write Black Whiskey in three weeks?”

I laugh clean and sharp. “Yeah. How’d you know that? No one ever brings up that album.”

There’s color in her cheeks when she answers. “It’s my favorite. Since I was a kid.”

Fuck me. I was in my thirties when we wrote that album.

“Well, you’re the only one who liked it.” I pause. “I pitched you as art director.”

She goes still. “You did what?”

“Album visuals. Tour branding. Pay at market. Firewall between business and whatever this is.” I slide the laptop around to show her a list. “Deliverables, budget ranges, timeline.”

She reads like she’s looking for a trap and not finding one. “You want me to lead.”

“Yes.”

“Not as a favor.”

“As a hire. You’ll set the grid. Approve vendor proofs. Tell us no when we try to make the cover look like a remorseful diary entry apologizing to Troy.”

Her mouth curves, then settles. “I like work that doesn’t apologize.”

“Me too.” I point at her sketch. “The Sagebrush mark works.”

“I’m still refining,” she says, but she looks lit from the inside now. “What’s the timeline really?”

“Four weeks in total. Visuals lock by week three, so the printers can breathe. First single cover inside ten days. Tour key art inside two weeks. Microsite by week four. The budget is healthy if we don’t get wasteful.”

She nods. “I can do that.”

“We’ll pull a crew, let you run that end of things.”

She looks at me like I’ve given her oxygen. “Thank you.”

“You’re not a charity case,” I say before she has to tell me again. “This will be a lot of work.”

“I know. It just feels good to hear deliverables come out of your mouth instead of pet names.”

“We don’t have time for pet names. We have a calendar.” I hesitate. “But we might make time for pet names. If you’re up for that.”

She smiles with her teeth for the first time today. It makes me stupid for a second. I cover by opening a shared doc and adding dates. She leans in, shoulder to shoulder with me, and our heads brush as we argue about whether the second Tuesday is too tight for the single. The work slides into talk like it always does when people trust each other.

She asks about our mother, and I tell her more than I usually tell anyone. How we learned to sleep on floors and count load-out in reverse. How she taught us to keep cash in two places. How the first time we played the room upstairs from Sagebrush, the owner tried to pay us in drink tickets, and she made him walk to the ATM.

Lou laughs, not at us, but with us. “And Troy? I know that has you knotted up.”

It’s time I talk to someone about this. Probably. Since it happened last year, I feel different. Like I’m shirking my responsibility. It doesn’t sit right with me.

“Kicking him out broke me a little,” I admit with a hiss at myself. “Not because I doubted it was right. I know it was. If for no other reason than he has to learn his actions have consequences. He won’t grow up until he internalizes that.”

“So, you kicked him out for his own good?”

I wince. “No. That’s just a side benefit of what happened. If I hadn’t kicked him out, we would have fallen apart. We were infighting. Houston was in total denial about Troy stealing from us, so he was defending him from Salem, who wanted to strangle Troy after he learned about him stealing from us.” I let out a breath to clear my head. “I was stuck between total denial and life-altering violence with the two of them. Neither was a real option. I chose the one that made the most sense, and they complied.”

“Yeah. But that’s logistics.” Her hand rests on my forearm. “How did you feel about it?”

“Like shit” blurts out of me. My shoulders sag. “Because leadership is bleeding in private and smiling in public. I did both. I still am.”

She watches my hands as I talk, like she’s reading the places the words don’t go. She sees me in a weird way for someone I just met. But there’s a part of her that gets it. I can tell when our eyes meet.

Her voice is quiet. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for sorry. I’m telling you the cost. He tried to rip off the family. That’s the line for me. There has to be a line. Everything after that is noise.”

She nods. “Absolutely there does. Maybe I’m wired different or whatever, but family or not, you don’t let that shit slide. You can’t. Money isn’t just money—it’s survival. He stole resources. Fuck that guy.”

“You don’t have to shit on him to make me feel better.”

She cocks a thin brow. “Is it working?”

I laugh, which surprises me. “Maybe a little.”

“Good.” She ties her hair back. “If you want to stop thinking about him, we can get back to work.”

“That’ll work.”

She looks back at the screen. “Discretion in public,” she says, like she’s writing a rule. “Honesty in private.”

“Exactly.”

“We don’t pretend,” she says. “We don’t perform for strangers. But we also don’t lie to each other.”

“It doesn’t have to be a problem.”

“It won’t be if we don’t let it. I’m not interested in burning my work down for a man again. Or in this case, men. And I’m not interested in hiding either.”

“Good. Neither are we.”

“But for now, I’d like some discretion. Until the heat dies around that picture of Salem.”

“Agreed.”

She sits back, thinking. “You and your brothers have done this before? Sharing someone, I mean.”

“Shared nights. Never more than one or two. It was simple. This is not that.”

“Because?”

“Because I click with you,” I say, and don’t try to soften it. “So does Houston. So does Salem.”

She breathes out like that lands somewhere she keeps locked. “Okay.”

“We don’t have to name it today. We’re just figuring things out, you especially. We just have to not lie about it.”

“Deal.” She glances at the clock. “You have to get back downstairs.”

“Soon,” I say, but I don’t stand yet. The quiet between us feels workable, not fragile. I close the laptop. “Quincy thinks this record lives or dies on how we carry ourselves and how fast we cut.”

“He’s not wrong.”

“He’s also not the one in the room when the take falls apart. That’s us.”

“You thrive under pressure,” she says, throwing his words back at me with a small smile.

“We endure under pressure. Thriving is the press release’s wording.”

She laughs. “Fair.”

I gather the papers. “You’ll get a contract. Sign it. Send me the W-9. I’ll have accounting pull your vendor profile. We’ll set deposits so you’re not floating us.”

“Look at you taking care of me without making it weird,” she says, half teasing, half not.

“It’s logistics. It’s what I live for.”

We stand at the same time. She tucks her pencil behind her ear. The gesture is small and does something big inside my rib cage. I ignore it like a professional.

At the door, she stops me with a hand on my forearm. “Thank you for telling me about Troy. How you feel.”

“If you’re going to sit in our rooms, you get the mess. No point pretending we’re tidy.”

“I don’t need tidy.” She squeezes once and lets go. “I need real.”

“Same here.”

I head back down the service hall toward the venue, passing the framed photos of acts that came through before us. Some smiled too hard. Some looked tired. The ones I respect look like they’re on their way to work.

Onstage, backline is set, cables taped, mics ready. Houston tunes without looking at the tuner. Salem argues with a monitor like it’s a person who owes him money. I step into the center, and the room settles the way rooms do when someone who pays attention walks in.

I count us in for a warm-up take. We play the bones of a song that isn’t a song yet and find a pocket that could be something if we keep our heads. It’s there. Not magic. Work. We push it twice more and then cut before we ruin what we found.

On the break, I check my phone. The headline is still there, still loud, still wrong. I put the phone face down. I don’t need it to tell me what the day is.

There’s a part of me that still tries to make excuses for the kid I carried through backstage halls when he fell asleep. I think about the man who looked at family accounts and decided short-term shine mattered more than loyalty.

Will he recover from the Lou situation? From getting kicked out of his family’s band? Maybe. Maybe not.

I’ve spent years wrapping worry around him like bubble wrap. He kept pulling it off. He liked the attention of the wound more than healing it. He proved it when he reached into the drawer we don’t touch and came up smiling.

I’m the one who’s supposed to keep track of what matters. The band. The work. The crew. The rooms we leave better than we found them. The people who trust us. Lou too, if she lets me put her on that list.

I don’t have to keep Troy’s feelings on the pile if he won’t add ours to his. That’s not cruelty. That’s life.

I used to think worrying about Troy was part of loving him. I used to think love meant carrying what someone drops and never asking them to pick it up. He taught me different when he chose himself over all of us. He made his choice look easy. He chose himself over his family. Maybe that’s the part that hurts the worst.

Sagebrush in the morning is quiet enough to hear the air conditioner. I unlock the front, let Lou in first, and flip the breakers for the live room. Dust lifts and settles. She sets her tote on the couch and looks around like she’s measuring the space for a new idea.

“I like it better in daylight,” she says.

“Me too.” I check the red light over the door, then the talkback. “We can start in A. B still hums.”

We lay out the day. Two hours to sketch a demo. An hour to listen to old takes. Lunch, if we remember it. She flips her sketchbook open and sketches the room. I boot the rig and patch the mics that always behave.

The front door opens without a knock. “Who forgot to invite me?” a voice sings.

I turn. “Mom?”

Talia Turner sweeps in like she owns the place, which she could if she wanted. Long blond curls, warm brown eyes, short and full-figured in a bright dress that shows she knows she still looks good. Bangles clink. Her smile is the same one that got us out of bad contracts and into better rooms.

I’m surprised she’s here. Between her home in Los Angeles and her home in Vegas, she usually picks the beach over the desert.

“You didn’t think I’d miss my boys when I was passing through, now did you?” she says, kissing my cheek, then holding Lou at arm’s length to look her over. “And you must be Lou. Honey, look at you. You’ve got the hunger in your eyes.”

Lou laughs, startled. “That obvious?”

“To me.” Mom winks. “I’m Talia. I cuss a little. I hug a lot. My boys tell me I’m too much, and that’s just fine by me.”

“Hi,” Lou says, a little smile on her lips, and her shoulders drop a notch.

Mom sets her purse on the piano and looks around. “This place raised you. You remember sleeping on those rugs?”

“I remember Salem snoring,” I say.

She laughs and spins once, checks the boards like she can hear the ghosts. “I brought coffee and kolaches in the car. Go get them, baby.”

I jog out, grab two boxes and a carrier, and come back to the sound of Mom telling Lou about her first tour. “I thought I wanted chaos,” she says. “Then I had three little men and decided the road could survive without me for a few years. Studio gigs paid. No one threw bottles. By the time Knox was old enough for the first hair on his chin, Troy was on the way, so I was glad I’d settled down. I could get home for dinner and make sure homework got done.”

“You did more than that,” I say.

“I did exactly that. We kept the lights on. You boys kept the music going. Now we’re all here again, which makes me think the universe likes symmetry.”

Lou touches her locket. “Yeah, maybe it does.”

Mom sees it. Of course she does. “What have you got there?”

“It’s the only thing I had when I was found,” Lou says. “Back of it says Navarro.” She shrugs. “So, that’s my last name.”

Mom’s face softens. “Baby.” Then she snaps her fingers like a bandleader. “You want to work? Go dig. The archival logs are in the back office. Session sheets, marker scribbles, receipts, my gross gum in envelopes. You’ll find something that sparks.”

Lou blinks. “Can I really?”

“You better,” Mom says. “Inspiration grows best in dusty folders.”

Lou disappears down the hall with a half smile. Mom watches her go and nods like a coach. “She’s got it.”

“Got what?”

“The look. Steady hands. Ear already on. Don’t ruin it by talking too much.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and sit at the piano. The wood is a little out. The felt smells the same. I play a scale, then a chord that lives in my hands whether I want it to or not.

I think about the locket, the unknown faces, the way Lou said the word found, when speaking about herself. A melody shows up like it’s been waiting by the door. I catch it and move slow so I don’t scare it off.

Three notes, then five. A climb that isn’t dramatic, a turn that lands where it started with something new inside it. I play it twice, then reach for a better voicing, then pick up the guitar to see if it holds in a different skin. It does.

“Pretty,” Mom says, perched on the amp like Betty Boop at a mic check.

“Locket.”

“Call it Lost and Found,” she says, then waves it off. “Forget it. Don’t let me name your art.”

I stand and patch a ribbon on the guitar, then a small diaphragm on the piano so the hammer noise stays polite. The old preamp in the rack still has a sweet spot two clicks past noon. I set it there.

Mom hums along to nothing and somehow finds the key anyway. That’s her gift. One of many. I arm two tracks and step into the live room to test the bleed.

Lou returns with a box of paper and a stack of old Polaroids. She sets them on the piano and looks at my hands. “What’s that?”

“Something new.”

She hums like she’s answering a question I didn’t ask. Not words. A line over mine that fits too well to be random. I stop and look at her. She blushes and shakes her head.

“That was good. Keep going.”

She hums it again. I play under it, shifting my left hand to give her more room. She follows without thinking, then stops, startled by herself. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I hit record. “Again.”

She does it, softer now, eyes on the locket like she’s reading from it. I add a second guitar voice to sit under both our lines and let the loop spin.

“You sing?” I ask.

She laughs. “No.”

Mom gives me the smallest nod behind her. I hear the chord change she means, and I take it. Lou hums the turn back with a little smile like she knew I would.

We play the loop. I stack a soft drum pattern with brushes, nothing that would scare the melody. The room holds its breath in the way rooms do when a song is being careful.

Lou hums one more answer and then covers her mouth with her hand like she’s broken a rule. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“It’s enough.” I save the session and type Locket in the name before Mom can see it and pitch something worse.

Lou flips through session logs. “Your mom’s notes are wild. ‘Turn it down, you fools’ is written four times. And underlined.”

“She was talking to Salem.”

“He liked loud,” Mom says.

“Likes,” I say, and she waves a hand.

“Likes.”

Lou runs her finger down a column. “This one says ‘two in the morning, the boys fell asleep here, leave them.’”

Mom sighs, fond. “We slept on this floor between takes. We woke up with lines in our faces from the rug.”

Lou sets a photo on the piano. It’s all of us in the live room, small and tired and proud. Mom behind the board, hair bigger, eyes the same. I look like a kid trying to stand like a man.

“Here.” Mom pulls a stack of cue sheets from a drawer. “You can steal my shorthand. TT means take. SB is sound better. HF is have fun, which I had to write because you all forget.”

Lou grins and copies the key into her notebook. “HF. Got it.”

I print the loop to a new track and bounce a rough stem so I can push it to my phone later. She hands me three Polaroids. “Use these for the room tone. Joking. But look.”

They’re of the same corner ten years apart. Different amps. Same scuff on the baseboard. It steadies me. Feels like home over time.

“I’m going to grab coffee,” Lou says. “You want anything?”

I grunt. “Black.”

“Cream and sugar,” Mom says. “And something sweet if the day loves me.”

“Got it,” Lou says. She takes her tote and is out the door with a wave.

The room settles differently without her. I lean back on the bench. “What do you think?”

“About her?” Mom grins. “I invited her to crawl through paper like a raccoon. That’s approval in my house.”

“I mean, us spending time with Troy’s ex.” I keep my voice even.

Mom snorts. “Baby, after all the men I went through, I’m sure some of them were brothers. I’m not here to preach about shoulds. I spent a lot of time on my knees in this life, so I can’t tell other people what to do about that kind of thing.” She pats my cheek when I blush. “Don’t faint.”

“I’m not fainting.” My cheeks are burning like lava, but I’m not fainting.

Her laughter dies down. “No one leaves a happy home, Houston. If she’s with you boys now and not with him, that’s probably on him somehow. You know how Troy is. I love my boys, but after what he pulled with the family business, that tells me what he thinks of his family and what kind of person he truly is. He made his choices. I can’t say I feel a lick of judgment when it comes to you three and Lou.”

“I feel responsible.”

“You are responsible. For your work. For how you treat people. For not drinking your lunch. You are not responsible for your brother being a fool.”

“Even if the press says otherwise?”

“Let the press write fan fiction. That’s all they do anyway,” she says. “Deliver something good. That’s the only answer that pays.”

The guilt finally subsides. Mom is a wild woman with the morals of a pirate, but I trust her judgment. “Okay.”

She squeezes my hand. “Encourage her. Don’t push. Leave the door open. When she hums, record it. When she draws, get out of the way. You boys are loud. She doesn’t need volume. She needs air.”

“She doesn’t want to sing.”

“She doesn’t want to be watched while she sings,” Mom corrects. “Not yet anyway.”

The door opens. Lou returns with a tray balanced on one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Cream and sugar,” she says, handing Mom a cup. “Black for you.” She passes me mine and sets a cinnamon roll on a napkin for the room.

“Good girl,” Mom says, already peeling a spiral.

Lou slides back onto the bench beside me. Her thigh touches mine and then doesn’t; she adjusts so she has her own space. Smart. I start the loop so she can hear what we caught. She hums that line under her breath without meaning to and then catches herself again.

“You’re allowed.”

She smiles without teeth. “Okay.”

“I’m going to go flirt with the copier and find the chili recipe I left in the desk in ninety-nine,” Mom announces, and floats down the hall, fanning herself with a session sheet.

“I love your mom,” Lou says.

“Funny. Me too.”

Lou takes out her phone and opens a notes app. We go over some details for the album, and then she asks for a title.

“Not yet. The songs will tell us the title.”

She nods, satisfied by that answer. She looks at the piano, then at me. “Show me your left hand again.”

I play the chorus we don’t have words for. She hums one measure and stops, thinking.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. It just fits.”

“It fits because you make it fit.”

She shakes her head and reaches for her coffee. “Don’t romanticize me. Too much pressure.”

“Noted.”

We get a verse. We get a bridge that will probably die by afternoon and we’re both okay with that. We get a beat that’s more heartbeat than drum loop. We save often because we’re not fools.

“Give me one clean hum. We’ll call it a guide, not a vocal.”

“Okay,” she says, and steps to the ribbon. I lower it to her height and ask if she wants the lights down. She nods. I dim the room and hit record. She hums the line once, breath steady, pitch true. I name the track and lock it so I can’t mess it up later. She exhales like she just did something reckless and survived.

Mom returns with a cracked folder and triumph. “Found it,” she says. “Also found my old laminates and a photo of Salem with hair down to his shoulders.”

“He’ll pay to destroy it.”

“Too bad,” she says, tucking it back like a card shark.

Lou checks the clock. “I can stay till two. Then I need to send emails and work on a thousand other things.”

“Two is perfect. Quincy wants a demo tonight.”

We run the song twice more. Lou’s hum locks tighter each pass. I color a harmony under her line that makes her look at me like I’ve complimented her without words. I have. She hears it. She might not know music formally, but some part of her brain does.

Before she goes, I jot a lyric scrap in the margins. Found, silver, names unknown, face in a locket, home is a person not a room. She reads it and taps the word home.

“That one,” she says.

I circle it. Mom nods from the doorway like we just picked a nail for a picture. Small choices. That’s how a song stops floating.

At one fifty, Lou closes her sketchbook and tucks her pencil into the wire. “I’m going to the suite to build a grid and not doomscroll.”

“So, just some light doomscrolling then?”

“Of course. You need anything?”

“Just send me your file,” I say.

She stands, and I do too. “Thank your mom for me. For letting me dig. It helped my creativity.”

“I will.”

She hesitates, then touches my arm. “That melody’s good. Don’t lose it.”

“I won’t.”

She heads out. Mom watches her go from the hall and comes back in with the cinnamon roll plate and a grin. “I like her. She’s not soft. She’s kind.”

“She’s both.”

“Good,” Mom says. “Now hug me and get back to work.”

I do. Her perfume is the same as it was when I was ten and needed to know the world could be steady. I step back, sit, and press record. Music is the thing that makes the world make sense, and right now, I need that more than I knew.

I take Lou far from the Strip because I need a place that doesn’t scream about itself. West, then south, then nothing but scrub and sky. The hotel fades in the mirrors. The neon gives up. The road is a line I can follow without thinking. Lou rides behind me with her hands easy at my waist, not clutching, not careless. She leans when I lean. It’s starting to feel like our language.

The diner is low and sunburned. Tin roof, chipped paint, a busted sign that still hums. Inside is cool and quiet. Jukebox in the corner, chrome stools, pie under glass. A woman with a pencil behind her ear waves us to a booth. I keep my shades on until the world widens again.

“Fries,” Lou says, like a prayer.

“Same here,” I tell the waitress. “Two plates, extra crisp. Coffee for me. Whatever she wants for her mouth.”

Lou smirks. “Milkshake. Vanilla.”

I raise a brow. “Vanilla is a flex.”

“It’s control. You can add anything later.”

“Like blindfolds?”

She snorts, and the waitress rolls her eyes and leaves us be.

I pretend to be good at this. I’m trying on normal. But it fits like I’m wearing someone else’s skin, and it’s two sizes too small. I’m terrible at it. My knee bounces. My fingers find a drum part on the table without asking me.

What do I even say right now?

Lou watches, amused, like she’s collecting data. “You’re not built for stillness.”

“I can do studio still. Live still isn’t my trick. Live is where you perform.”

“You can do anything but sit? Is that what you’re saying?” She smirks. “I thought you were the bad boy of the group. That’s what the headlines say.”

“Those headlines are mostly accidents and boredom. You throw me in a quiet room with nothing to chew on, and I end up juggling knives. That’s not my fault. And it was definitely not my fault when one of those knives ended up in the movie theater screen in Waco.”

“How was that not your fault?”

“The movie was boring.”

She laughs. “What else isn’t your fault?”

“The hotel fire alarm thing wasn’t me. Steam set it off. The ‘Salem kicked a speaker’ thing was me. It was humming, the ground was wet, and I was bored. The ‘bathroom fight’ was some guy blocking a kid from washing his hands.”

“And the stapler story?”

“True. But it was a tiny stapler.”

She snorts. “A terror with office supplies.”

“I contain multitudes.”

The milkshake lands. So does the coffee. The fries come after, hot and perfect. Lou dips one, considers it, then nods. I feel stupidly proud for having picked this place.

“So. You brought me to the desert to be normal. How’s it going?”

“Brutal. I’m trying.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

She leans back. “Okay. You look like a guy playing a character in a beige sweater.”

“I’m allergic to beige.”

“No shit.”

Small bites, small talk. Jukebox burbles out a track I know by muscle, some old soul song we used to cover before we could afford lawyers. The room smells like coffee and grease.

I can do this. I can do normal.

I wipe salt from my fingers and put the napkin down so I don’t shred it. “I don’t know how to be good at stillness. I’m training for it. Drumming on tables is my patch.”

“You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to stop setting things on fire to make the boredom go away.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

Her phone buzzes on the table, face down. She flips it, sees a headline she doesn’t share, and flips it back. I pretend I didn’t clock it.

I’m hoping it’s not about me. “I didn’t handle it well.”

“Handle what?”

“What he said about you.” I keep my voice flat. “He said it like a dare. So I took the dare. That picture is me failing at stillness.”

Lou studies me across the table. “You don’t have to defend me. I’m not that girl.”

“I know. But I don’t know how to not take the gauntlet when he throws it.”

“Do you think that’s partly me, partly residual stuff from kicking him out?”

“Unresolved shit is my specialty.”

She salts her fries again. “I’m terrified,” she says, eyes on the plate. “Not of him. Of wanting three men at once.”

“Me too. The other way around, I mean. Different angle.” I blow out a breath to admit this thing that’s been gnawing at me. “I’m terrified to be worth wanting.”

She looks up at that. “You are?”

“I want to try something new with you. Something real. Not the stunt. Not the headline. Something that lasts longer than a photo op.”

She taps the booth with two fingers, thinking. “Okay. Then we practice normal until you stop flinching.”

“I flinch cute.”

“You flinch loud.”

The waitress drops more napkins. “You two need anything else?”

“Time.” I wink at her.

She grins like she’s heard that before and wanders off.

Lou takes a long pull on the milkshake, then sets it down. “Ground rules,” she says. “We say what we need. We don’t audition for the internet. We don’t promise each other things we can’t keep.”

“Deal.”

She nudges my ankle under the table. “Also, if I say stop, you stop.”

“Always.”

“And if I say more, you keep your hands steady.”

I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

She taps her screen again, thinking about the mess. “No heroics online,” she adds. “No replying to trolls. No DMs to strangers in my defense. Don’t take the bait.”

“I wasn’t going to,” I say. “But fine. I won’t.”

“Not even if it’s Troy.”

“Now you’re asking for a lot.”

“That’s what I do.” She grins.

I grin right back. “That’s why I like you, Lou.”

We finish the fries. I feed the jukebox so she can pick a song. She picks something from the early Weird Al catalog. We listen and laugh, and for once, I might have an idea of what normal could be.

Outside, the heat stands up when we do. The bike waits where we left it, chrome winking, seat hot enough to burn skin. I strap on my helmet, then hers. She swings on behind me, not shy. We take the side road past the dry wash and out where the land doesn’t bother pretending to be city.

“Where are we going?” she says over the engine.

“High ground. No neighbors.”

She squeezes my ribs once in answer. Good.

It’s late afternoon. The sun decides to take its time. The desert opens and keeps opening. I find a dirt pull-off where the scrub peters out, and the horizon is all we get. I kill the engine. The silence is the kind you feel in your teeth.

Lou pulls her helmet off and shakes her hair loose. Copper streaks catch the light. She looks at me like she wants to say a thing and doesn’t. I step closer.

“Noses clean,” I say, quoting Quincy without his voice. “But this isn’t a city.”

“No cameras out here.”

“No witnesses.”

“Boundaries?”

“Your call. I match you.”

She steps into me. I meet her halfway. The first kiss is simple. No angle. No trick. Her mouth is cool from the ride, then warm. I taste vanilla and salt. My hands land at her waist and stay there like I promised.

The wind lifts and drops a loose wave at her neck. I tuck it back, and she sighs like I hit a button. She breathes into me, and I take it.

“More?”

“Yes.”

The second kiss goes deeper. I take my time. I feel her fingers slide under the back of my shirt and rest there. Heat goes up my spine like a match. I keep my mouth on hers until she drops a sound into me that makes my knees think about failing.

She pulls back first. “Bike.”

I sit and steady the bike with both feet flat. She climbs on facing me, one knee on either side, careful of the pegs. The stance puts her close enough that our breath counts together. She rests her hands on my shoulders, grip tight for balance.

She kisses me again, slower now, like we built the tempo and can sit in it. She rocks once, exploratory. Heat spikes. I meet her the way she asks for it—pressure, not surge. She does it again, and I answer again, my hands firm at her hips.

The desert is a wall of heat. The sky presses down. We give it something to watch.

I kiss along her jaw. She tips her head to make space. My mouth finds the place under her ear that makes her gasp. I keep it light, then less light, careful of marks. She takes a fistful of my shirt and drags it, a wordless go.

“Tell me what you want,” I say, forehead to hers.

“Less thinking.”

“I can help.”

“Then help,” she says.

I slide one hand up under her shirt until my fingers find skin I haven’t earned yet. She nods against my mouth, and I keep going. Her breath hitches. I redo the motion more slowly. She swears under her breath and kisses me like we’re out of time.

“More?”

“Yes,” she says, voice rough.

Her hands move under my shirt now, tracing lines I didn’t know I needed traced. I feel ridiculous about how much that undoes me. I let it. I like being undone if I can still steer.

She grinds gently against me once, testing. I meet her exactly, no more. She makes a sound that tells me I got it right. The bike creaks under us. The world narrows to heat and friction and breath.

“Words. I want your words.”

She whimpers, “Don’t stop. Keep your hands there.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

I keep them there. I learn her rhythm. I don’t rush. I don’t get clever. I stay with what works and keep the pressure consistent. She drops her head to my shoulder for a second, then lifts it like she wants to watch my face when I get her spots.

The wind picks up and dies. The sky goes gold at the edges. A hawk cuts the air. The desert doesn’t care what we’re doing.

She reaches for my belt and pauses. I cover her hand with mine. “Your pace.”

“My pace would have you naked by now.” She finds me through the zipper and presses slow. My head drops back. I let myself be the one who makes the small sound this time. She smiles against my throat like she’s taking notes.

I get my breath back and pull her closer, the heel of my hand exactly where she wants it, the other hand keeping her balanced so she doesn’t have to hold herself up. She takes me out, and I help her remove her clothes just enough, and she slides down my cock, tight, hot, wet, mind-blowing. Nothing short of perfection. When she grinds down, I can tell when my piercing hits her clit—her dark eyes roll back and her breath leaves her. I fucking love it when that happens. Lou bounces on me, chasing her pleasure with my body. Thing of beauty.

“That’s it, angel,” I murmur against her throat. “You take me so good.” I twitch myself inside of her, and she gasps, eyes wide. I grin. “Keep going.”

She bites her bottom lip, rolling her hips on me again. When I twitch my dick for her, it catches her off guard. “Oh my god, that’s so good. Go faster.”

So, I do. It’s not easy, but nothing worth doing ever is. Between twitching myself inside of her and my pubic piercing, she’s pouring down my shaft by the time her body throbs on me. She’s so close I can taste it. Shaking in my arms, begging god, begging me. We climb together. My body aches for this. For her. It’s messy in a way that feels right.

She shudders and leans into me hard, breath breaking, mouth open against my jaw. I hold her through it, doing what I said I would do. The sound she makes is small and yearning, and it tips me. I follow, hands locked, head tucked against hers while the heat drains out of my bones.

We breathe. The bike ticks as the metal cools. A truck drones somewhere too far away to matter. I put my forehead to hers and close my eyes for a beat to make sure the world still fits.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Yes.” She laughs, soft, surprised by herself. “Apparently yes.”

“Good.”

We sit until our pulses stop being percussion. I smooth her hair and she smooths my shirt like we’re both trying to make us neat for no one. She stays straddling me, her palms on my shoulders, her eyes on my mouth, as if she’s making a decision.

Wind moves across the scrub, and the world smells like dust and metal and whatever perfume she wore this morning after the shower.

We don’t rush. We don’t turn this into a pledge. We sit on the cooling bike until the sun slides one finger lower and the sky starts thinking about changing color. My hands stay steady where she left them. She stays where she is because she wants to, not because I’m holding her there.

She kisses me once more, quick and clean, then presses her forehead to mine again and smiles. We stay like that, breathing, until the heat lets us go.

Building the deck takes time. The suite dining table is big enough to spread everything out, and the light from the window is good for color checks. I name the file and drop a title slide with today’s date so no one can argue about versions later.

Album title options first. I put them in a grid so they look like choices, not a fight. Static & Honey. Back to the Drawing Board. Sage and Spark. Work Lights. Lost & Found. Under each, I leave notes on tone, mood, and what the words promise.

Color next. I pull a palette from Sagebrush: the walnut console, sun-stained pine trim, the faded orange of the door, the steel of old stands, the cotton white where the paint never stuck. I add the gold of Talia’s old session laminate and the soft blue from the tape box labels. I mock up each color as a full bleed and then as small chips next to a photo of the room.

I do the same for font. Logos. Motif slide.

It’s all about family, craft, and second chances. For family, there’s hands on instruments, Talia’s cue notes, the studio scuffs we grew up on, the doorframe pencil marks where someone tracked height a decade ago. For craft, I have clips of tape splices, the old patch bay, pencils, and grease china marker, the ribbon mic silhouette that flatters nobody and tells the truth. For second chances, there are repairs visible on purpose—frankensteined mic stands, restitched amp covers, a chalked X where we stopped a rattle.

We show the scars and keep moving.

I add a slide for working titles we shouldn’t use, so we stop ourselves before we waste a day. We are not telling the press they were right. We are not making the fans parent us.

I build a board for physical texture so the assets don’t turn into flat screens. There are gaffer tape veins, console wood grain, the nick in the piano lid, a cue sheet corner torn and taped back. I drop in a hand-lettered alphabet where the letters waver like they were written after midnight. Hero assets always carry a trace of hand. The point is to look touched, not polished.

I add merch mock-ups because everyone always forgets merch till the last day. A black tee with the album mark high left, not billboard center. Tote with the studio silhouette and a single line of copy, Album name here. A cap with the ribbon mic and no text. Laminates with the grid baked in, so backstage doesn’t look like a different company. Fewer items, better blanks.

Suspicion taps a knuckle while I work. This is too easy, says the part of me that learned to expect nothing and like it.

Men don’t ask for my rate and mean it. Men don’t bring coffee and not expect something in return. Men don’t say yes without adding “but.” I list every reason I should brace. I don’t know how not to prepare for the worst.

But then Houston cleans the French press because he used it. Salem is putting the cap back on the marker someone left uncapped. Knox numbers the file versions correctly in a shared drive.

Basic shit for any woman. But for guys? Well, I wish it didn’t impress me so much, but sadly, it does.

The bar for men is in hell.

Still, it disarms me a little. I don’t trust it yet, and I like that I don’t have to push them to act right for it to be true. It’s not like being around Troy, who needed someone to follow him around to pick up after him. Or my ex-boyfriend, Charlie, who suddenly didn’t know what a toothbrush was for after we’d been dating for two months. Or Miguel, who said, “You know I could always date someone hotter,” any time I mentioned going to a nice restaurant.

Houston brings coffee while I’m kerning a slide. He doesn’t ask if I want it. He knows I do. Black, hot, cup set where I can reach without breaking my train of thought. “Thank you.”

“Keep going.” He checks the colors, nods, and steps back to give me space. I like that about him.

Salem wanders out, steals the pen from behind my ear, and tucks it behind his. “Tax,” he says, then sets another pen by my hand like he planned the bit to be generous at the end.

“That was my favorite pen.”

“This is your new favorite pen,” he says. He takes a fry from a room service plate that somehow exists and drifts to the balcony to look at the strip of sky, as if it owes him a verse.

I roll my eyes and give the pen a shot. Son of a bitch, it’s good.

Knox sits across from me with his laptop and the budget I sent him. He doesn’t say, “Are you sure?” He says, “Line items.”

We go through everything, and he asks smart questions about dates and deliverables. I’m having a work conversation with a guy I like, and his eyes aren’t glazing over.

“I can hit Tuesday,” I say.

“We’ll wire the budget to the account today, so you don’t have to stress.”

Everything with them is easy.

Which makes it uncomfortable.

Before the presentation with the guys, I build a test plan so approvals don’t turn into taste arguments. We’ll preview titles on the venue screens at fifty, seventy-five, and one hundred feet and shoot from the floor and balcony. There are a thousand details to hit before the meeting, and not a moment to waste, but all I can think of is how nice it is to work with professionals.

And Salem.

I present at four, because that’s when they can all sit still. I mirror my screen to the TV and stand so I don’t start shrinking without noticing. I go slide by slide. I don’t sell. I explain.

And they’re listening. They look at each other and then at me.

Houston nods. Salem smirks. Knox says, “This is it. This is the plan.”

I sit. My hands shake. I didn’t realize I was so nervous. But their opinions matter to me more than any other client I’ve had. I want them to like this.

To like me.

Houston tops off my coffee and leaves his hand a breath away from mine without needing to touch. His version of affection is proximity and supply chain. It works on me. Salem puts my stolen pen back behind my ear like a magician and flicks the clip so it taps once, light. Knox centers the budget doc and asks if I want to build a buffer for a surprise vendor. I do. He adds it without making it a lecture.

“You’re treating me like a peer,” I say, and I hear how small my voice gets at the end of the sentence.

“Good,” Salem says, “because I don’t flirt with interns.”

Houston smiles into his cup. “You are our peer, Lou.”

Knox says nothing. Of the three of them, I think he understands what I mean the most.

When the file goes to them and Quincy, I sit there and wait for the old results. Dismissal, deflection, the “we’ll run this by my friend who dabbles in Photoshop.”

None of it comes. What arrives instead is the soft sound of being left alone to do the job I just said I would do.

When the quiet stretches, my brain tries to ruin it with memory. But I don’t need to replay old hurts. Not with new opportunities in front of me. I open my notes and finish the social post I drafted days ago. Simple. Calm. Direct.

I’m okay. I’m moving on. Please don’t speculate on my private life or send hate to anyone on my behalf. I’ll share work when I have work to share. Thanks to the people who checked in with kindness. To everyone else, I wish you peace and something better to do with your time.

I don’t mention anyone. No names. No timeline. No bait. I swap in a quiet photo from the suite—a corner of my sketchbook on the table, a coffee cup in frame, the window light soft on the page. No face. No ring light. No fonts trying to be brave.

“Do I post this?” I ask.

“Do you want to?” Houston cocks his head to the side.

“Yes.” I pause, thinking. “I also want to delete the internet.”

“Post,” Knox says. “Then close the app.”

“Post, post, post,” Salem chants.

I read it one more time, looking for land mines. It still feels like me. It doesn’t feel like bait. “Okay.” I hit post.

I set the phone face down and breathe. It feels right. I’m moving on. If the threats come, they come.

Quincy calls the meeting himself. No assistant. No buffer. The text says five minutes, green room. When he writes like that, he means now.

I get there first. A small couch, stale coffee, and a laminated schedule on the wall with our name on it too many times. He’s already in the chair by the table, tall and lean. Phone face down. Eyes up.

“If we don’t have a single by week two, I might not be able to extend the residency.”

I sit. My jaw tightens on its own. “We’re not rushing a single to save a contract.”

He taps the table twice. “I know what a rush sounds like. I’m not asking for junk. I’m telling you the hotel wants a single to debut on a marquee. A new song this week plays better than trust us, art is happening.”

“Art is happening. On schedule. It’s not our fault they’re getting twitchy.”

Salem slouches into the doorway, then takes the far end of the couch. Houston leans against the wall and crosses his arms.

Quincy clocks all our faces, then shrugs. “I’m just pointing to the clock. The deal here hinges on a single debut at The Gold Bar. You made commitments. There’s a contract.”

I breathe for four counts. “We will deliver a song when the song is ready.”

He looks pleased and annoyed at the same time. “Good. Keep that spine. But get me something the radio can spin without a memo. Verse, chorus, hook, out. Two minutes fifty-seven, three eight if you must. Clean version ready. That’s the game we’re still playing.”

“We’re working a chorus,” I say. “It’s close.”

“Closer by Friday,” he says, then flips the phone, checks a message, and flips it back. “Second thing. Document Troy’s harassment.”

The word harassment lands like a small explosion. Houston’s eyes sharpen. Salem’s mouth goes tight. My pulse jumps then steadies.

“What have you got?” Quincy asks. “Texts, DMs, calls to the hotel? Save screenshots. Save voicemails. Time stamps, locations. If we have to pull counsel in, I want a file that looks organized, not emotional.”

“We are not lawyering Troy,” I blurt.

“We’re not starting there,” he says, calm. “We are preparing. So if he escalates, I don’t have to ask you three to remember which Tuesday he sent a drunk threat.”

I look at the wall calendar and hate that he’s right. “Noted.” My chest doesn’t like the word. It feels wrong to narc on Troy. Even if no one sees it.

“Last thing,” he goes on. “Lou. Keep it boring in public. If trolls crawl out, you block and keep working. If anyone threatens her, you bring it to me. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Good. We don’t want a repeat of Birmingham Betty.”

“Belinda,” Salem corrects him sharply.

Quincy rolls his eyes. “Right. Belinda. Probably best for everyone she’s out of the picture now, terrible shame how ugly it got.” He stands. The meeting is over the way storms end—fast and leaving the air different. At the door, he glances at me. “Knox. You’re the one who hates loose ends. Tie them.” He leaves.

I sit there for a beat with the coffee smell and the laminate schedule and the words radio single echoing like a drip.

Houston breaks first. “We can get him a single. We don’t feed it to him half-raw.”

“Agreed.”

Salem rubs his jaw. “He’s right about the file. Troy isn’t going to remember what he said when, and he’ll act like we made it up. We need dates.”

“I’ll make a folder,” I say, even though the act of naming it tightens something at the base of my neck. “Screenshots, logs, summaries. No color commentary. Just facts.”

“Good.” Houston nods. “We’ll keep the file and pray we never need it.”

I set rules about our boundaries with Lou and Troy, because we don’t need overlap between the situations. They nod along.

But then Salem holds up a hand. “I reserve the right to be annoying while following all rules.”

“You reserve the right to go for a ride,” I adjust him. “If you need to move, take the bike. No drinking. Helmet on.”

He smirks. “You love me.”

“I want the record done. Can’t do that if you’re dead.”

He stands, stretches, and pockets his key card. “Then I’m going for a ride now. I’ll be back before dinner.” He heads out.

Houston watches me and doesn’t comment. He pours water, sets a glass by my hand, then goes to the window with his own glass and his own thoughts. I used to tease him about being a water boy in a past life, but it’s just how he expresses love. Caretaking. And according to him, no one drinks enough water.

I open a folder and name it Troy, even though every piece of me hates giving it space. I set it to private with shared access for the three of us and Quincy. I add the two drunk voicemails from last month, the ones where he said he hated me. I transcribe the part that says You owe me! and leave the rest as audio.

The day runs long. We hit Sagebrush and break for late lunch. Stress climbs. Residency. Single. File. Eyes on us that aren’t music eyes. I keep my face flat and my hands moving because I don’t know another way.

Back upstairs, dinner is room service and a pile of napkins that look like we had a meeting with a sandwich. Houston nurses tea, feet up, ponytail still damp from a quick shower. Lou sits at the table with her laptop open to a comp and a legal pad with a grid she drew herself. Pencil behind her ear. Locket catching the lamp. She looks up when I hover like I’m trying to decide if I belong.

She’s going over some of the lyrics for a new song for her motifs.

“Radio single.” I hate the way the phrase tastes, needing to hear how this fits the ask. So commercial.

“It’s not a single,” Houston says. “It’s a foundation. The single can come from the next one. But this chorus needs to be right so the rest stops wobbling.”

He’s right. I hate that I need him to say it so I can stop hearing Quincy’s clock. “Okay. We finish this and sleep.”

Lou taps the pencil on the paper and then flips the pencil and tucks it back behind her ear. She doesn’t know how the small motion resets me. She doesn’t need to know.

“Bridge?” she asks.

“Tomorrow. We’re past the line where good becomes noise.”

She nods. “One more pass on the third line. The light line.”

We walk the sounds, not the words. We test vowels. We move work forward so the K pops later and the breath has somewhere to land. She hears the change before I do and adjusts her mouth to fit. Her ear for structure isn’t a stunt. It’s a muscle no one trained, and she still grew.

“You hear shape. You don’t force it.”

“It’s fonts,” she says, shrugging. “You can’t make an O do what an N does. You let it be round.”

Houston grins from the couch and picks up the guitar, and plays the chords soft enough not to take over. He switches the inversion without my asking. It fixes the way the third line sits. Lou turns her head, surprised, then pleased. We all feel the click, the small internal yes that means we can stop for the night and not hate ourselves.

Stress recedes a notch. It doesn’t vanish. The list is still long. The radio wants a single. The hotel wants a headline. The file with Troy’s name exists whether I like it or not. But the chorus holds. That’s enough for one day.

We run it once more, quiet. Lou hums on the guide syllables. I sing under my breath to check count. Houston splits the difference on the guitar and keeps the tone dry. We cut a quick voice memo on my phone so we can pick it up clean tomorrow.

She leans back and rubs her eyes. “I’m not used to being taken seriously this late at night. Usually, this hour is for someone else’s crisis.”

“Tonight is for the song. And for sleep.”

She looks at both of us like she’s trying to locate the trap. She seems a little suspicious that there isn’t one. Then she lets it go. “Thank you. For treating me like I’m in the band without making me pretend I can play.”

“You can play,” Houston says. “I bet you could play all night long.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re trying to flatter me into bed.”

“Do we need to work that hard to get you into bed?” he says, teasing, gentle as he leans close. Then he kisses her.

When she pulls back, she murmurs, “Get me into bed? How pedestrian.”

He barks a laugh and pulls her onto his lap on the couch. His big hands grip her ass over her leggings, and she grinds against him as they make out fiercely.

I like watching, but I feel a little like I’m intruding at the moment. I grab my glass of water to head to my bedroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Lou murmurs as Houston licks her collarbone.

“Thought you might want privacy.”

She giggles. “We’re making out in the living room with you next to us. Privacy is not the goal.” She hooks a hand into my collar and pulls me in for a kiss that resets my brain. “See?”

“No. I didn’t. Show me again.”

She grins before she kisses me this time, then crawls into my lap. Houston, the helpful man he is, peels away her clothes while we make out. It’s all elbows and bad angles until she’s naked, but we don’t stop mauling each other.

“Your mouth was made to tempt me, baby,” I whisper against her lips.

“Tempt you into what?” Her lips curve.

I lift her off my lap and set her on her knees on the couch. It’s the perfect height for what I have in mind. I strip as I circle to the other side of it. She leans on the back, her ass arched in the air and unsuspecting. I cup her throat with my hand. “Now ask permission to suck my cock.”

Those plump lips part in a gasp for me, and I relish the shock on her pretty face. She smirks, willing to play this game. “Give me permission to suck your cock.”

I laugh once, then nod to Houston, who smacks her ass.

She gasps and glances back at him. “Naughty!”

He chuckles. “You’re the one not following orders.”

She looks between us, debating her next move. “And you won’t fuck me if I don’t?”

I shake my head. “I like you on your knees like this. Houston, she’s wet, isn’t she?”

He grabs her ass and spreads her wide in a brute move that makes her squirm. “God, yes.”

“So, lovely girl, if you want us to fuck you good and proper, you’ll ask for permission to suck my cock. I know how much you like it. That’s why you have to ask.”

Her cheeks flush. “Can I please suck your cock, Knox?”

“Yes.”

She leans forward for it.

But I step back, earning her whine. “You have to beg Houston to do something to that pussy.”

“Houston, would you⁠—”

“Yes,” he growls and rubs his cock over her there. “I like playing, but I’m done waiting.” He slams in, making her cry out.

When her mouth is open, I take it. He groans and pumps deep into her, hands clutching her flared hips like a pair of handles. Her golden skin shines in the low light as her dark hair slides off her back and over her shoulder. He thrusts, I retract, I thrust, he retracts. And all the while, Lou takes it like a goddess.

When she gags on me, it’s all I can do not to lose it right then. She doesn’t even fight it—she rides the choke.

I lace my fingers into her hair. “Such a good girl, it’s almost vulgar. But I think we can make vulgar happen an even better way.” Her eyes are lined with tears as she looks up at me, questioning. “I want that ass again.”

She whimpers on my dick.

“You want it too, don’t you? You remember how we made you come. We’re gonna do that again.”

“I’m about to do it right now,” Houston says, reaching around her hip.

But I shake my head. “Not yet. She made us wait for her to ask permission. She can wait for her orgasm. Back up.”

We pull out, and she goes limp on the couch. “Please, I need to come.”

“You will.” I motion toward the couch, and Houston picks her up, reading my mind. He sets her on his lap and makes her take him deep. I love watching this part—the part where they’re riding one of us. When they get lost in the sensation and forget anyone else in the room, until we come up from behind.

I lube myself and my fingers first. When I slide the first one in her tight little hole, she shudders. “Tell me how it feels to have my finger up your ass with his cock in that little pussy of yours.”

The words shake out of her. “It’s a lot. Tense. Full.”

I slip another finger in, and she tenses up. “And now?”

“Fuller,” she gasps.

I work in and out of her ass as Houston grabs her hips to lift her up and down his length. Sweat trickles down her spine. He warns, “I think she’s about to come. She’s squeezing on me.”

“Not until my cock is all the way in your ass, baby. You’re not allowed.”

“Please,” she whimpers, draping herself onto Houston’s shoulder. It sticks her ass out more. “Please fuck my ass. I need to come!”

“When I’m ready.” I add a third finger, and she rambles incoherently as goose bumps leap from her skin.

She whispers, “Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease fuck my ass!”

I carefully work my fingers out of her, with Houston slow-fucking her the whole time. When I line up my cock, she’s on the verge of something big, still rambling nonsense between begging. As soon as I pop the head in, a scream peals out of her, something I’ve never heard from anyone. She bounces on us, taking our cocks as hard as she can while she comes.

“Fuck, yes, precious, come on my cock!” Houston rambles.

It’s too good. Fuck, why is it so good? Making a girl squirm between us, making her come like no one ever has, making her our little fuck puppet…

It’s not responsible. It’s not smart. But it’s what I want every fucking night. My one vice.

When she comes back to herself, she’s limp on his shoulder. That’s good too. Now, I know she’s relaxed enough to take the rest of me. I shove deep, all the way to the hips, and she groans loudly.

“Does it hurt, baby?”

“Yeah,” she whimpers.

“And you love it, don’t you?”

“I fucking do,” she says, voice breaking.

God, this woman might ruin me, and I don’t fucking care. I fuck her ass with abandon, knowing how much she loves it. Our bodies slam together, the smacks echoing on the walls. Bliss. Fucking bliss.

She comes again, this time squealing and whimpering while we fuck her hard. Her breaths are choked, and her nails dig into Houston’s shoulder enough to leave bright red trails.

Houston mutters, “She’s squirting on me! Oh fuck, she’s squirting on me!”

“That’s it, baby. Let yourself go.”

Suddenly her spine goes stick straight, and I have to catch her to stop her from whacking her head against my collarbone. She screams, coming, erupting, something wild. She’s leaning back on me now, so I pluck her nipples while I fuck her ass. My balls scream for release.

Houston reaches down for her clit, and she keeps screaming between breaths. “Oh, fuck! Now!” he roars out while he shoots deep inside of her.

I ruthlessly rut up her ass as she’s coming, full of his cum, mindless and animalistic until I lose myself there.

Sagebrush is quiet enough to hear the AC tick. I unlock the front, flip on the lights, and take the back hallway to the office. Lou needs references for the deck, and I said I’d pull anything that looks like craft and family. I like this work. Boxes, labels, order. There is no noise I can’t use.

Metal shelves run along the wall. Banker boxes. Old reel cases. A cracked plastic crate full of cassettes nobody wanted to throw away. I stack three boxes and start with the session logs. Marker thick, dates everywhere. My mother’s handwriting shows up like a warm voice. I pull those cue sheets with grease pencil smudges and set them in a pile for Lou.

I open the next box. Flyers. Polaroids. A bag of picks. A strip of gaffer tape with SALEM DO NOT TOUCH written across it. I put that on top of the pile because she’ll laugh.

The crate is last. Cassettes without cases, handwriting on spine labels that solved a problem thirty years ago and caused four this morning. I line them up, labels toward me. “Demos—open call.” “Untitled, singer from Reno.” “R. Navarro—2 takes.”

I stop on the last one and lean closer.

R. Navarro. Like Lou. Navarro is not rare. But spending time with Lou has made me wonder about fate and family more than I want to admit. The handwriting is my mother’s. I can see the way she looped the R. No date on the spine. Someone scribbled a phone number and scratched it out.

I look for a deck and find the old Tascam on the shelf under the window. The heads are dusty. I plug it in and let it warm for a minute, then slide the tape in until it clicks. I push play and keep my hand near the stop in case it chews.

Hiss. The room in the recording is small and dry. A count-off, soft. Guitar. Then a voice.

I know smoke when I hear it. Not the fake kind people put on for effect. A rasp at the edge of a chest tone. She sings like she’s not afraid of low notes, like the song sits in her ribs. It is not Lou’s voice. It is a shape that rhymes with hers.

The melody is quick and simple, two bars up and back, the kind a person finds when they stop trying to impress the walls. Words are plain. The chorus lands on a single vowel and holds. The pitch sags and corrects in a way that says raw, not trained.

I rewind and listen again. Same rush at the first line, the little slide into the second. The s on “house” disappears like she thought it was ugly. I catch myself comparing. It’s automatic.

R. Navarro. Lou’s locket says Navarro on the back. There are a thousand Navarros in this city, in this state, probably more. The voice has a color that makes me think of her anyway. I push back from the table and sit on the edge of the desk, so I stop pacing.

Could there be a connection? Maybe. Probably not. The studio did open calls. People came from all over. The tape could be from anyone.

I stop the deck and stare at the counter. The case is blank inside. No date. No song title. Just my mother’s note: “good ear, no breath.”

I hit play again and let the chorus roll. I think about the way Lou hums when she forgets she’s doing it. Not a show. Her guide track from yesterday is still on my phone. I hear it in my head the way you hear a faucet after you’ve turned it off.

I should tell her. I should hold up the tape like a kid with a bug in a jar and say Look. But what if it’s nothing? What if it’s a stranger who just happens to share a name with the only thing she has from before?

Hope is hard to handle. Some days it’s heavier than grief. I know the feel of it when it drops.

I eject the tape and put it in a Ziploc with a paper label, R Navarro. I put the Ziploc in a banker’s box and the banker’s box on a shelf where I can find it. I take a photo of the label on my phone and name the photo the same way. I make a note to ask my mother later if she remembers a Navarro. Or if the R could be a misread A. Or if the tape came with a number that belonged to a dead pager.

I don’t text any of that to Lou.

I go back to the live room. The piano lid is down. The guitar leans on the stand. The stool is where I left it, half turned. I sit at the piano and play a C just to set the room. Then I play the melody I’ve been sitting on since the day she showed me the locket. Three notes, then five, then a turn that returns without apologizing. It feels right.

I hear words whether I want to or not. “Silver on a chain, names I never knew.” “Found on a step.” I test them. Too on the nose. I keep the feel and lose the noun. Better.

I write the song in one sitting because if I stand up it will dissolve. Verse first, because the verse tells me where the chorus can land. The chords are simple on purpose. I don’t want to hide a weak line behind a move. I sing into the air, then into the ribbon mic, then into the air again because I hate hearing my voice before the words fit. I keep my vowels round, the way Lou likes words to sit in the mouth, the way she explained an O to me like I’d never met one before, and work lyrics as they flow in my head.

I don’t know if the you is a person or a life. I don’t try to pin it. It can be both. It can be a little of my mother and a lot of Lou and a ghost nobody wants to name. The second verse writes itself in lines I can sing tired.

The bridge is a problem until it isn’t. I stop trying to be smart and let the chords talk. I drop to the relative minor and hold the IV longer than makes sense. I tell the bridge to be the part where the pocket turns out and the coin drops.

Even if the pictures fade,

Even if it never fits,

I’ll wear you anyway.

I sing it through once and don’t hate myself. That’s rare. I arm a track and record a rough. Piano and voice first. Guitar second to double the chorus with a warm line that won’t age cheap. Brush loop light. No bass yet. No pads.

I name the session and save it with a number. I print a bounce and send it to the shared folder without the push notification. I don’t want it to pop up on Lou’s screen while she’s working. I’ll show her when I’m sure it’s a song and not a mood.

I sit back on the bench and let the quiet come back. I think about the tape in the bag and the name on the back of the locket and all the versions of what could be true. I think about how easy it is to make a myth from scraps. I don’t want that for her.

I make a list so I don’t solve it with feelings. Ask Mom. She gives the best advice. Check the storage ledger for intake dates on open-call tapes. See if the phone area code on the case survives under the scratch-out. If there’s a date, see whether it lines up with the year Lou would have been born. A little leg work never hurt anybody, and I’m not telling her anything until I know more.

I will not get her hopes up only to let her down.

The day runs. Knox texts a schedule change for the marquee test. Salem sends a photo from a stretch of highway and the words not dead. Crazy bastard was out all night again. I loop the bridge twice to make sure I can play it cold and then power the board down.

On the way out, I stop at the shelf and touch the bag with the tape through the plastic. I think about how many tapes never turned into anything. People come in with a voice and a want, and life pulls them sideways. Some leave a mark anyway. Most don’t.

Back at the hotel, the suite is quiet. Lou has the table spread with grids and laser prints. The deck is real now. Swatches labeled. Type rules written. Logo marks circled and crossed out and circled again. She’s in tank top and leggings, hair up, locket on, pencil behind her ear. Work mode.

She looks up and smiles. “Find anything good?”

“Photos. Tape labels. A baseboard that looks like a map.” I don’t say the name. I don’t say the voice. I set the pictures on the table and step back so I don’t hover. She arranges them without needing to tell me what she sees. She places the scuff next to a type sample and the patch bay next to the mark. She’s building a system in front of me.

She catches me staring. “What?”

“Nothing. You’re doing the thing you do.”

She rolls her eyes like she can’t take a compliment straight. “You writing?”

“Yeah.” I touch the phone in my pocket. “A song called Locket.”

Her mouth does a half smile and stops. “That was fast.”

“It wanted out.”

“Is it good?”

“I like it.”

She nods and goes back to the deck. I make coffee because it’s one of the only useful things I can do in this room while she’s doing that. I pour for both of us. I set her cup within reach and leave mine on the bar so I don’t hover.

Knox comes in with a grocery bag. He sets it on the counter and checks the locks out of habit. Salem texts from the elevator 2 minutes. The day keeps moving.

I stand at the window with my cup and look down at the pool lights coming on. I think about the song. I think about the tape. I think about the way Lou hums when her hands are busy and what it does to the room. I think about how careful I want to be with the part of her that still expects the catch.

R. Navarro. Breadcrumb or a coincidence. I don’t know if the demo singer is a stranger my mother forgot or someone who sat in that room and tried to be brave one afternoon. I know Lou has an ear she didn’t earn from lessons. She has a knack for structure that doesn’t show up in people who only listen. It might be blood.

Salem comes in with wind in his hair. He drops his helmet and steals the pen from behind Lou’s ear. She steals it back without looking. Knox pulls chicken from the bag and a loaf of bread and a vegetable that wants to be roasted. The room becomes a room where people live for an hour.

All I can think about is R. Navarro.

After dinner, I slip back to the bedroom with my phone and headphones. I listen to the bounce twice at low volume and make a couple of notes for morning. The second chorus is too long by a beat. The bridge needs a thinner left hand. The last line might land better if I cut the extra “I.” I save the notes and put the phone face down.

Lou taps the door and peeks in. “You good?”

“Just checking a thing.”

She leans on the frame. “You look like you’re hiding a surprise.”

“Not hiding.” Not true, but I can’t say anything yet.

She nods. “I’m trusting you.”

“Thank you.”

She leaves me with the quiet and the chorus in my head. I lie back on the bedspread. I think about radio singles and the file with Troy’s name on it. I think about a cassette with an R that might mean nothing. I think about a song I wrote because a question wouldn’t go away. I think about a woman at a table in a hotel suite who makes me want to be careful with my voice.

Things between us are tentative by design. We said discretion out there and honesty in here. We set the job first, not the story. I like that. I like her. I like her more than I planned to. Not sure if that’s a good thing yet.

The rough mix for “Locket” hits at the third bar. Houston prints the bounce, pushes play, and the room tightens the way a crowd tightens when a storm moves in. Piano dry, ribbon breath, his voice steady as a hand on the back of your neck.

Chills.

He makes it sound like air behaving. I hate how easy he makes it look. I love him for it. Both can be true. I clap once, sharp, before anyone can read my face and write the wrong song about it.

Lou’s at the table with a pencil behind her ear, head cocked, listening with her whole heart. When the bridge lands, she bites her bottom lip, her eyes wet, and she doesn’t apologize. I want to kiss her mouth for that, and I don’t, because the bounce is still rolling and I’m not the guy who steps on a take.

The last chorus holds just long enough to prove its point, then lets go. Silence after. The good kind.

“Wow. That’s the one.”

Lou wipes a thumb under one eye and pretends she’s moving her hair. I pretend I didn’t see it, then immediately watch her see me pretending. She smiles, small, private. I file it where I keep the things I don’t ruin.

Knox slowly nods. “That’s one hell of a single.”

Houston grins. “You think so?”

“It hits. Hard. You did good, man.”

I stand by the doorjamb and roll the pick between my fingers until it warms. Pride hits first, clean and bright. Then the little itch under my skin wakes up—jealousy, the useful kind if you don’t drink it.

Houston writes like he’s changing a tire on a moving car and never drops a lug nut. I play loud, break pretty, catch eyes, steal oxygen. He does algebra you can dance to. I want what he has without wanting him to have less. That’s the line. I’ve crossed it before and paid.

Not today. Today, I tune the kit to the room, let it breathe when the song needs space, and add exactly what makes the chorus feel inevitable. I can be gasoline or I can be a fuse. The trick is knowing when the fire should burn and when the light should stay steady.

Lou catches me breathing through it and tilts her head in that way that says she sees, and I take the win.

It should be a good day. This is some of Houston’s best work. But life has other plans.

A gossip site fires a push at lunch with a collage like a ransom note. A photo of Lou with me outside the diner. How anyone got that shot, I have no fucking clue… The waitress. Has to be.

One of Lou with Houston on the balcony, all snuggled up. That had to be a drone with a telephoto. We’re too high up for much else.

Then, Lou with Knox at the table, leaning over the budget doc, his hand on her ass. The headline says Cheating Scandal? in a font that can get bent. Comments are a fire ladder to the basement. Pick a brother, pick a sin, pick a slur. They don’t need details. They smell blood.

My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I want to post a scorched-earth reply that reads like a lighter held to a curtain. Four of us, one story. We handle our business. Everyone else can fuck off and hydrate. I hate cloak-and-dagger. I’d rather get sunburned in the open than rot in a closet for strangers I don’t respect.

I even type a draft, because I’m me: We’re fine. She’s with us. Touch her and we’ll end your week. I stare at the words until they look stupid and true at the same time. I hear Quincy telling me to count to ten. I picture Lou’s DMs if I hit post. I picture my mother reading the replies and calling me by my full name, so I feel like I’m nine years old and got caught smoking a cigarette behind the studio.

Lou reads over my shoulder without touching me. “Don’t.”

“They’re turning you into content.”

“They’ll do that anyway. If we feed them, we teach them to come back. I’ve already received threats for holding Troy’s hand. I’m not giving them a bigger target.”

“What if I take the target?”

“You are the target,” she says, which is rude and true. “We all are. Silence and strategy. We do the work. We post art. We go quiet where they want noise. If we go official right now, it goes nuclear.”

I want to argue. I want to throw a brick through the internet. I want to say I’m not built for silence or stillness or normal. I look at her fingers on the edge of the table, ink on the cuticle from where the pen fought back, and I shut up.

“Fine.” It tastes like swallowing a lit match. I swallow it anyway. “Going for a ride.”

If I stay inside, I’ll put my fist through a window. Out past the garages, across the overpass, into the ugly parts of town that don’t sell postcards. The air bites at fifty, forgives at sixty-five. I let my head clear at the edges and keep my hands clean in the middle. A bar with a parking lot like a scar pulls me in without trying.

Inside is low light, a jukebox that hates everything after 2005, and three women who smell like they know how to ruin a day on purpose. I take a stool, order club soda with lime, and watch my reflection in the back-bar mirror until I’m sure the guy looking back won’t start a fight to prove he’s breathing.

A brunette touches my forearm and introduces herself like she’s late to a party. “Aren’t you⁠—”

“I’m a guy drinking soda,” I say, friendly enough to be rude later if I have to. “You want the stool?”

She laughs, surprised I told the truth out loud. “You’re cute.”

“I’m trouble. Tonight I’m off-duty.”

She leaves a number on a napkin anyway because people like to try doors even when the lights are off. I tuck it under my glass so the water wrecks it. Another girl floats by looking like vanilla and knives. Just my type. She settles in next to me, asks my name. I nod, polite, and keep my hands to myself. “Just here for a drink.”

“Drinks are better with company.”

“Not the way I drink.”

Dejected, she trots away. It’s a cute trot, to be fair, but nah. Truth is, I’m not interested. Not in anyone else. Not sure when the last time that happened was.

I text Lou instead and find out she’s still up. Thank fuck. I pay, tip heavy, step into the heat, and ride back before my better self gets bored and wanders off.

The suite is dark except for the TV. Knox’s door is closed. Houston’s light is out. Lou’s a blanket mountain on the couch, a horror movie throwing blue and red across her cheekbones. “You okay?”

“No,” I say, kicking my boots off. “But I’m trying.”

“Come here. Be still for ninety minutes.”

“Cruel.”

“It’s a horror movie, so that seems appropriate.”

I snort a laugh and slide under the blanket and sit close enough to feel the heat coming off her without taking any. On screen, a woman walks into a basement even though she was told not to. Classic.

Lou’s hair smells like hotel shampoo—floral—and her day. She hands me the bowl of popcorn, and I take three pieces so I don’t make a mess of the salt.

We watch in the kind of quiet people mistake for tension. It isn’t. It’s two humans making room for their own lungs. My knee stops wanting to drum when she sets her calf against it like a doorstop. She’s not cuddly. She’s decisive. I like that better.

The movie does a jump scare. She doesn’t move. I flinch because I always do. Doesn’t matter how many horror movies I watch. She grins into the throw and hides it, which is rude. I elbow her, gentle. She elbows back, less gentle. I catch her wrist under the blanket and hold it for a second because I want to, and because she lets me.

The hand I’m holding threads our fingers. My other hand goes to her knee, warm through her leggings. She breathes in, deeper but not dramatic, and then moves closer so the edge of the blanket tents over us, and the rest of the room doesn’t exist. My mouth finds her temple, then the shell of her ear, then her mouth. She tastes like popcorn and cola. Perfect.

She answers like she meant to do this and got tired of waiting for me to catch up. A kiss that says we have time even if we don’t. My hand slides higher, and she nods. I move over her hip, under cotton, palm mapping heat and shape and wetness. She exhales into me, and the sound short-circuits me in the right way.

She tilts her hips, and I adjust, learning the rhythm fast because I pay attention when the lesson matters. Her fingers slip under my tee, travel up, down, lower, tracing a line that makes my breath stutter and then even out at a new speed. When her thumb runs over my nipple piercing, a shudder of pleasure tickles through me.

She smiles like she knows she has me.

Good. She does.

“More?” I ask.

“Yes.”

The blanket makes us criminals. My hand learns her, pressure and pause, the places where less is more, and the places where more is the only answer. She puts her palm on my jaw like she’s steadying me and then drops it to my chest and then lower, under my tee, fingernails skimming skin. I breathe thick. The movie bleeds sound that doesn’t belong to us. We build our own.

She twists, straddles my thigh under the throw, slow and certain, a test I pass by not rushing the tempo. Heat climbs. I set a hand at the small of her back and keep the other where she wants it, fingers-deep inside of her wet pussy. She rides my fingers like an equestrian.

I mouth her name against her throat, just air, no mark, and she swears into my shoulder like she didn’t mean to. Her hand slides down, confident now, past my waistband, a check, a question, a statement.

“Yes,” I say before she can ask. She cups me through denim, and I see stars I can’t name. I laugh once, ugly and happy, and then swallow it because my brothers might wake up and want in on this.

Tonight, I don’t want to share. I want to be selfish with Lou.

“Tell me,” she says.

“What?”

“What works,” she says, plain. “We’re not guessing.”

“Pressure. Steady. Don’t get cute.”

She grins. “Rude.”

“You know me.”

She does exactly that, steady, fingers ringing me. I return the favor, circles and lines, rhythm easy, two people who have done this before and decided to do it again. Her head tips back. I kiss the line of her jaw so she doesn’t have to hide the sound, and she makes it, small and sure. It lights me up from the inside out.

The blanket makes a world where there’s no rumor mill. Just heat and breath and trust I didn’t have to hustle for. I keep my palm steady and my mouth gentle, and she climbs into my arms. When she comes, it’s quiet and inevitable, a low yes against my neck, fingers tight in my shirt and then soft. I stay with her until she stops shaking.

She moves her hand again, fingers fitting me like she was made for this. I shut my eyes and let her kill me slow, hips listening to her hand, not my ego. It takes a minute. It’s supposed to. When it hits, I bite her shoulder through the cotton so I don’t wake the suite, and she laughs into my mouth like she likes me when I’m human.

We both breathe and count the seconds back to earth. I kiss the corner of her mouth, and she kisses mine, quick, like a promise with an escape clause. She adjusts the blanket so we’re decent if a door opens, practical even now.

We stay there under the blanket, wrecked and clean. She kisses me once, exactly on the mouth. “You’re getting good at stillness.”

“You make it easier.”

On screen, the credits crawl. The room is blue and gray and ours. The world still exists. We let it. She slides her hand back into mine and laces our fingers like it’s nothing. It feels like everything.

“I wanted to post a manifesto,” I say into her hair. “All caps. Burn the fake rules. Us four and a middle finger.”

“You could. But manifestos are for terrorists, and you don’t want to be on the no-fly list.”

I laugh. Can’t help it. She zigs when I zag, so I never really know what’s about to come out of her mouth. I like that about her. “Good point.”

I don’t recognize the feeling in my chest at first. It isn’t rage. It isn’t boredom. It isn’t the urge to feed a headline.

It’s quiet and warm and absolutely not what the brand deck says I am. I decide not to fight it. I let myself want this without rehearsing how it ends, without checking angles for cameras, without trying to get ahead of the next disaster by making one first.

“We’ll be okay,” she says, like she can read my weather.

The words itch. But I need to hear them. “Say it again.”

“We’ll be okay,” she says, and it lands right this time.

The next horror movie asks if we want to keep watching. The TV waits like a dog. We don’t. We burrow deeper under the throw and pretend the couch is a bunker and the bunker is a bed and the bed is a decision we get to make every night from now until the record ships.

Under this blanket, with her hand in mine and my pulse not trying to set the room on fire, I let myself be boring for one long minute. Just lying here with her, in the dark. In the stillness. It feels like winning.

The call comes at six a.m. from Sagebrush’s old security guard, Morty. Somebody broke in at the studio overnight, and he knew we had a lot of memorabilia there, so he wanted us to be able to salvage what we could.

I’m dressed and out the door before I can think clearly. The morning is gray. Morty stands there, flashlight in hand. His uniform is a pair of khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He’s been here since before Mom was a studio artist. “I’m sorry, Knox. It’s real bad.”

“Were you here for it?”

He shakes his head. “Musta happened sometime in the night.”

“Kids?”

“Hard to say. Come on.”

I text Houston and Salem as we walk in, and then tuck my phone away. The air is wrong. Cold where it should be stale. A window in the live room is spider-webbed and punched through, glass flaking. The console has fresh scratches along the faders like someone dragged something hard and metal across it on purpose. Two rack spaces are empty where the mirrored backup drives used to sit. The small lockbox by the desk is on the floor. The latch is bent. I catalog everything without speaking. Then I speak because otherwise I’ll start fixing before I record.

“Don’t touch anything,” I say. “We document before we call the police.”

I take photos. Time stamps visible. Wide shots first, then details: the glass on the floor, the scuff at the hinge, the gouge by the talkback. Houston and Salem show up while I’m in the middle of it.

“Who the fuck would do this?” Salem growls under his breath.

Houston sighs as he looks around. “This wasn’t just vandals. This was personal.”

Salem finds the DVR under the desk. The power light is on, but the panel is tilted. He props it up with a wedge and taps the monitor awake. We have a picture. The cameras caught motion in the hall at 3:14 a.m. Hood up. Mask. Shoulders forward.

A gait I know. Boots I know too. The left sole drags a hair on the push-off, because he fell off a ladder and fucked up his growth plate in his left ankle when he was three.

My heart drops, but I don’t say it out loud. I pull out my phone and call the police. I give the address twice and the list of missing items as best I can. Then I call Quincy.

He picks up on the second ring and says, “Bad?”

“Bad.”

“Don’t move anything until your photos cover it. I’m ten out.”

I call the owner next. He’s half-asleep, reminding me how early it is. “Why didn’t Morty call me?”

“Jake, come on. Who’s here more these days? Me or you?”

He blows out a breath. “I’m still the owner.”

“You mind if I board up the window and change the locks today?”

“No.” His tone cools. “I appreciate it.”

The cops come and do their thing for the insurance company. We give statements. The officers ask if we recognize the person in the still. I say I can’t be sure. It’s true. A gait is not a face.

But I know.

They nod like they’ve heard that line before and haven’t stopped needing to hear it. They say they’ll pull adjacent cameras on the block and call if anything from traffic caught a plate. It won’t amount to anything; I’m sure of it.

Quincy comes in quietly and stands at the console like a man at a hospital bed. He doesn’t speak until the officers are done. Then he says, “How bad?”

I explain the situation, and considering us recording here was his big plan for months before we got the chance, he handles it well. We show him the break-in footage. He studies the still frame when we have the clearest view of the perp. He doesn’t say the name I’m not saying. He doesn’t have to. He squeezes my shoulder once and steps away to make calls.

When the room is clear and it’s just us, I look at my brothers. “We hoped we could pull him back. If this is him, that hope is over.”

Houston doesn’t argue. Salem doesn’t crack a joke. We stand with it.

Then I start a list because that’s how I keep from breaking things. Board the window. Replace the locks. Inventory all serial numbers. Audit cloud backups. Move the remaining drives off-site. Contract a guard for nights. Quote cameras that pipe to the cloud and my phone. Quote laminated glass and bars for the side windows. It’s a lot.

Jake, the owner, meets me at nine in his office above the garage two blocks over. He’s grayer than last year. He looks out at the lot and back at me and says, “You want it, don’t you? You boys have always loved the studio.”

“Yeah. I do. I can protect it, if it’s mine.”

We go back and forth on numbers and land fast because we both want to be done. He hands me a ring of keys I already have copies of. I don’t smile. I say thank you and go back to the building to install the first camera myself while the contractor schedules the rest. Too much to do to be nostalgic or sentimental today.

No time for feelings. They’ll just get in the way.

By three, most of my to-do list is done. I called a security company for a night guard, and they sent a few to interview. I like Chauncey. He’s big and mean-looking. Used to be a bouncer at some of the brothels outside of the city, and those guys do not put up with a damn thing. He’s perfect.

I call Lou from the lot because I don’t want to tell her this in the room where she just started breathing easier. She listens without interrupting. I say the part about the hooded figure and the gait last.

She knows that hint of a limp. “Damn. I didn’t think he’d go this far.”

“I want you somewhere safer for a few days.”

“Define safer.” She sounds perturbed.

“A separate suite. Your own door. Key card access to ours. Same floor. We rotate walking you everywhere. We shift the behind-the-scenes schedule so you’re never alone in a room with a door that isn’t ours.”

“What are you talking about, Knox? I’m not the one who’s under threat here.”

“Not yet.” There’s a weight in my chest that makes it hard to breathe. “But he’s clearly not thinking clearly, and if anything happened to you…” Can’t breathe.

“I’m not running. I’m in this. You can’t sideline me because things get a little weird.”

“I’m not asking you to run. I’m asking you to keep moving with a better plan. You can be next door, if that one’s available. I just need you in a suite where only you and the hotel have access. The four of us have key cards to our suite. So does Quincy. So do some people from the label. That’s too many people with access to you, and people do stupid shit for money, Lou.” I swallow the knot in my throat. “Sagebrush is a part of our family. Seeing her like this…I can’t handle it if something happens to you too.”

She’s quiet, at first. “I’ll get a separate suite and key access. But I’m not hiding.”

Thank god. “Deal.”

I call the hotel and book a second suite on our floor under a quiet name. It’s two down from us. I tell security exactly who comes and goes and exactly who doesn’t. I let the front desk know we are picking up everything ourselves—no deliveries to our door or hers.

They don’t like it. I don’t care.

We spend the late afternoon at Sagebrush cleaning glass and logging everything missing. We add serials to a list and send it to the police. Houston walks the room, taking a second set of photos. Salem bolts a bar across the inside of the back door that you can’t defeat without making a lot of noise. I sweep and bag the glass. The scratches on the faders…I hate those lines more than the broken window.

Houston’s right. This was personal.

We call it at six and go back to the hotel. I keep my voice level when I brief Lou at the table. I share everything with her, and she nods through all of it. I think she’s almost as upset as we are.

The next morning Quincy calls at eight. He doesn’t waste my time. “I’m hearing from a lawyer who says Troy is considering an injunction claiming ownership of the group’s early ideas. He won’t win fast or easy, but he can make noise that will disrupt the album release.”

I breathe and write while he talks. The behind-the-scenes footage we’ve already captured shows dates and hands and faces doing the actual work for this album. That will help. But earlier work will require proof, and some of that was stolen from Sagebrush. That’s not the only studio we’ve recorded at, but it’s where we did our earliest work.

At noon, I check on Sagebrush and meet the glass installer. He measures and promises laminated panes in forty-eight hours. I pay a rush fee and add a tip. The guard logs a vendor who tried to walk in without calling. We adjust the policy: no one crosses the threshold without ID and approval.

I ask Lou to take a walk with me after lunch. We go down the back corridor and out to the loading bay so we can talk without being overheard. It’s hot out—Vegas—and we hear the traffic from the Strip, but otherwise, it’s nice out here.

“The guilt lives in my bones.” I rake a hand through my hair. “I keep thinking I can fix him if I just hold the right line long enough. I saw that footage, and all the old reflexes came back. Hide it. Explain it away. Cover for him until he stops.”

“You can’t⁠—”

“I didn’t. I’m done doing that. It still hurts.”

She listens without trying to patch it with words I don’t need. Then she says, “Guilt is wasted energy if you don’t pair it with a plan. You can’t fix him. You can fix the parts he breaks when he gets near you.”

I nod. “That’s what today is.”

The talk helped, but the day still feels off. Probably will for a while, I guess. The injunction threat sits in the air like weather. I don’t talk about it while the work is on the table. I pull Quincy into a call at seven and ask what we need to do to be ready.

He says, “Don’t throw a punch first. Build the defense file of proof of ownership so clean it looks like a museum. If he files, we answer without emotion. If he doesn’t, we never tweet a thing.”

After that, I help Lou move into her suite because that was the deal. After getting her things settled, we stop at her door. She looks at me like she has more to say and then doesn’t. She unlocks and steps in, and I wait in the hall until I hear the latch.

I should go. I don’t.

I knock once.

She opens the door again and leans in the frame. Her gaze is irritated, as she has been through the quick move. But her lips curve all the same. The contrast is strangely seductive. “Are you lost?”

“I keep hearing his voice when he was a kid asking for water after a set, and I want to hand it to him. I don’t know how to stop wanting to fix him.”

She crosses her arms and looks me over like she’s checking for loose bolts. “You’re not the only adult in this. I can bear weight. Houston can. Salem can when he isn’t trying to blow up a wall to see what happens. You don’t have to carry all of us to the finish line.”

“I know that. But I’m the one who does everything⁠—”

“Then go sleep. Go get a massage. A facial. Go ahead and be the guy who does everything, including relaxing. Including not blaming yourself for your grown-ass brother’s shortcomings. I don’t know how to make you internalize the fact that how he turned out is not on you, but it’s not. Now, go do something nice for yourself.” She points toward the elevator. “March, mister.”

I nod and turn to go. Then I stop and look back because I want to end this day saying a thing out loud. “I thought maybe we could fix him. After today, I know we can’t. I’m going to stop trying to fix what isn’t mine. I’m going to fix the studio. I’m going to fix the plan. I’m going to keep you safe.”

“While you hold the whole world on your shoulders, go to the damn spa.”

I snort at that, then salute her. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am!”

She closes the door. I listen for the lock and I walk back down the hall. She’s right. I need to relax. Not usually a word in my vocab, but I need to make time for it.

To the spa.

Relaxation is weird. It doesn’t suit me. I’m in a hall wearing a plush robe with a glass of cucumber water in my hand—pretty good, not gonna lie—and listening to pan flutes on the overhead speakers in a dim room with too many plants. Candles flicker on the counter. The air smells like lavender. I’m between treatments. The facial was bizarre. She poked and prodded my face, then massaged the hell out of it. My skin feels smoother than ever, and I don’t know if I like that.

Next up is the sports massage. Not sure why it made me feel better to book something with sports in the name. Leftover masculine bullshit, probably. But The Chocolate Fairy Massage sounded a little too something to me. Delicious, but too something.

A woman steps out of her massage suite, bliss clear on her face. She hugs her massage therapist. “That was incredible. I have never been this relaxed in my life.” As she passes me in the hall, the air fills with cocoa.

I can’t help myself. “The Chocolate Fairy?”

She practically purrs. “Oh yeah.” She keeps walking.

My massage therapist pokes her head out. “Mr. Turner, are you ready to relax?”

“I am.” I set my glass aside and follow her into the even darker suite. “Before we get started, can we switch from the sports massage to The Chocolate Fairy massage?”

She beams. “Of course. I need an extra minute to set up, but I’m happy to switch the massages.”

“Perfect.”

When it’s all over, I’m not relaxed. I’m giddy. There’s no other word for it. I had no idea I could feel this good without drugs or sex. I swear, it’s like my feet had orgasms. What the hell?

“Where has this been all my life?”

My massage therapist—Tia, as it turns out—laughs. “Right here, waiting for you.”

Maybe that’s true of relaxation as a whole. I dunno.

I dress and pay and overtip, because Tia more than earned it, and head back upstairs. I take a long steamy shower, because for once, that actually feels good. In bed, I let the day run once more so I don’t wake up with it half-chewed.

The picture of the hallway silhouette tries to install itself in my head again. I say no. I replace it with the console with the board up and the glass back, and our mother sitting behind it, arms folded, waiting to hear the take. I replace it with Lou at the table, drawing a grid. I replace it with the four of us in the room with the door locked because we locked it, not because we were trapped. I replace it with Tia’s hands and the scent of cocoa.

I am not trapped by my responsibilities. This is my life. I am not Troy’s keeper, not his dad, not his fixer.

I feel solid for the first time in a long time. Not because the threats are gone. They aren’t. Because I have a plan and a team and a partner who will tell me when I’m wasting my efforts on the wrong fire. I don’t feel like I’m the only adult in the room. I don’t feel like I’m covering for a child in a man’s boots.

I am not alone in this. I have someone I can lean on. Someone who gets me. That’s all I’ve ever needed, and I never even knew it.

I book a table at a quiet restaurant in a hotel on the Strip. White tablecloths. Real candles. A piano that plays low to allow for intimate conversation. Lou is in a black dress and kitten heels because she’s practical. I like that about her. I like that she smiles when she sees me and then checks the exits without thinking. I do the same out of habit.

We sit near the window where the lights look like a screensaver. The server knows how to pace a meal. Water shows up before we ask. Bread is fresh and warm, the butter whipped. We order fish and a salad and a side of fries because fries make a night easier, or so Salem says. Cell phones are out of sight, but we talk about work first because it’s the least dangerous topic that still matters.

She tells me the marquee tests went well. The blue reads at a distance; the ribbon icon needs a hair less weight. She says she’s pushing the tour grid into a system that even a venue intern can’t break. I tell her I changed the left hand in the bridge so the chorus lands cleaner. We trade small notes like two people who like making things more than talking about them.

The food is good. She eats the lemon wedge off the fish.

I have never seen someone do that. “Good lemon?”

She giggles like she just realized she did it. “Habit.”

“How so?”

“Growing up, fresh fruit wasn’t much of a thing, so when you got some, even if it was just a lemon wedge, that got eaten first.”

Growing up in foster care, she means.

I don’t want to dig into it and drag the night down. But I will circle back to this with her one day.

The piano player clips the end of a standard. I forgive him because his balance stays even. A flash through glass pulls at the edge of my vision. Paparazzi outside. Not a swarm, just two standing near the fountain with long lenses, getting reflections and angles through the window. I breathe, then breathe again.

Acting out makes it worse. I learned that lesson five years ago, and again, thanks to Salem and Troy’s mishap. I tip my chin at them so she knows I see it.

“Do we move?” she asks.

“No. We finish dinner. We walk out calm. Security can escort if they get loud.”

“Okay,” she says, and the word lands like a hand on my back. I like that too.

We don’t rush. I thank the server by name at the end, and we head out. Outside the doors, the air is warm and the lights are bright. Vegas ambiance. The two with cameras step closer but keep to the public side of the line on the pavement. I face forward. Lou keeps her chin level. The shutters sound like sprinklers on a lawn. A third guy angles in from the right and sits on the line with one foot like he wants to test an invisible rule. Most of the time, the paparazzi here aren’t too bad. It’s not like Los Angeles. But sometimes, they’re ambitious.

He lifts his camera and lowers it and then decides to try words. “Hey, Lou,” he calls. “How does it feel to be the Turner Brothers’ whore?”

My hands go up before I think. I take one step. Security is already moving. I stop myself at the last half second, fingers curled, knuckles tight, the bones in my forearms ringing.

I could lay him out. I want to.

I don’t. I hear my mother’s voice telling me to save my hands for the instrument. I hear Lou breathe in.

“That’s enough,” I growl.

The guy grins like he won something by getting a rise out of me. Security steps between us. The other cameras keep clicking because that’s what they do. I open my hands and let the shake show until it leaves. I take Lou’s elbow and ask the guard to walk us to the garage. We don’t run. We don’t speak.

The elevator is a quiet box. I watch the numbers. Lou looks at our reflections. I realize I haven’t said a word that counts.

“I’m sorry. I almost lost it.”

She snorts, soft. “After a year with Troy, that was nothing.” I make a face, and she smiles on purpose to let me off the hook, then gets serious again. “I appreciate that you stopped. I appreciate that you want to be better than that.”

“I don’t want to be a headline you have to live through.”

The valet brings the car. I drive. She rests her hand on the console, and the calm returns. We take the long way back because the long way gives us quiet. She hums without thinking. It’s the melody from “Locket.” She only realizes she’s doing it when I turn the radio down to hear more.

“What?”

“Keep going,” I tell her.

She hums the chorus and adds a second line under it, a tiny echo that never tries to be a lead. I take the next exit.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Sagebrush. Now that it’s ours, we can drop in.”

“Tonight?”

“Trust me.”

She looks at me for a long second and then nods. “Okay.”

We park in the back and use the new lock. The guard at the door gives me a nod and goes back to his stool. Inside, the air is cooler than it was the day of the break-in. The cameras blink like small eyes. I check the feeds on my phone out of habit, and then I put the phone face down because the music requires both hands.

I boot the rig and switch on the small lamps. No overheads. This feels like work and also like a secret. I pull the ribbon mic to the vocal spot and set the pop filter a hand out. I know her range now.

“I don’t sing,” she says, standing at the edge of the tape like it’s a border crossing.

“I want you to whisper a harmony. Nothing fancy. Just air and pitch. I’ll keep it low in the mix. Nothing showy.”

She looks at the mic and then at me. “If I hate it, you delete it.”

“If you hate it, I’ll delete it.”

She steps in. I hand her headphones, one ear on, one ear off so she doesn’t feel trapped. I give her a little of my voice and a click so she has a floor. I tell her where the chorus lands and where I want the echo to touch and run away.

“Trust me.”

She catches my eye. “I do trust you, Houston.”

I roll, and she whispers the line and hits pitch on the first try like she was made for quiet. I stop and try not to grin. I roll again. She gives me a second pass with a tiny slide at the end that makes the chord lift. I ask for one more take on a different note so I can layer them. She does it. I stand very still so I don’t spook whatever is making this easy for her tonight.

“Was that okay?” she asks.

“Perfect.”

She laughs and covers her mouth with the back of her hand like she caught herself doing something reckless. I save the takes and back them up twice. I’m not losing anything tonight.

I pull the files into the session and build a small nest for them. I pan her first pass left, second pass right, low in the mix. I keep her breath visible and tuck the consonants. I pull my chorus down to make room and double my line one octave under with the thinnest guitar I can live with. I add a single tambourine hit on two to lift the second half without turning it into a trick.

I motion for her to join me. “Come listen.”

She stands behind my shoulder. I hit play. Her whisper is the missing hinge. She hears it and goes still. I don’t look at her because looking would make it about something else. I play it through and stop the cursor right past the fade.

“It’s a duet,” I explain. “It always was. I didn’t know until tonight.”

She swallows. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

She goes quiet for a long time and then nods. “Okay.”

We bounce a mix and export two versions, one with vocals up for the room and one with vocals down for the car. I put them in the shared folder and send a text to Knox and Salem to meet us at the suite, in case they’re out too.

Back at the hotel we catch them in the living room. Knox has a notepad open. Salem is on the floor doing a stretch he pretends is about his back. We don’t talk. I press play instead.

Verse one. No one moves. Chorus one. Salem’s head tilts. The bridge. Knox uncrosses his arms, which is his version of standing up and cheering. Final chorus. I bring Lou’s whisper up one notch for the last four bars. The room gets very small and good.

When it ends, no one speaks first. Then Knox does. “That’s the single. No question. Quincy has to hear this.”

Salem points at Lou without looking away from the TV. “Of course it was missing something. It was missing her.”

Like we were.

I send the file to Quincy without a message, other than to listen asap. I don’t want to tell him what to hear. The read receipt pops a minute later, and then a text comes in: Holy hell. That’s a single.

Lou looks like she wants to hide and smile at once. We exhale. We look at each other. We have a song. We have a plan. And Quincy is excited.

Salem rests his chin on her shoulder. “You did this, angel.”

Her cheeks flush. “Don’t call me that when my clothes are on.”

“Easy fix.” He unzips the back of her dress. “Unless you’re not⁠—”

“I am. I did the scariest thing I have ever done in my life tonight, and I need a mental break.”

I blink. “I’m sorry if I scared you with the paparazzo⁠—”

“No, no, not you.” She smiles and clutches my forearm as she looks up at me. “I mean the singing.”

“Oh. That’s not scary. Singing is like breathing.”

“For you, maybe.”

Salem grumbles, “Everything is like breathing for Houston.” Then he opens the back of her dress, kissing her bare shoulder. “He’s good at everything.”

She takes a swift breath, eyes closed, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Show me.”

I take her pretty face in both hands and kiss those perfect lips. Can’t tell what Salem is doing to her right now, but she moans in my mouth, and that’s the start of my dessert. “Excuse us, gents.” I pick Lou up, her legs around my waist, and cart her to my room.

At my height, it’s hard to find beds that work for me without pulling my legs up. Thankfully, Quincy worked an oversized king bed for me into our rider for the residency. When she sees it, she whistles. “How have I never been in here before?”

I shrug. “Been a busy few weeks.” I lay her onto the mattress, and my god, she looks good there. Looks right. Like she belongs. I hate that Knox moved her out, but I get it. Tonight, though, this is where I need her.

She kicks off her heels, now naked on my bed. Knox and Salem have stripped down to boxers, and I follow suit, watching them crowd her. Their hands glide over that soft skin, golden in the light. But her eyes are on me now, her knees bent. She watches every bit of skin I reveal until I’m as naked as she is.

I take her ankle in one hand, gently pressing kisses to the tender skin inside of it. Moving up her calf, her knee, one soft kiss after another. I want to show Lou that she is precious to me, and I’m going to take my time. When I reach the inside of her thigh, her body tenses. I have her spread wide to make room for me, and ahead is the prettiest pussy I have ever seen. Wet and shining.

Salem and Knox have taken her tits, her face, her stomach for their own. Each of them is going slow tonight. Not sure why, but it feels right.

All the while, she steals glances down at me. Like she can’t stop watching me. Maybe she wants to know when I’ll touch her there, or maybe it’s something else.

When I finally do, it’s with reverence. I spread her open with one hand and tour her body with my tongue, savoring that nectar, before I settle onto her clit. Sucking, nibbling, twirling. I listen for the notes that tell me I’m doing what she wants. The pitch of her moans, the gravity of her sighs.

It helps that her thighs have closed in on my head, and she squeezes when I hit a good spot.

She fists my hair and holds me to her. “Fuck, there! Right there!”

I stay right there, working her clit over with my whole mouth as her climax builds. I massage her pussy below my chin and work a finger into her. When I add a second one, she gushes down my chin, her sounds on the verge of hysteria as she rocks against me. I drink every drop. I earned that.

There is no pride in me like the rush I get from making her come. My chest and my cock swell in equal measure. But before I can do a victory lap, she pulls on my hair to drag me up her body.

“Need you,” she groans in desperation, still pulling me up.

“You have me.” I thrust into her tight pussy, quivering from that orgasm. The connection zaps my brain. How did I manage to do anything but this tonight? Or ever?

Our bodies collide in waves, one after another. I’d make room for the others, but pulling away now would be a crime. Instead, I double-down, hooking my arms beneath her shoulders to pull her tighter to me. In this space, there is only us.

She comes again, body arching to me. Her head tips backward, and there’s Knox. He takes her mouth upside down, and she groans for more. Watching him fill her throat at this angle is one of the most erotic things I have ever seen. Knowing she loves it makes it even better.

She needs more. We know how to give it.

“Back up a second,” I tell him. He does. I stroke her face. “We’re going to do this a little differently, precious. You ready?”

Her dark eyes are glazed over. “Okay.”

I pull out, disappointing my own cock, and rearrange us until I can pull her backward onto my lap. “Lube.” Knox passes me a bottle, and I slick myself with it. Then I place myself at her ass’s entrance. “Ready, precious?”

“Like this?” She sounds nervous.

“Kind of. Trust me.”

“I do.”

That means more than anything to me right now.

I take it slow, easing in. I’m girthier than my brothers, and I don’t want to hurt her. The sounds this woman makes should be recorded for posterity. Wicked, tempting things. By the time I’m in, she’s dripping down my thighs.

I lie back, taking her with me. I settle her legs on either side of mine to spread her wide open. Her head is tipped back on my shoulder. “Guys. Let’s make her feel good.”

Without a word, they join us, Knox at her mouth, Salem at her pussy. I feel it when he enters her there—her tight ass becomes tighter. I feel the movements he makes, hear her responding moans, feel the way she tenses and rolls between us. My hands cup her tits, plucking at them to add more pleasure. To occupy my hands too. They belong there.

Our bodies belong together.

When she comes again, I feel that. It’s a ripple that takes over from the inside of her until she’s shaking on the outside too. Salem growls, “Yes, angel, that’s it. Come for us.”

Knox strokes her cheek. “Is this what you wanted, baby? All your pretty holes filled?”

“Mm-hmm,” is all she can say as she writhes between us, mouth still full.

“Good girl.” He holds her throat while he fucks her there, staring into her eyes.

She comes again, and this time, I can hardly hold mine back. But I will. For her.

“Mm, angel, you’re gonna make me come too,” Salem promises.

She doesn’t speak. Only rolls herself at him harder, which means I have to angle myself just right to stay in. When he comes, it triggers another for her, and she screams, making Knox follow. The sound of her swallowing his cum makes me come. I unload in her ass, knowing she’s dripping with all of us now. I feel her still pulsing on me.

Our girl isn’t done yet.

Before I pull out, I reach around for her swollen clit. When I touch her there, she jumps, so I bar my other arm over her chest. “No, precious. We’re not done yet.” I hold her to me, my half-hard cock still up her ass, while I work that clit. She squirms and rolls and begs and pleads, but I hold. I know what her body needs. She doesn’t safeword or say no.

“Pleasepleasepleaseplease—”

“I’m giving you what you want, precious. Why the begging?” Teasing her gets me hard again, still buried in her ass.

“Need…more.”

“I know.”

Knox skims his palms over her nipples, just barely grazing them. Salem adds his fingers to her dripping pussy. One, then two, then three. All the while, I keep at her clit. All the while, she begs.

“What if we go for four?” he asks redundantly, because he’s already adding that fourth finger.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I’m coming!” she squeaks the last word before crying out. Her whole body goes rigid, and shakes like she needs an exorcist. I barely notice anything but her until I’m coming again too. Didn’t even know I was close.

“Fuck, she’s squirting up my arm! That’s it, angel.”

When her body collapses onto me, I know it’s over. Mine sure as hell is. I carefully slide out and gentle her onto her side as she tries to breathe. I hold her there, stroking her arm to let her come back to herself on her own timetable. There’s no rushing this.

We have all the time in the world.

Today, I am done playing by the rules. Well, what little rules I had, anyway.

Daylight. Public café. Windows on two sides. Line at the counter. Forks on plates. People with laptops who won’t look up unless someone screams.

My lawyer sits two booths over with a seltzer and a legal pad. He signed off on this. He also told me it won’t hold up in court. You can’t legally use a recording in court if all parties don’t know they’re being recorded and agree to it.

I don’t care. I want the words. If he’s tried only in the court of public opinion, so be it.

The wire is flat under my tee. Battery checked twice. Paired to my phone, which is in airplane mode with one app that talks to one watcher two booths away. The lawyer’s assistant. This way, we get two recordings, in case he gets clever and snatches my shit.

We’re not stupid. We’re also not saints.

I take the corner bench for the sight lines and order a coffee I won’t drink. I didn’t bring the bike. I Ubered here. Less traceable. I text Knox one line—seated—and put the phone screen down.

Houston wanted to come. I told him no. I love Houston, but he has a soft spot for everyone, even Troy. He might have figured out a way to smooth things over. But every time he’s done that, Troy bit him in the ass. Not again.

Lou offered to sit nearby. I told her absolutely not. I can do a quiet, daytime meet. Not everything has to break out into violence. I repeat that in my head until my hands stop wanting to drum or punch.

Troy walks in late enough to signal he’s still the headliner of his own movie. Hoodie up, cap low, sunglasses like a parody. Fake incognito that stands out. He clocks the room and smirks when he sees me.

I keep my face flat. I don’t stand.

He takes the chair opposite and sprawls like this is a greenroom couch. “Hey, brother,” he says, sweet as poison.

Never been more glad that we are only half brothers. “Hey.” I keep my voice low so he’ll lean in. Wires like leaning.

He looks over his shoulder, clocking exits. He never used to do that. Maybe the world finally taught him he isn’t bulletproof. Good. He drags his cap higher. His eyes are red at the edges. He hasn’t slept well in a long time.

He snaps at the server, gets a quad espresso, and leans back again. “How’s my ex? Still doing community service with the band?”

I let it pass. “How are you, Troy?”

He watches my mouth for a second. “You here to apologize for choking me? That photo’s doing numbers. An apology might go a long way to fixing that little problem for you.”

“No.”

He grins. “You here to beg me to stop making you look bad? Too late.”

I fold my hands on the table so the wire doesn’t print on my shirt when my shoulders move. “You broke into Sagebrush. You took drives and cash. You scratched the board.”

He laughs loud enough to turn a head at the next table, then lowers it to a normal level. “Allegedly,” he says, singsong.

“You walked in at three fourteen. Back door. Hood up. That little limp of yours is a dead giveaway.”

His face hardens. “I don’t have a limp anymore. That’s why I trained so hard with the dance coaches. I got rid of that years go. You’ve got nothing.”

“The limp comes back when you’re drinking too much, and the stench from here says that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”

He drums his fingers. Same rhythm as when he used to wait for applause. “A shame your cameras couldn’t get any real evidence for that shitty studio.”

“Talk to me,” I say, low. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Doing what? Living my life?” He leans forward and drops his voice, playing at intimacy. “I’m going to blow your little project up. You think you can take what I built and run it without me? You think you can take my girl and not pay? I’ll make the hotel pull the plug. I’ll sue. I’ll own the name you think you get to put on glass.”

I let him wind up. “You broke a window. That why your hand is bruised up?”

He flashes teeth. “Maybe I wanted to see you cry over spilt glass.”

“That’s not the saying⁠—”

He shrugs. “So what if I took a couple little things. Might’ve bumped into a couple little things. Who cares?”

“Me.”

He taps the table, then grins and leans forward. “I’m going to release my tape with Lou.”

The hairs on the back of my neck go on end. “Tape?”

“Our sex tape.”

The air in my chest goes hot for one second. I don’t move.

This can’t be true. Lou would have told me. She would have used the word first. She didn’t.

“You don’t have one.”

He lifts a brow. “You sure?”

“If you did, releasing it would be a crime. Even you know that.”

“Do I?” he says, playing dumb. “You boys on your high horses. Meanwhile, your girl is rotating through bedrooms like a DJ on holiday.”

My jaw wants to flex. I keep it still. “She’s a person. Watch your mouth.”

He leans back to make a show for anybody who’s looking, like I just hit him with a line and he loved it. I want to beat that grin off his smug face. “So easy. Say ‘watch your mouth’ again. Make me really believe it.”

“No.”

He tilts the cup and doesn’t drink. “You got old. You used to throw punches. Now look at you.”

“I grew up. You should try it.”

He snorts. “Cute.” He checks the door. He checks the window. He checks the lawyer two booths over and doesn’t know that’s what he’s checking.

All he sees are people who might see him. He likes being seen. He always did. That’s why he’s making this a spectacle.

He leans in again. “You want to know why I did it? I walked out of there with drives because I could. I scratched your toy because you love it. I left the cigarette because I wanted you to know it was me.”

“Because you could,” I echo. “That’s why you’re fucking up your whole life? Why you ripped off your family? Why you treated Lou like shit?”

He points at my chest like we’re brothers at a barbecue. “You used to be cool, Salem. You were the one always up to shit, always stirring the pot. Then you got old and now you’re no fun anymore. That’s why I will never fit in with the family, you know. You call it growing up. I call it dying a slow death.”

His eyes are wild. It’s not just alcohol anymore. I can tell. I can practically feel his heart racing from here. The kid I knew is gone, and I don’t think he’s ever coming back.

But I hear Houston’s voice in the back of my mind, and I can’t stop myself from trying one last time. “Troy, we can get you help.”

“Pfft,” he scoffs. Then he laughs too loud again, like it’s the funniest idea ever. A couple looks up. The assistant two booths over crosses one leg over the other and scratches a note. Troy lowers his volume. “This is boring. Let’s fight.”

“I don’t fight tweaked-out junkies.”

“Come on,” he says. “Make me bleed so you can feel alive. You miss it.”

“I don’t.”

“Remember that bar in Thailand? The one where you box your friend and whoever wins gets a bucket of free booze?”

I shrug. “I kicked your ass. What about it?”

“Think they’d give us a free coffee if we fought here?”

“I’m not fighting you. I have too much to do to waste my time like this, Troy. I’m working.”

He rolls his eyes. “Working,” he says like it’s a slur. “You mean writing piano music and holding her hand.”

“I mean building a life.”

“Cute.” He leans closer, lower, like he’s about to whisper something worth hearing. “You should thank me. If I hadn’t broken in, Jake would have never sold it, and you never would have bought that shit hole. You got to finally buy Sagebrush because of me. You owe me.”

I keep my face the same. Inside, a click. He’s bragging. He’s always bragging. He wants me to see him. He wants me to be impressed.

I sit back. “Maybe I do owe you. What time did you go in?”

“Three something. Thought I’d find you asleep on a rug like old times. No such luck.”

“Window?” I say.

“Cheap glass,” he says, pleased with himself. “I did you a favor.”

“Cameras?” I say.

“Cute toys,” he says. “Little blinky lights. You think I’m scared of lights? I walked right past.”

“Did you,” I say.

“I even checked the closet,” he says, laughing. “Took your lunch money.”

I don’t look at the lawyer. “The drives. You have them.”

“I’m keeping them safe.”

“Where?”

He grins. “What, you want to come over? You want to tuck me in? Or choke me in front of my groupies?”

“You should return them. Today. If you’re smart, you will.”

“So you can tape me returning them for evidence that I took them?” He grins, like he thinks he’s clever. “Do it. I look good on camera.”

“You look like a child on camera.”

He flinches. Small. The truth is a hand on the back of his neck. He hates it.

He recomposes with something cruel because that’s the reflex. “Lou’s going to get bored with you. She liked me because I was chaos.”

“She liked the part of you that wasn’t a liar and a cheat.”

“Now she likes the part of you that pretends you’re not,” he says. “Don’t forget, Salem. I know who you really are. You’re a fuckup, just like me.”

I let that one sit on the table and die by itself. He breathes like he scored. He didn’t. He keeps talking because silence is where he drowns.

“You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to call the hotel and tell them you stole my songs. I’m going to tell them Lou is a thief too. I’m going to say she took my brand. I’m going to say you sold your souls to get a girl who was never yours. I’m going to make sure radio doesn’t touch your little lullaby.”

How does he even know we have a song ready? “‘Locket’ will be a hit.”

He pushes his chair back two inches to make me blink. I don’t. He leans in one last time because he can’t help it. “I walked in,” he says, lower now. “I walked out. I left you a message in scratches. I took something that hurts. I’m going to take more, and you can’t stop me.”

Whatever warmth or care I had for him evaporates completely. “Okay. Is that it?”

He blinks.

“You did the thing you can’t apologize for. You did the thing you can’t spin. You just made it easier for me to stop pretending you’re coming back.”

“I’m never coming back⁠—”

“No shit. We kicked you out, and now, you’re never allowed back. Not in the band. Not in the family. You made that choice. Now, you’ll live with it.”

He opens his mouth for the next line. I stand. He stands because he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s smaller than I remember. He’s older than he acts. Somehow, he looks like the boy he was, and a man I don’t recognize.

“See you never.”

Troy’s brow lines. He doesn’t know what to do with indifference, so he stumbles out of the place.

I put a twenty under my cup for a coffee I didn’t drink and give the server a nod. I walk past my lawyer and tap the pad once with a fingertip so he knows we’re done. He nods. He doesn’t smile.

Outside, the sun is straight up. I put my hands on the back of my neck and breathe because my palms are shaking, and I don’t need anyone to see it. I round the corner, find a strip of shade, and lean on the wall until my ribs remember their job. Spread. Let me breathe.

The wire is warm now. I turn it off. I take the phone out, take the app off airplane mode, and push the file to the shared drive we set up for ugly things. It goes to Knox first, then counsel. I add a one-line summary and the café address for file keeping. I add time stamps I can remember without checking.

Knox replies in under a minute: Got it. Proud of you. Come back.

Counsel replies: Received. Don’t engage further. We handle next moves.

I run my hands over my face and walk to the end of the block. I pass three people who don’t know me and a kid in a jersey who maybe does but doesn’t say anything because Nevada daylight takes the teeth out of whatever I am to people who need me to be bigger.

I let my head drop for one count, and then I pick it up again because I’m not going to fall apart on a sidewalk. Instead, I call Lou.

She answers in two rings. “You okay?”

“I met him,” I say. My voice sounds like I used it too hard, even though I barely raised it. “Witnesses. Lawyer two booths over. Wire on. He talked.”

She’s quiet for a second. I can hear paper move. She’s working. “Did he say anything useful?”

“He bragged about the break-in. He gave details.”

“Of course he did. Bet it didn’t occur to him that you might be taping him.”

“I didn’t hit him,” I say, because that’s the part that matters in my bones.

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

“I wanted to,” I say.

“I knew you would.”

I huff a laugh at that, but it dies a quick death. “I wore a wire. Lawyer approved. He said it won’t hold up. We can still use it—accidentally leak it, that kind of thing.”

“I’m glad you didn’t let him drag you into the shit with him. That had to be hard for you, and you managed it anyway. I’m proud of you.”

The words land like something heavy I’ve been trying to lift by myself. I look at my hands because if I look up, I’m going to do something dumb like cry. “Say that again.”

“I’m proud of you, Salem. You did a hard thing in the right way.”

I can barely breathe for how much I needed to hear that. I sit on the sidewalk and let the heat soak into my legs, and let the breath go in and out until the shake leaves. I rasp out, “Thanks.”

“Now get back here so I can show you how proud I am.”

“On my way.” I hang up, not trusting my voice to say much else.

We take the back elevator because it’s easier on everyone. Houston holds the door with his foot and a paper tray of coffee in one hand. Salem has a box of cables he didn’t trust the runner to carry. Knox checks the hallway mirrors on instinct and then looks at me. I nod. I’m fine. I like being part of the check.

The doors open on the ground floor. The hotel swallows us without comment. We cross the service lot and climb into the SUV that gets less attention than the bikes. Knox drives. I ride up front with a notebook and a pen, comfortable in my corner. The guys hum with the low energy of morning—quiet, awake, already thinking about takes.

Sagebrush waits behind its new glass. The guard logs us in and sits back down, bored but useful. I like the boredom. The room smells like wood, tape, and cleaner. It’s almost cozy.

Talia beats us to the control room. She’s in a fitted floral dress and heels that could be a weapon and a cardigan the color of peaches. Her blond curls are up, her lipstick is bright, her diamond bangles clack when she waves. West Coast Dolly Parton, with a look that says she has stories and blackmail material on celebrities that she’d never use.

“Baby,” she says to Houston, kissing his cheek. “Sweetheart,” to Salem, patting his chest like a drum. “Soldier,” to Knox, squeezing his forearm. Then she turns to me and softens. “Lou. Look at you. This room likes you.”

“Hi, Talia.”

“Come here and tell me what you’re making these boys do.”

We do a quick hug. She takes the coffee from Houston, picks one without asking whose it is, and claims the engineer’s chair like a throne she let someone else borrow until today.

“Quincy’s coming later,” Knox says, setting his bag under the desk.

“Mm,” Talia says, not a fan noise. “He’s a good manager. I’ve never liked him, though.”

Knox merely sighs like he’s heard it all before.

But I’m confused. “You don’t like Quincy?”

“Never have,” she says, casual. “He gets results. He also gets on my nerves. Vibe’s off. Too much math in his smile.”

Houston laughs. Salem grins. Knox pretends to check the patch bay. I like Quincy more than I expected to, but I trust a woman who has seen every kind of man twice.

“Don’t fuss,” she adds, tapping the board’s armrest. “You don’t have to like a manager for him to do his job. You just have to know where he ends and you begin. Some men don’t know where they end.”

Houston sets a small cassette on the edge of the console like it’s a fragile thing. “I need to confess something, Lou. It might make you hate me.”

I glance at Talia and the brothers. They look as confused as I feel. “What are you talking about?”

“I found a demo in the archive. R. Navarro.” He turns the cassette around to show off the label.

My throat clicks. I look at the label. I don’t reach for it. “Oh. Okay.”

“We did open calls,” Talia says. “A lot of tape came through these doors.”

Houston’s voice is careful. “I know there’s no chance you’re related,” he says, running a thumb along the plastic. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Not showing you felt wrong too. So, I wasn’t sure what to do, but I’m not Troy. I don’t hide things from you, even if they amount to nothing. Are you mad?”

I chuckle because it’s true and because he’s a sweet man and because he needs me to release him from whatever promise he made to himself. “You’re fine. I’m not naïve. Navarro is a common last name. R can be anything. I understand where you’re coming from on the hope thing, but we’re good.”

He looks relieved and still a little tense. He wants to fix things before they break. He can’t help it. I understand that part of him.

“Play it,” Salem says, already leaning closer.

Houston glances at me for permission. I shrug. “Go ahead.”

He slots the tape and presses play. Hiss, a count, a guitar that sounds like thrifted wood and newer strings. A voice comes in, low and smoky, not trained, not afraid. The kind of tone that makes you want to sit down without knowing why. My mouth goes dry, not from hope, just from the sound of someone telling the truth with their tone.

Talia’s face lifts. “Mm. Listen to that.”

The chorus lands simple and then is gone. Houston stops it there. He doesn’t make a thing of it. He doesn’t watch me watching it. Good choice.

I clear my throat. “She’s good.”

“She is,” Houston says. “And that’s all it has to be.”

Talia leans in. “R. Navarro,” she repeats, rolling the R. “Let me see the handwriting.”

He hands her the tape. She squints, then smiles the way someone smiles at a memory that isn’t sad anymore. “That might be Rosa Navarro’s demo.”

“Rosa?”

“Sweet, shy thing,” Talia explains. “Big eyes, tiny hands, twice the courage she thought she had. Came in with a borrowed guitar and shook when she plugged it in. Then she sang, and the room lit up like a theater. We only had her for a couple of sessions. She had places to be, or someone told her she did.”

“Do you remember the year?” Knox asks.

Talia taps her nail on the plastic. “I remember what I wore. I remember who fixed the door that week. I remember she asked for hot tea with honey and apologized to the kettle for using it. But not the year.” She points at a faded show flyer on the wall. “Memory is a liar. It lies more when you get older.”

“Did she say where she was staying?” Houston asks.

“Not a peep. She was quiet.”

“It would be cool if I were related to her.” I shrug. “But I don’t believe in coincidences. Not for me.”

Talia frowns, not scolding, more like she found a splinter in something she was wrapping for me. “Everywhere I’ve ever gone, there’ve been coincidences. Bus stops. Green rooms. Choir lofts. Casinos. I’ve seen the same song twice in two cities with two different writers who happened upon the same verse or melody. I’ve heard the same laugh from a different face. World’s bigger than our math, honey. Coincidences make life fun.”

“Maybe for other people,” I say, and try to make my voice light. “My luck is practical. I get cavities and parking tickets. I get real deadlines and small wins. I don’t get mystery relatives and mythic tapes.”

Houston nudges the tape with his knuckle, thoughtful. “Cynicism just means you know you’re onto something.”

I smile at him because he’s just so pure sometimes. “You are your mother’s hopeful son.”

“Guilty.”

Talia pats his cheek. “Hope is a tool. Not a pillow to smother yourself with. Doesn’t hurt to keep a little bit of it around for the bad times.”

I look at the cassette again. R. Navarro. No date. No instrument list. I picture a woman with a thrifted dress and a voice too big for the room. I’ve done this before, let the fantasy of family run away with me. I stop the picture before it gets legs.

Salem elbows me soft. “You want to Google Rosa? See if there’s a face that looks familiar?”

I hadn’t even thought of doing that. Avoidance has been my strategy since I was old enough to understand that looking hurts worse than not looking. I pull my phone halfway out of my pocket and then slide it back in. “There has to be a million Rosa Navarros. What are the odds?”

“Good if you want them to be,” Talia says. “Bad if you don’t.”

“Neutral if I’m working.”

Salem leans over the console and squints at my locket like he’s going to read the engraving by willpower. “Let me at least try a search string,” he says, teasing. “Rosa Navarro voice smoky brave.”

“That’s not how Google works,” I say, laughing despite myself.

“Everything works like that if you want it enough.”

Knox opens the rack drawer and sets out a clean notebook, a pencil, and a roll of tape like a mise en place. “We’re losing the morning,” he says without heat. “We can play detective at lunch.”

“He’s right, guys,” I tell them. “Let’s get to work.”

Everyone mulls to their corner, and I think about coincidences. Useful until they turn bossy. There were times I looked for my face in other faces and came away with only a headache. I think about a girl named Rosa with a borrowed guitar.

“Lunch will be chili,” Talia says, final. “I brought plenty.”

Knox claps his hands once, quiet. It carries anyway. “All right, crew,” he says. “Break’s over. We’ve got takes to cut and glass to test. We can chase ghosts at lunch. For now, work.”

Sounds like exactly what I need to stop spinning out about a random tape that means nothing. “Work.” I nod, pull out my laptop, and do exactly that.

We get the call at 7:12 a.m. Emergency hearing at ten. Troy’s lawyer filed overnight to freeze our releases and claim ownership of “early ideas.” Our counsel says the leak went live at six. The wire audio is out. The café transcript is out. A clean excerpt, bleeped, posted by counsel, not by us. It’s already everywhere.

I hate starting a day like this, but I like fast court more than slow court. We dress clean, neutral. No sunglasses. No biker jackets. We take the back entrance, clear security, and sit at the counsel table with our binders open. The chain-of-creation package sits in front of me: split sheets, DAW logs, stem lists, time-stamped exports, session video stills, behind-the-scenes clips with slates, file metadata printouts, calendar invites, and receipt trail. A simple index on top.

Across the aisle, Troy sits with his lawyer. Hoodie under a blazer. He doesn’t look at us. He stares at the rail like it owes him something. He glances at the gallery where the press sits. He likes that part. He always did.

The judge takes the bench right on time. Mid-fifties, direct, not bored. “On calendar: Turner versus Turner et al. Application for temporary restraining order and preliminary injunction.” She looks down the docket. “Counsel, appearances.”

Troy’s lawyer stands. Name, firm. Our counsel stands. Name, firm. I sit with my hands flat because it keeps me from doing anything else.

Troy’s side goes first. Standard pitch. He says, “my client’s intellectual property,” “misappropriation,” and “irreparable harm.” He says, “ideas captured during the family band era,” like that phrase means something in law. He waves at a PDF that looks like a list of titles without files. He takes a shot at “Locket” by name. He says it pulls from “themes” he claims he had in a voice memo. He asks to enjoin the release, distribution, and promotion.

The judge asks, “Do you have dated files?”

He says they are “recovering access.”

She asks, “Do you have any contemporaneous writings tied to the compositions at issue?”

He says, “Proprietary pattern and practice.”

The fuck does that even mean?

She asks, “Anything other than your client’s say-so?”

He moves on to “public confusion” and “ongoing damage to brand.”

Our counsel stands. No theatrics. “Your Honor, we have a clear chain of creation for the works at issue this month.” He hands up the index and a slim binder—one song per tab, “Locket” first. “We’ll hit the high points. The record shows authorship by Houston Turner, with contributions by Knox and Salem Turner. Ms. Navarro recorded guide tones. She is credited accordingly.”

“Proof beyond their word?”

“We have session files with embedded time stamps, export logs, and session video that matches. We also have location-stamped behind-the-scenes footage showing the same takes on the same dates. We have the paper trail for studio time, engineer confirmations, and a calendar that aligns with all of it.”

The judge holds up a hand. “Play the hallway clip,” she says.

The bailiff dims the lights. The clip runs. Grainy, time stamp in the corner, a figure moving with a small left-foot drag on push-off. I feel the hairs on my arms lift because I know that walk. The judge watches twice. “Authenticate this,” she says. Our counsel calls the guard as a declarant in the papers; the judge nods. “All right.”

Troy’s lawyer objects to the café audio. “Illegally recorded.”

Our counsel answers, “One-party consent jurisdiction, Your Honor. Also, opposing counsel made this the subject of his motion by claiming an unsafe environment and a need to maintain the status quo.”

The judge says, “I’ve seen worse on the six o’clock news,” and moves on. She doesn’t need the audio. She has enough. “Counsel,” she says to Troy’s side, “you are asking me to take possession of a set of songs you haven’t substantiated and to freeze the defendants’ work. On this record, I don’t see likelihood of success on the merits, and the balance of equities is not in your favor.”

She looks at our side. “As to safety, the court is not going to micromanage a family fight.”

She rules from the bench. “Plaintiff’s application for a temporary restraining order based on IP ownership is denied. The request to enjoin distribution or promotion is denied. Defendants’ request for a temporary restraining order is granted in part. Mr. Troy Turner shall stay five hundred feet from Sagebrush Studio, the hotel suites listed in the sealed attachment, and from defendants Knox, Houston, and Salem Turner, and Ms. Lou Navarro. No direct or indirect contact. No release of any purported intimate videos or images; preservation of any devices potentially containing such files is ordered. Lawful law enforcement requests shall be honored. We will set a preliminary injunction hearing in three weeks. Counsel to meet and confer on preservation.”

Gavel. That’s it.

We stand. The clerk hands us the written TRO while we’re still in the well. We exit into the hall. Press cameras are there, but the deputies hold them back.

Troy peels off from his lawyer and crosses our path just enough to stink of intent. He looks at Salem and says, low but clear, “Keep an eye out for that video.” He grins like a kid breaking a vase and walks away.

I feel Salem go hot next to me. I step between them and put a hand on his chest. “Not today.” I glance at the officers around, and he settles.

Outside, the street noise is normal. Cameras click. We ignore them all. Quincy joins us at the curb. He’s in PR mode now. He wants to get us into cars and into a plan before we say something that becomes the next story.

We load into the SUV and go. No one talks until the doors close on the hotel conference room. Quincy starts. “Congratulations on the TRO. Now keep your heads down. Ignore the press on Troy. We have a record to launch. If this becomes the only thing anyone sees, we hand the moment to him.”

“We are done covering for Troy.”

Quincy exhales through his nose. “I didn’t say lie.”

“The court just ordered him to stay away and not release any so-called intimate videos. The public story exists whether we speak or not. We can either sound human or sound evasive.”

“Fine, fine.” Quincy rubs his temple. “You’ll make my job harder.”

“We make it possible.”

He sits with it. He knows I’m right. He just doesn’t like the feeling. “Draft me the line. I’ll get legal eyes on it. We’ll route requests to me. You don’t answer DMs or texts that look like ‘comment?’ We control what we can control.”

Back upstairs, the suite is quiet. The sun is still up. The balcony is empty. Lou is at the table with her laptop, but she watches me walk by the sliding door like she knew I’d go out there. I step outside and close the door behind me. The Strip hums below. The glass warms my back.

She joins me a minute later with two waters. She hands me one and sets the other on the rail. She doesn’t talk right away. I appreciate that.

“I know this is probably hardest on you,” she says finally. “I wanted to check on you. How are you?”

“It’s hard. It’s easier than it used to be. It’s easier because I’m not the only one holding the line. I can say the truth and not pretend it’s nothing. I have someone to share it with.”

She looks at me. The balcony light makes her face warm. “I’m honored to be that someone.”

“Thank you.”

I set my hand on her waist. She sets her hand on my chest, as if she’s feeling for a steady beat. We kiss, and it calms the last of my nerves. We break and don’t move far. She leans into my shoulder. I put my arm around her and let the rest of the day pass the way days pass when you’ve done the necessary thing and there’s no need to talk it to death.

Silence is comfortable with Lou. Never knew that could be a thing.

“Locket” drops at midnight. We don’t throw a party. We watch the dashboard from the suite with the lights low and the balcony door cracked. Salem paces the rug. Knox watches the numbers without comment. I stand by the window with Lou and listen to the city breathe.

The play count spikes fast. The comments come in waves. People hear the whisper in the chorus and ask whose voice it is. They call it tender. Sultry.

A producer account posts a quick breakdown of the ribbon tone and the way the room holds the piano. A singer I respect does a reaction and stops at the last chorus to say, “That harmony is the kind of thing you only get when people trust each other.”

Someone else calls it “home-recorded honesty,” and I don’t argue with the phrase. Lou watches a few on mute and then sets the phone down. She doesn’t need to read every opinion. I don’t either.

Quincy texts me a list of stations that added it before sunrise. He says we should get off the internet and get some sleep before morning. No one moves. Lou smiles at me and then points her chin at the bedroom. She’s right. We need to be people, not screens.

By two a.m. the first fan covers land. A kid in a dorm room doubles the chorus and smiles when the whisper hits. A drummer posts a playthrough saying the groove feels like a walk, not a sprint. A reaction channel pauses on the projection in the teaser we posted last week and reads the comments out loud. People hear the room. They hear the ribbon. They argue about whether the piano is the studio upright.

I don’t answer. I like that they’re arguing about sound instead of gossip.

At midday we meet with Quincy and the platform producer on a group call. We agree on a thirty-minute set with no break. We settle camera positions and title cards. Lou shows a sample of the projection with the phrases masked to half opacity. I ask Lou if she’s sure about using Rosa’s words. She says she kept them partial and non-identifying. She says the point is to honor the room, not to tell a stranger’s story. That sits right with me. Quincy signs off and tells us to rest.

We load into the SUV and head for the studio. Lou takes me by the hand and walks me into the live room, then into the control room, then back into the live room. Projectors sit on stands at three corners. Gaffer tape marks the throw lines. A laptop on a cart hums with a mapping grid. The walls are bare and ready.

Mom is there in a denim dress and cowboy boots, hair down. She has a box of papers on the console. “Don’t touch,” she says, smiling. “I found some things.”

Quincy arrives with the camera crew and a sound cart. He keeps his voice level. “We’re treating this like radio,” he tells us. “No chat. No host. No Q&A. Start on time. End clean. Publish the replay after an edit pass. Comments off.”

Knox walks the set list with him. “We start with ‘Locket,’” he explains. “Two other new ones after. No titles yet. Then a reprise and a note about the album and the residency.”

“Good,” Quincy says. “You’ll have one roaming camera, one fixed low, one wide. No crane. Audio goes to the board. Redundancy on the recorder.”

Salem asks where he can stand without blocking the projection. Lou points with the pen she stole from behind my ear. He nods and moves a stand two inches because two inches matter on camera.

I warm up in the corner where no one needs to hear me finding vowels. Lou steps onto a chair and adjusts a lens. Mom claps once to test the decay. The room sounds right. We are as ready as we’re going to be.

We test the stream an hour early. The platform holds. The cameras stay cool. Lou runs a short slate and a countdown. She calibrates the projector edges with a grid so the picture fits the wall. Mom hands her a pencil. Lou tucks it behind her ear and keeps working. Ten minutes to downbeat.

The crew rolls. The streaming platform shows a private link with a clock in the corner. The chat is disabled. One comment field says, “live in ten,” then “live in five,” then nothing. I drink water and set the bottle where I won’t kick it.

Lou gives me the look that means breathe. I breathe. The red light comes on.

We begin with silence on purpose. The first frame is the room, not our faces. The projection is a soft wash, the grid lines faint. That stranger’s words—maybe Lou’s aunt or grandmother—the haunting track, it surrounds us. Sets the tone.

I start “Locket” low and slow. I let the verse sit in my chest. Knox gives me the count for the chorus with a tilt of his head. I come in and hear Lou’s whisper in my monitor and in the room. It feels right. It feels like she’s next to me even when she’s behind the camera.

We finish on a held breath. No applause. No chatter. The camera stays wide while the projection dimly holds a single word. Home. It’s small in the corner, not a shout. The thing Lou has never really had.

I almost lose it. I don’t.

We go into the next new song while the walls shift to color pulled from the room. The song finds a pocket and stays there. We end. We do the third song. It’s rougher and good.

We close with a short reprise. I keep the mic close. The red light goes off. The crew exhales. Quincy nods without smiling, which is how he smiles. “We’ll push the replay with the statement and the link to the album preorder. No interviews this week. If anyone asks for comment, they get the music.”

Mom brings out food from somewhere. Chili in a slow cooker and cornbread and fruit. She feeds people who didn’t know they were hungry. The guard eats in the hall. The room settles.

As we pack up, Knox passes the crew envelopes with bonus checks and Quincy runs the file checklist again, because he knows how it feels to lose a take. No one wants that again.

I find Lou by the projector cart. She’s checking the file tree and labeling takes. “You almost had me crying out there, you know. That was beautiful.”

“I almost had me,” she admits with a sad smile. “I kept the type small on purpose so it wouldn’t swallow me.”

“It was a work of art.”

She shakes her head. “It was a proof of concept.”

“Art,” I repeat. She lets me be stubborn. “Let’s go for a walk. Clear our heads.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

We tell Knox where we’re going and step out through the back door. The guard sees us and nods and keeps his radio on his lap. The air is cool at night. The street is quiet. We keep our hoods down and our hands to ourselves. No one bothers us.

We circle the block, and the moon is full. A few more blocks go by, and we find ourselves in an empty park. A few swings, a jungle gym, teeter-totters. That kind of thing. Picnic benches dot the area. There’s a large climbing behemoth that doesn’t look at all safe, but I sit on the pirate bridge in the middle, and she joins me. The bridge joins two fort-style playrooms, both of which are half my size.

I don’t make a speech, but I have so much to say to her. I don’t know how to make a speech that doesn’t ruin things, though.

So, I start with the truth. “I’m falling for you, Lou. Hard. Fast. I don’t need you to promise me anything. I’m not asking for anything. I just need you to know the thing is happening.”

She looks at me and doesn’t look away. She exhales and licks her lips. “I feel it too.” She swallows and laughs a little at herself. “I’m just…I don’t know what to say. I’m not good at this stuff.”

“Me either. Just…try not to break my heart.”

“I’ll do my best.” She leans in and kisses me, and it feels like a promise.

Can’t help myself. I pull her onto me as I lie back on the bridge. Feeling her warmth, the pressure of her body on me, it’s too much. I’m hard already. My body knows what my heart knows.

She’s the one.

Lou, feisty thing that she is, unzips me while we kiss. I don’t even notice until her hand is on me.

“What are you doing, naughty?”

She smiles against my lips. “What does it feel like I’m doing?”

I pump against her hand. “Being a bad influence.”

Her laugh cuts through the night. “Yeah. You’re the rock star, but I’m the bad influence.” She kisses me again and climbs around until she lifts her sundress. The feel of her wet pussy on me, the chance that someone might walk by at any moment, the heat of her promise, it all sends me into a frenzy.

I edge back so we’re partially tucked into one of those forts, and then I hold her hips to guide her onto me. The tight silk of her is pure heaven. But I want more. Can’t get up in here—the ceiling is too low. So I roll us until she’s on her back, and I’m still inside.

Even though we could get caught, I take my time. She’s in no rush either. I hold her close, needing her heat, her scent, her body. Her. Our voices and groans echo off the plastic play structure, filling the cool air. She arches up to meet me every time, and when I kiss her, I feel her throb on my cock. So, I lengthen the kiss and move slower to drag it out of her.

That climax shudders through us both. First her, then me. But we don’t stop kissing. If I could, I’d kiss her forever.

Quincy sends us out to three cities. Phoenix, San Diego, Seattle, then back to Vegas. A mini launch to ride “Locket” while we finish the rest. Lou stays in Vegas, building the next drops and tightening the live session replay. I don’t like leaving her, but work is work and the road is the road.

I set rules for myself before we roll. I say them out loud in the crew room so there are witnesses.

“No hotel bars. No after-parties. I’m in bed by one.”

The backline tech whistles. The monitor op says, “Ten bucks he breaks all three by Phoenix.” The lighting lead starts a pool on a scrap of gaffer tape. Knox raises an eyebrow. Houston smiles at me like he already knows I’m going to stick it. I put a twenty on the table and write I win next to it.

Phoenix is hot. That’s the nicest thing I can say for the city. Load-in at ten, line check at three, a short press thing in the corner of the stage that Quincy says will “seed the market.” Sounds gross, but whatever.

I keep my head down, hit what needs hitting, and drink water like it’s a job. In Phoenix, it is. Between the soundcheck and doors, the band down the hall pops a bottle and yells for us to come toast. I wave from the doorway and don’t go in. Rule one holds.

Show’s good. Loud crowd. New songs land tighter than they should this early. We end on “Locket,” lights down, whisper up, and the room gets still the right way.

After, the promoter tries to drag us to a bar with some local DJ. I shake his hand, say “another time,” and get in the van. Houston comes with me. Knox finishes the settlement and follows. The crew clocks the time when I badge into my room. 12:46. Rule three holds.

There’s a knock at 12:58. It’s our support act, high on the night, asking if I want to meet “friends.” I tell them I like all my teeth and shut the door without being a jerk. I text Lou in bed by one and a photo of the digital clock because I know she’ll send it to the group chat and I want the record. She replies with a thumbs-up and a proud of you that lands harder than it should. I sleep.

San Diego is prettier and softer. The crew doubles the bet. “No way he keeps this up,” the stage left tech says.

I pretend I don’t hear it.

We load in, do the afternoon thing, eat catering that tastes like catering, and play a tight show. I walk past two hotel bars on my way to the elevator. Both smell like the version of me that used to end nights on the floor of somebody’s story. I keep walking. The elevator doors close on a guy shouting my name. I let them.

12:38. In bed. Lights out. I dream about nothing, which is just how I like it.

Seattle is the one that matters. The room has history and an echo in the walls. We’ve got radio in the afternoon, a short acoustic, then doors, then the full set.

No room for stupid. No room for old habits.

Backstage is a hallway with too many memories. The paint is new over old tags I could still draw from memory. I’m flipping sticks in my hands when I see him before I hear him.

“Salem,” Mike Halligan says, like a person who found treasure.

He hobbles in on his carbon prosthesis. White guy, hair dyed black, thinning, jaw tight, eyes wired. He used to be a drummer. He lost the leg in an accident. He never got his talent back the way he wanted. A year later, he won the lotto. Since then, he pops up backstage like a ghost looking for a chorus. We were in trouble together once.

That version of us needs to stay dead.

Houston clocks him and takes a left into catering. Knox clocks him and goes the other way toward the stage. They leave him to me because back in the day, he and I were stupid together.

“Mike. How’s it going?”

He has a little entourage. Two women in heels not built for backstage, and a guy with a jacket that cost a mortgage payment. Mike shakes something in his pocket. Pills rattle together. “Time to party.”

I know that sound. I hold a hand up. “No, thanks. By all means, go ahead.”

He tilts his head. “I’ve got others. Powder. Vape. Bongs. Needles, if you’re going hard these days. These girls, they’ll do anything for a taste. Whatever you want, I’ve got you covered.”

“Not my scene anymore. But don’t let me stop you.”

He smirks. “Since when?”

“Since for a while.”

“You got religion?” he says.

“I got a girl,” I say. And self-respect. But if I say that, it’ll sound like I’m judging him. I am. But I don’t want him to know that.

He laughs as if I’ve told a joke. “You don’t have a girl. You got a part of a girl. You share her.”

Heat hits my ears. I keep my arms loose. “Watch your mouth.”

“They don’t care if you got part of a girl either. They’ll suck you dry. It’ll be like old times—see who finishes last.” He laughs and smacks my chest with the back of his hand, not seeing how much he’s pissing me off.

My stomach twists at the memory of those nights. Nights when I lost myself to pills and booze and women I don’t remember. Not even their faces. The same way Troy was in the hotel when I came for Lou’s stuff.

“That’s not who I am anymore, Mike.”

“You don’t wanna party, I’m not gonna make you. But be honest about why.”

“I am.”

He leans in. “Just because you found your little Yoko doesn’t mean you forget your friends, Salem.”

I look at the floor for a beat so I don’t break his face. When I look back up, I keep my voice flat. “She’s not a Yoko. Yoko wasn’t even a Yoko, not how you mean it. And reliving the old days won’t make you young again, Mike.”

He swings at me. Sloppy. Wide. Stoned.

I don’t give him the dignity of a full counter. I step in, open hand, and slap the taste out of his mouth. Fuck, that feels good.

He stumbles into the wall. The carbon leg clacks. One of the women gasps. The jacket guy puts his hands up like he’s the peacemaker. Security appears. They were waiting for the cue. Must have spotted his stoned ass a mile away.

Mike spits pink into a napkin and grins through it. “There he is. I knew I could find you.”

“You found a boundary. Don’t cross it again.”

“Man, you changed.”

“That’s what I keep hearing. Let’s call you a rideshare,” I say to his entourage, ignoring the bait. To security, “He doesn’t come back tonight. He doesn’t come back again. Ever.”

“Copy,” the guard says.

Mike points at me like I’m a mark in a bar bet. “You’ll call me when she breaks your heart.”

“No, I really won’t.” You don’t call people you outgrew years ago.

They walk him and his people out. He keeps talking until the door shuts on his voice. I shake my hands once and let the adrenaline run its circuit. Houston reappears and raises a brow. Knox steps back in and checks my jaw like I’m a little brother who got in a playground scuffle.

“He missed.”

“Yeah, I know. But you still don’t look like you.”

I brush his hand aside. “Asshole.”

He laughs. “Seriously. I thought we lost you for the night. And maybe forever, if you fucked those girls and messed shit up with Lou.”

“I’m not fucking this up with her. Or the tour. Or the album.” I lift a shoulder. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

“Glad to hear it.”

We play the show. The room is good. The crowd is better. Seattle sings the last chorus back like they wrote it. After, I follow my rules. No bar. No party. In bed by 12:51 because I’m wired and want to ruin it and don’t.

I’m proud and pissed at the same time.

Morning hits with a headline on a tabloid site that thinks it has a scoop. A photo of me and Mike nose to nose, a blur of my hand, a caption that says YOKO STRIKES AGAIN? LOU NAVARRO TEARING BAND APART—BACKSTAGE BRAWL. There’s a second link that says LOTTO BAD BOY MAY SUE TURNER DRUMMER with a still from someone’s phone.

The write-up is trash. They say I lost it because she made me soft. They spell my name wrong once and then right. I don’t care about the lawsuit talk. I care about her.

I find Knox at the venue café with his laptop open and coffee that tastes like carpet. He’s already reading it. He hates it in his quiet way. Houston texts from the treadmill: saw it. don’t feed. Quincy Facetimes while I’m still standing there. “Tell me you didn’t hit him.”

“I didn’t hit him. I slapped him when he swung on me. Security saw it. They’ll write it that way if they have to write it.”

“Not perfect, but I’ll take it.”

“What we’re not doing,” I say, “is letting anyone call Lou a Yoko and letting that sit.”

“Agreed,” he says. “But⁠—”

“No but, Quincy. We post what she made for us, credit by credit. Art director, projection mapping, behind-the-scenes system, tour key art, microsite. We show her work. We make it impossible to sell the Yoko angle to anyone with eyes.”

Quincy groans. “Rolling out credits looks defensive.”

“It’s the truth.”

Knox closes the laptop and nods. “He’s right.”

“Fine,” Quincy says. “I’ll take care of it.”

By noon, he’s adjusted the crediting, and people are noticing. Fans respond with the energy I want. They talk about her work instead of her personal life. One of Mike’s drug groupies shared a video of the altercation, so now the phrase, “Yoko wasn’t even a Yoko,” is flying everywhere. Hopefully, they’ll learn what happened with her too.

The dumb comments still come, because dumb comments always come, but they’re not the chorus. That helps.

Mike’s “may sue” item cycles through a few aggregator accounts. Our counsel sends a bland statement: Security addressed a brief altercation initiated by a guest. No further comment. That’s it. We don’t feed it.

We leave Seattle for Vegas and land in Vegas at dusk. The Strip does that thing it always does, where it pretends the sun is for someone else. We roll through the garage and take the back elevator.

The suite smells like coffee and paper and a person who works here. Lou is at the table with a cutting mat and a stack of posters. Her hair is up. The locket is on. My hands relax without asking me first.

She stands when she sees us. She hugs Houston first, then Knox. I wait because I don’t want to look like I’m asking for the spotlight. She turns to me and I step in. It lands right behind my ribs.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “Annoyed. But okay.”

“I saw the posts. Thank you.”

“Needed doing.”

She tips her head. “How was the road?”

“Short. Better than usual.”

She smiles. “Look at you with restraint.”

“I made rules. No hotel bars. No after-parties. In bed by one.”

“And?”

“I stuck to them. The crew owes me on the bet.”

She laughs. “I’m impressed.”

“Keep being—” I say, then stop because I’m not here to sell myself to her. I rub my hands on my jeans and say the thing I’ve been wanting to say since Phoenix. “Teach me normal.”

She blinks like she didn’t expect that string of words from me. “Normal how?”

“Like whatever you do when a day isn’t burning through you. Breakfast. Walks. Not talking to cops. Not fighting in hallways. Sleeping because you can. Telling myself no and not hating it. The boring stuff that turns into not making the same mistakes.”

She looks me over like she’s measuring a shelf. “You think you can do normal?”

“I don’t want to be a man who only knows how to be loud.”

She smiles. “I’d be happy to. We start tomorrow. Breakfast before ten. Shoes by the door. Phone face down.”

“Copy,” I say, ridiculous with relief.

“You’ll mess up. You’ll also get better.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She goes back to the table and flips a proof to show me a minor tweak in the type. I lean in and look because that’s normal too, I think.

My hands stop buzzing. My jaw stops clenching. I didn’t think I’d get to feel that this year. Or ever.

But Lou thinks I can do this, so I can. I will.

Quincy calls at seven with a voice that says this is not a drill. Mike Halligan is suing Salem.

Assault, damages, the whole circus. A blog runs a blurry clip and a headline that uses my name as a slur. Quincy freaks out because that’s his job. He sends twelve texts in three minutes: no statements, don’t feed it, get to the hotel conference room, legal at nine.

I put on jeans and a black tee and tie my hair up. Salem is already by the door when I step into the hall, hoodie, cap, hands tight. He sees my face and shakes his head once. “Should’ve kept walking.”

“You didn’t start it.”

He doesn’t argue. We ride the elevator down with two tourists who don’t recognize us, which feels like a favor. In the conference room, Quincy paces between the coffee and a pile of folders. His tie is loose and his eyes are red. Counsel sets up a laptop and lays out a simple game plan on a legal pad. Not the internet’s version. The actual one.

“Municipal court, quick calendar,” the attorney says. “He filed a complaint and a civil claim. The city’s consolidating the disorderly conduct piece with a status hearing this afternoon. There’s a video. There are witnesses. We will ask for a finding that you did not initiate, and we’ll agree to community service for the decorum violation. Halligan will get a fine for starting it if we do this right. We do not want a sideshow.”

Quincy rubs his forehead. “Public image is a problem.”

“Public image is inevitable,” the attorney says.

“Lou,” counsel says, turning to me. “If you’re willing, I want you to make a short statement to the court. Two points only. One, Mr. Turner has adopted self-management rules on the road—no bars, no after-parties, in bed by one—and to your knowledge, he followed them in Phoenix and San Diego. Two, you now know him as someone who walks away from trouble unless trouble follows him down the hall. Do not speculate. Do not repeat insults. Keep it clean.”

“I can do that,” I say.

Quincy looks skeptical. “Putting her up invites questions.”

“It also anchors a narrative in a woman, which, let’s face it, makes him sound more reasonable,” counsel says. “The clip is thirty seconds of noise. We need context. We have security. We have the venue log. We have the prior information about his rules thanks to the crew who were betting against him. And we have her.”

Salem looks like he wants to sit on his hands to keep them still. “You don’t have to do this,” he says to me.

“I want to. Let me help.”

We rehearse once. He tells me not to get clever and not to argue with the prosecutor if they ask leading questions. “If you don’t know, say you don’t know. We’re not here to win Twitter. We’re here to get everyone back to work.”

Quincy keeps flipping his phone over and setting it face down again. “This is a nightmare,” he mutters. “I just got the hotel off DEFCON two about Troy and now this.”

“It’s not a nightmare. It’s just a day.”

He stares like I said something unsafe, then exhales and nods. “Right.”

At eleven, we go to court. No entourage, no cameras inside, just a small room with a bored bailiff and a judge who reads fast. Halligan sits at the other table in a dark jacket and a shirt too tight at the neck. He looks deeply uncomfortable, like he didn’t think any of this through and just wanted revenge.

The judge runs through the docket like a checklist. She calls our case. Counsel gives our names. The prosecutor gives the city’s name. Halligan’s lawyer announces himself with a flourish. Salem answers the judge with “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” and keeps his eyes on the bench.

The prosecutor starts with the clip. Grainy phone video from the hallway, shouting you can’t make out, the blur of a bad swing, Salem stepping in and slapping him back, security in frame fast. No one looks good in those thirty seconds.

No one looks like a cartoon villain either.

The prosecutor is measured. She recommends community service for both. Halligan’s lawyer objects, paints my boyfriend as a repeat offender who can’t control himself, and requests a restraining order and fines for Salem only.

Our counsel stands, steady voice. “Security reports and witness statements indicate Mr. Halligan initiated physical contact. You’ve seen the video. We have those statements. We have the security guard present, and we have the venue manager available by phone. Mr. Turner accepts responsibility for stepping out of bounds in a public space. He also deserves the factual record to reflect who started the conflict.”

When the time for questioning happens, Halligan’s lawyer tries to muddy it. “Isn’t it true you only looked up when you heard noise?”

“Objection, leading,” our counsel says.

It’s a lot of back and forth that I tune out until our counsel calls me. I sit in the witness chair, and the clerk swears me in. The seat is hard. I keep my hands in my lap.

“Ms. Navarro, how long have you known Mr. Turner?”

“Not long. We met through work.”

“Have you observed his conduct in the last week?”

“Through texts and Facetiming.”

“Describe any self-management rules he adopted.”

“He set rules. No hotel bars. No after-parties. In bed by one. He followed them in Phoenix and San Diego, according to the crew and the texts he sent me. Photos of the clock, stuff like that.”

“How do you know the crew is honest with you?”

I smile. “Because they lost the bet they had with him about it, and they’re sore about that. Bruised male pride is hard to fake.”

“Based on your experience with him, does he seek out fights?”

“No. He avoids them. He has walked away from fans and paparazzi who try to bait him. He defers to security. He’s not the same guy he used to be in his twenties.”

Halligan’s lawyer stands. “Ms. Navarro, are you in a romantic relationship with Mr. Turner?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re biased.”

“I’m here under oath. I’m saying what I saw and what I know.”

“Did you witness the Seattle altercation?”

“No, just the video.”

“So you can’t tell the court who started it.”

“Mr. Halligan swung on him. The video shows that. Only then did Salem defend himself.”

He clears his throat. “No further questions.”

The prosecutor has nothing for me, so I sit back down.

Halligan takes the stand like he wants attention, smiling at everyone, all friendly. His lawyer runs him through a story about being provoked, about concern for a friend, about how fame changes a person.

Then our counsel steps up. “You gave an interview yesterday morning to the site that ran the clip, correct?”

“As is my right,” Halligan says.

“In that interview you said, quote, ‘I took a swing at him and he slapped me like a bitch.’ Is that accurate?”

Halligan blinks. “I mean, I said it, but⁠—”

“You didn’t say ‘he hit me first.’ You said you took a swing, and then he slapped you.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“And you were recorded, correct?” counsel asks.

Halligan glances at his lawyer. “Yeah.”

“So when you said you took a swing, you were describing your own action.”

“I mean—” Halligan starts. Then he gets mad at the trap and snaps. “I swung, okay? He slapped me. So what. He’s still a piece of shit for that.”

The judge raises a hand. “That’s enough.” She calls counsel to the bench. Quiet voices. A nod. Everyone sits. She rules.

“Mr. Turner, you’re not charged with assault. You are in my courtroom for a disorderly conduct matter that affects public safety. You are a public figure in a public venue. You do not get to respond to stupid with stupid. You will complete forty hours of community service in the city where this occurred. You have one year to complete it. I am not imposing a fine.”

She turns to Halligan. “Mr. Halligan, you initiated. You escalated. You showed up in a place where you were not working and tried to drag someone else into your past. Be glad we did not find you with the drugs you spoke of in that video. Your fine is ten thousand dollars. If I see you again on a matter related to this case, I’ll consider additional sanctions.”

She taps her gavel. “No-contact orders are in place for thirty days. Counsel can work out the civil piece. We’re done.”

It’s not victory music, but it’s fair. Quincy exhales like he’s been underwater. The prosecutor thanks the judge and moves on. Halligan leaves in a loud flap of jacket and hair. In the hall a stringer tries to ask a question. Quincy shuts it down with a hand and a line: “The court spoke. We’re getting back to work.”

We step into the sun. It’s bright and too clear. Cameras wait across the street, not a swarm, just a handful with hungry eyes. Quincy points us to a side exit. He mutters “no comments” like a mantra. Counsel shakes Salem’s hand and mine and says, “Good job,” in a tone that means don’t blow it after this.

On the sidewalk, Salem looks at me like he’s ashamed and grateful in the same breath. He tugs the bill of his cap down. “I don’t deserve you believing in me.”

“That’s not how belief works.”

He shakes his head. “You saw me hit him in the video. I hate that.”

“I saw you not punch him when you wanted to. I saw you make rules and keep them. I saw you ask for help.”

He swallows. “Still.”

I step closer so he has to look at me. “I love you, Salem. Of course I believe in you.”

He doesn’t say it back. He squeezes my hand like he’s drowning and I’m the lifesaver. He gulps loud enough to hear it. “Thank you for that.”

I kiss his cheek. “Let’s go home.”

The email hits at 6:41 a.m. Quincy forwards it with a subject line that says Need you now. The body is two paragraphs from the label. Legal tone. No greetings.

They “value the partnership, but leg two funding is contingent on stabilizing brand risk.” They want us to “calm the Navarro situation.” They don’t define what that means. They don’t have to. They want the noise to stop. They want easy.

I call Quincy. “The hell is going on?”

“They’re spooked. They don’t want the second leg if they think we’re a headline farm.”

“We’re not.”

“You have been. They care about risk, Knox. We need to contain the narrative. A quiet cycle for at least ten days. Minimal Lou in frames. Music-first messaging only. Then they’ll sign the final transfers.”

“Minimal Lou in frames,” I repeat. The words taste like ashes.

“I know. I don’t like it either. But we can’t lose the label.”

I look at the rehearsal schedule and the production invoices. Leg two is booked. Crews lined. Trucks penciled. If we lose the money, we cancel dates or go into debt, we can’t clean up this year. People lose their jobs over this. Fans demand ticket refunds.

It’s a fucking mess if this goes south.

“Meeting at eleven. Suite office. You, me, the guys, Lou.”

“I’ll bring options and donuts.”

I hang up and stare at the email again. It isn’t subtle. It isn’t meant to be. I text everyone for the meeting and prepare for all hell to break loose.

I set the room. Laptop open. Notes ready. I write a simple agenda on a pad: 1) label money 2) quiet plan 3) release week cadence. I put four chairs around the small table. Quincy arrives with a laptop, a folder, and his phone already buzzing. He looks like he hasn’t slept. Houston and Salem slide in. Lou last. She looks ready to work, not to fight.

I hope it doesn’t come to that.

I start. “The label is threatening leg two funding unless we quiet things down. They want ten days of calm.”

“Define calm,” Lou says.

“Less fuel for the fire. No reactive posts. No interviews. Behind-the-scenes on pause. No projection of internal process. We lock schedule, we stick to it, we keep the room closed.”

“You mean we go dark? But the behind-the-scenes strategy was working,” she counters.

Salem leans back. “They mean less of you, Lou. Isn’t that right, Quincy?”

Quincy sighs. “They mean less anything that makes a story that isn’t the record.”

“Which is her work,” Houston says, level.

I keep going because I want to get through the plan before the fight starts. “We’re going to route all press to Quincy. If we tease, we tease with audio snippets, not visuals. Lou, pull any scheduled posts that show faces, and hold your mapping clips for a week. No new titles on the site till after we clear the Friday add dates. Push the deck updates to me and Quincy only. Nothing public till next week.”

She doesn’t move. “Say that again.”

I do. Firmer.

She looks at me like she’s checking if I heard myself. “You want me to hide.”

“I want to reduce risk. For ten days. Then we go loud again.”

“Whose risk?”

“Tour risk. The people who are depending on us. Crew. Vendors. Contracts. This is bigger than any one of us.”

“Then say it that way. Don’t act like I’m an error to be minimized.”

I feel the clock in my head. The money. The schedule. The label. The calls lined up. I slip into command mode by reflex. I start issuing orders because orders are how I make panic sit down.

“Pull the posts. Lock the deck. Send me a revised timeline by two. Quincy needs a clean grid for the next ten days. Tighten your approvals to me only. No external screenshots. No one else needs your working files until we’re past the add dates.”

She blinks. Slow. “Excuse me?”

I don’t stop. “Also, no more balcony shots with type in the background. No room glimpses. No corridor angles. I don’t want the internet parsing carpets and guessing door numbers.”

“I’m not an intern or your secretary,” she says.

“This situation is on fire. We need to act now. It won’t be pleasant. Ten days. Then we go back to normal.”

“You’re treating me like a problem to move offstage.”

“It’s ten days. Keep at it, just keep it off the radar until then. You’ll deliver behind the scenes later. Right now, we need you to pivot.”

She holds up a hand. “I’m not your servant. I deliver my work. I have never missed a deadline. I built this album with you. For god’s sake, I’m on it!. I got you here. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a mistake you made on vacation, Knox.”

I sigh loudly. “I didn’t say you’re my servant⁠—”

“You barked orders at me like one.”

My face goes hot. “I’m trying to keep the tour funded. I’m trying to keep people paid.”

“So am I, by doing the job you hired me to do. By keeping the story about the work. By building a system that stops you from improvising yourselves into crises.”

I scratch my head, trying to figure out where this went sideways. I knew it would, but not like this. “This is crunch time, Lou. Things aren’t going to be pretty. We have to⁠—”

“Crunch time is when you should try to be extra nice, not use it as an excuse to be a dickhead.” She stands. “I deliver my work,” she says, voice steady. “I have never missed a deadline. I have helped you get this album together. You have no right to treat me less-than, because you are lucky to have me.”

She picks up her laptop, tucks her pencil behind her ear, and walks out. The door shuts hard enough to make the glass hum. The room is quiet.

Salem says, “What the hell was that?”

“A hissy fit. She’ll cool off.”

He blinks at me. “I mean you, Knox.”

“Look, I’m trying to keep people employed⁠—”

“No. You don’t get that excuse right now. You were an asshole to her.”

Houston looks at me like I’m a stranger. “You sounded like the label.”

“She’s in this with us,” Salem says. “You just put her in the hallway because some exec lost his nerve to deal with extra publicity. You put my fighting and Troy’s bullshit on her shoulders.”

“Don’t,” I cut him off. “I didn’t put her anywhere.”

“You did,” Houston says. “After bringing her into the light, you told her to stop being visible. You told her to send her work to you and not to the world. You took her voice away because someone emailed you.”

“I took heat so we don’t lose money we promised a hundred people,” I say. “I took responsibility. That’s my job here. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“You took control from her for no reason.” Salem sneers. “You treated her like a problem to manage.”

“She is getting death threats! Is it so bad to take her off the board for a little while?”

“Yeah, she is, but that’s not why you did it.” Houston folds his arms. “Don’t act like it was some noble thing to pick her apart like that. She doesn’t need you to minimize her to feel safe. She needs you to treat her like a partner.”

“I do.” It sounds weak. Mostly because it’s bullshit.

“Not in here. Not today.”

Quincy clears his throat. “We still need a plan,” he says, half apology, half plea. “The label is not bluffing. They want quiet.”

Houston’s jaw works side to side for a breath. “We can be quiet without erasing her. We can lead with audio and keep credits in the captions. We can stagger posts. Lock interviews behind paywalls. Keep comments off. That’s not the same as telling her to hide.”

Salem nods. “We do it that way. We keep her name in the byline. We don’t shame her out of the room.” He glares at me. “Ever.”

I feel myself double down because backing up right now feels like losing the handle. “We’re not shaming anyone. We’re reducing problems for a while. It’s a tactical call. Nothing personal.”

“It was condescending and a dick move,” Houston says. “We don’t do that. Not in this band. Not in this family.”

I look at Quincy for backup. He won’t give it. He stares at the floor. He knows the label’s ask is dirty. He wants the money anyway. Can’t blame him.

Salem stands. “Fix it, Knox. You pissed her off. She was right. You were wrong. Do something about it.”

“She walked out!”

“Because you were an ass! Go apologize. Or I will. Or Houston will. But somebody is going to tell her she isn’t less than anyone in this room or anywhere else! She is the reason this album is coming together. Whether you like it or not, we need her.”

Houston stands too. “If you won’t fix this, we will.”

They walk out. The door is softer this time, but no less harsh.

Quincy lingers. “You know we need the funding.”

“I know.”

“You also know you can’t run this band like a label desk. Salem doesn’t respond to force well, and Houston…” He sighs. “He’s a good guy, too soft sometimes. He doesn’t take well to it either. Your talent lies in convincing people that things were their own idea. You lead from behind, Knox. It’s a skill I never mastered and I’ve always respected. That’s why they didn’t take this well. This…this wasn’t you.”

“I know that too.”

“You’re worried. We all are. But if you don’t fix this, you’ll hate yourself. Your brothers, they love that girl. It’s dangerous, of course. Caring the way they do. That’s why they need you to be the rational one. The even keel. You keep them together. But that’ll change if you start barking orders at everyone, no matter the reason.” He heads for the door, but pauses to lay his hand on my shoulder. “Fix this the way you fix things. Not the way the label breaks things.”

He leaves me in the empty room.

I look at the label note and at my agenda, and at the empty chair where she was. I hear the way I spoke to her. The part of me that thinks control is care.

Sometimes it is. Today it wasn’t.

I open a blank doc and start drafting a public statement because that’s the thing I know how to do when someone screws up. Fix the optics, control the narrative, build a wall of words between the truth and the crowd.

We support artist autonomy and respect across our team. Lou Navarro is our art director and partner. We stand with her work and her safety. We lead with music because that is what we make.

I stop. I read it again. It’s clean. It’s true.

It is also a dodge. It’s me trying to fix the public without fixing the private. It’s me hiding from the person I need to face. This fight isn’t with the public. Not really.

I delete the file. I empty the trash. I take a breath, and it catches because the easy move is always the wrong one when I’ve already made a wrong one.

I text Lou: I’m sorry. Can we talk?

The bubbles don’t move. I don’t blame her. Maybe she isn’t looking at her phone. Or maybe she’s ignoring me.

I walk the hall once, twice, three times, and then come back to the office because running after her now feels like making this about my need to feel better, and that’s not why I need to apologize.

Okay, that’s not the only reason I need to apologize.

Pacing is mind-numbing, and that’s probably what I need right now, but I hate waiting. I deserve the wait.

Back in our suite, I open the calendar and screw around, hoping she’ll text me. Or show up. She doesn’t.

I sit in the office and stare at the door, and hate myself for making the thing I hate. The label pushed, and I pushed down. I don’t do that.

But I did it.

The door opens. Houston steps in, closes it behind him, and leans on the frame. “You going to keep hiding in here.”

“Tried the hallway for a while, but she wasn’t responding. So, I’m figuring out a plan.”

“You broke a person today. Not a plan.”

“I know I fucked up, Houston.”

“Say it out loud. How did you fuck up?”

“I talked to her like she worked for me and not with me. I made her the lever for label fear. I acted like command fixes everything. It doesn’t.”

He nods once. “Good. Now what?”

“I drafted a statement for the site. Don’t look at me like that. I deleted it. I realized how stupid that was before anything happened.” I sigh. “I need to fix myself, not the optics.”

“Correct.”

“I’m sorry I screwed this up.”

He looks at me for a long second. “It’s not me you owe an apology to.”

It’s late, which makes Sagebrush’s lights stand out in the dark.

She’s in the live room with the door half shut, hunched over her laptop. The projectors are off. The room is quiet. She has her hair up, pencil behind her ear. Work mode.

I don’t say her name. I sit on the piano bench across from her and wait until she looks up.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey. If you want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

She sits back, taking a deep breath. “Good. Because I’m not in the mood to be managed.”

“I’m not here to manage you. You do that fine on your own.”

She closes the laptop halfway and rests her forearms on it. “Your brother is unpredictable,” she says. “Which is cute until it breaks something. The fight in Seattle wasn’t the end of the world, but the way the internet spun it into me being a Yoko? I’m the one who gets the death threats. He knows that and still mouths off to a ghost from his old life who he doesn’t even care about. That’s a liability.”

“I hear you.”

“Knox is too bossy,” she continues. “He forgets I’m a hire and a partner, not a junior designer out of college. He barked orders like I was a servant, not a partner of any kind. I know he’s under pressure.” She pauses. “So am I. Pressure is not an excuse to be rude.”

“I hear you,” I say again.

“And you,” she says, looking straight at me. “You hover like a shield. Which I like. Until it feels like pressure. You text all the time, track my hotel badge to make sure I’m safe… It’s sweet, and it’s a lot.” She shifts in her seat like those words were hard to say. “I like aspects of all of it. But each of you takes it to extremes. I’m tired, Houston. You’re fielding the needs of one partner. I’m handling the needs of three. Along with a very busy new job. And triple the death threats.”

I sit with that. “You’re right. My protectiveness turned into pressure. I wanted you to feel safe, and ended up making you feel watched. I prefer you feel supported, not handled. What does support look like to you? Spell it out so I don’t screw it up.”

She thinks. “Ask, don’t assume. Pick one point person per decision, so I’m not babysitting three opinions. No unilateral changes to visuals after midnight. If I’m the one who has to answer to printers and venue ops, I get veto power on my lane. And if you’re worried, say ‘I’m worried,’ not ‘where are you.’”

“I can do that.”

She starts again. “And for the record, I don’t want to be hidden to calm a label. If there’s a safety issue, we handle it with security. If there’s a PR issue, Quincy handles it. Hiding me makes the story worse. You can’t hide a person for convenience.”

“Okay.” I hold a hand up. “They need to hear this from you, not from me. Will you say it once, to all of us, with me in the room?”

Her shoulders climb. “I don’t want to see Knox right now.”

“We can keep it short. He knows he screwed up. He wants to fix it. What do you want?”

She stares at me for three beats and then nods. “To fix it. I hate being mad at you guys. It’s exhausting, and I was already exhausted.”

I text the thread: Studio live room now. She’s ready to talk.

They arrive together, since they were waiting in the SUV in the parking lot. Knox stops in the doorway. Salem takes the chair by the wall and bounces his knee once. I sit back on the bench and don’t talk.

Lou doesn’t look away from them. “I’m going to be direct. Salem, you’re unpredictable. I like your energy when it’s on the song or in the bedroom. I don’t like it when it drags old habits into rooms I have to walk through later. I get the fallout. I get the death threats and the Yoko accusations. I’m not built for your old life.”

He nods, face serious. “Fair.”

“Knox, you were too bossy. You talked to me like I work for you, not with you. You used label fear to push me out of frames. You told me to hide. That’s not a partnership, and I won’t settle for less.”

Knox exhales short. “You’re right.”

She turns to me. “Houston, you protect until it pushes. I like being safe. I don’t like being tracked like an Amazon package.”

“Never again.”

She exhales. “I like working with you. All of you. I like parts of how each of you shows up. But you take it to extremes. I need it in bounds.”

I look at Knox. He keeps it short. “I was wrong. No excuses. I panicked, and I punched down. I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

Salem leans forward, elbows on knees. “I’m sorry. For the fight and the word that got thrown at you because of it. For the noise I make that lands on you, not me. How can we fix this?”

Lou holds his eyes. “Actions. Two things. One public, one private.”

“Say it,” Knox says.

“For the public, upgrade my credit. Not just a buried line on a website. Update the album site, the press kit, everything. Call me the Creative Director. Put ‘featuring Lou Navarro’ on ‘Locket’ wherever that’s contractually clean. If you can’t change a field, change the caption. You’ve said it in rooms. Say it in places that count.”

Knox nods. “I’ll route through Quincy and the label, and we’ll change what we control now.”

“Good.” She takes a beat. “In private, vow to do better on all accounts. No barking orders. No unilateral decisions that affect my area of responsibility. Ask me, don’t move me. If I say I’m not good with something, you believe me. If I say I’m fine with a thing, you believe me. No second-guessing my artistic opinions. All other opinions are up for debate.”

“You got it.”

She turns to Salem, who jumps the gun. “No bars. No after-parties. In bed by one holds. No ghosts backstage. If someone calls you a name, I let security handle it. If I want to defend you online, I don’t. I’ll write you a text instead. Something with kittens.”

She snorts a laugh. “Maybe fries instead.”

“Done.”

“And me?” I ask.

“Be there for me. Don’t be everywhere for me. I don’t need you to monitor my every move.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She watches us like she’s waiting for the trap. When it doesn’t spring, she asks, “So, what can I do better?”

I blink at her. “Huh?”

Salem utters, “Seconded.”

Knox asks, “What are you talking about?”

“I want to be a partner in this…whatever we are. That means taking criticism. So, how can I improve? How can I be a better partner to you three?”

“No,” Salem says, quick. “You didn’t earn our bad habits by having some of your own. Don’t try to take the blame for our screwups, Lou.”

Knox shakes his head. “You’ve been great. We’re set in our ways. We default to old roles under stress. We clashed with you because you don’t let us get away with it. That’s not a problem to fix. That’s why we asked you in.”

“You can ask us to stop sooner.” I shrug. “Don’t be polite about it. If we slip, say the word, and we stop. But that’s the only thing I can think of.”

“What word?” she asks.

“Pick one,” Salem says. “Red card. Halt. Enough.”

She thinks. “Halt. Short and ugly.”

“Halt it is,” Knox says. “If you say it, we stop. No questions until you’re ready.”

“Thank you, guys. It’s like I said to Houston—I’m trying to adjust to three partners and their needs, and you guys are adjusting to only one. So, sometimes, things are going to be uneven here, and I’ll need to take a break. It’s not a breakup. I just need to breathe sometimes.” She pauses. “I’m not used to being with someone. Let alone three someones.”

I don’t follow. “You were with Troy.”

She scoffs at that. “Could anyone be with Troy? He’s in his own little world most of the time, and you can’t be a partner to someone like that.”

“What about before him?” Knox asks.

She shrugs. “I dated. But…this…what we have, it’s different. It’s real.”

That hits deep in my chest. “Yeah. It is.”

“What about you guys? Anyone you were serious about?”

I smile, but shake my head. “A few girls were interested in more than being a groupie, but they never stuck. Never clicked.

“Same,” Knox says.

“Belinda,” Salem grumbles.

“Tell me about her.”

He drums on the table beside him. “Not much to tell. We clicked. We had fun. I thought… It doesn’t matter what I thought. She was only in it for the good times and the money she could skim and using my name to get out of trouble for things like shoplifting and picking fights in clubs.”

“Oh, damn.”

He nods. “It was a mess. Quincy handled it, thankfully. But before her, after her, no one who stuck around long enough to matter. Not until you.”

She gives a slight smile that looks like hope. “So, none of us are good at this, then?”

I chuckle at that. “Yeah. I’d say so.”

“It’s going to take some practice,” Knox says. “We’re four different personalities and strong opinions. But if we’re all willing, we can make this work.”

“I’m willing,” Salem says.

“Same here.” I look to Lou.

She slowly breathes, thinking. Her finger taps on the desk. She takes a sip of water. Adjusts the pen behind her ear⁠—

“Oh my god, woman, say something,” Salem says.

She laughs. “Yeah, of course I’m willing. Thought that was obvious by all of this yammering.”

He grins at her, and she returns the gesture. The air feels cleared, like it’s just us again. The room settles.

“Now let me get back to work.” She opens the laptop and slides it back toward herself.

“You don’t want to work at the resort?” I ask.

“Not now. I like being here. It’s inspirational sometimes.”

“Understood.” I tell my brothers goodbye and that I’m staying to tweak some things, but really, I want to be with her after that fight. Feels wrong to leave right now. They do, teasing that I’m the Feelings Guy.

I don’t mind the title.

She types for a while. I watch her hands move and not the screen. I want to say a lot. I don’t. I want her to feel me here without making her carry me. That’s the point.

My phone buzzes. Knox: updated site live. He sends a link and a screenshot—the era page with Creative Director, Lou Navarro, under the title. Press kit updated too. Live session replay’s opening slate now includes Created by Lou Navarro on the bottom third. The one-sheet has her credit on page one. It looks right.

“Better,” she says, softer.

“Better.”

Lou closes her laptop. “Walk?”

“Definitely.”

We go around the block in easy circles. She talks through the next week’s deliverables, then stops, then starts again about nothing connected to work. On the way back she stops and looks at me like she’s curious about something. “Old dogs…”

“New tricks.”

“You really think you can?”

“We will. I promise you that.”

We go back inside, and she laces her fingers between mine. Things feel right again, and I’m grateful we were all willing to talk it out. No lingering hurts, no resentment. Just the four of us, being us.

I send Knox and Salem a note: Thank you. They both reply with the same word: Halt. It makes me laugh. It also reminds me of what we promised her.

The lawyer picks the diner because the sight lines are clean and the parking lot gives the undercover cars room to breathe. He touches the recorder in my pocket. “You don’t need it, but I like belts and suspenders.”

I catch his drift. Protection everywhere.

Two detectives sip coffee at the counter, another reads a menu two booths back. A fourth sits in a sedan by the dumpster. We’re not playing cowboy. We’re letting him talk. Letting him confess one last time.

I sit where the window gives me a glare shield. Hoodie, cap, hands open. I order coffee and let it go cold.

Troy walks in late, which is how he tells himself he still has power. Hoodie, cap, sunglasses. He slides in across from me and peels the glasses slow. He scans the room, maybe nervous, maybe proud. Hard to tell when he’s this high.

“You got it?” he says without hello.

“Got what?” I smirk.

He smiles like a teenager. “The money. You want the tape. You pay. I give. I delete.”

“How much?” He names a number that he thinks is big. I don’t blink. “You’ll give me the video. And destroy your copy.”

He leans back and shrugs. “That’s the deal. That’s what Quincy wants, so that’s what I’ll do. Isn’t that what we always do?”

I keep my face still somehow. “Quincy wants what?”

He grins, pleased with his own cleverness. “The sex tape,” he says. “The threat was Quincy’s idea. He figured it’d break you up, since she’s a slut who let herself get taped.”

I just witnessed a miracle and whatever is the opposite of a miracle. I don’t punch his face in for calling her a slut. And I don’t throw him onto the floor to demand what the fuck he means by Quincy’s idea.

“Quincy told you to break us up?”

“He thinks Lou’s a distraction. She’ll ruin the launch. He’s right about that—she’s the reason I couldn’t write. I’ve been on fire since she’s been gone.”

“That explains the purple smudges under your eyes.”

He ignores that. “Quincy’s been working with me to get this sorted for you, but I wanted to make some money first. So, I figured the sex tape would be two birds with one stone. A guy’s gotta eat.”

It clicks and burns. I keep my hands flat. “Quincy told you to threaten a tape.”

“He told me to fix it. I picked the tool.”

“And you have it with you.”

“I do. Thumb drive. I hand it to you. You hand me the envelope. You go your way. I go mine. You get to see the filthy shit she let me do to her instead of the whole world seeing it, and I get the hell out of Dodge to finish my album.”

I pull the envelope from my pocket and set it on the table. It’s paper rolled over paper. I tap the flap once. Troy watches like a dog.

“You’re sure it’s her?” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “She was my girlfriend first, Salem. I know what she looks like naked.”

I don’t flinch. “You’re sure she knew you were filming.”

He smirks harder. “Don’t be dumb.”

Heat comes up my spine. I put a lid on it. “Did Quincy have anything to do with the break-in at the studio, or was that all you?”

Troy laughs. “Now you’re getting it.”

I rake my nails over my stubble, needing to cause pain somewhere. “Why?”

“He needed those masters. Something to do with the label. I dunno. He knew that if you thought it was just me, you wouldn’t come digging into him. So, I made it look like it was personal.” He shrugs and laughs again. “It was easy. You guys always think everything is personal. All I had to do was give you a reason to think I cared enough to hurt you.”

Fuck me, he’s gone. “So, where’s the tape?”

He stands. “Follow me.”

Outside, the night smells like hot oil. The sedan doesn’t move. The detectives at the counter keep eating. We walk to his car. He pops the trunk, makes a little show of riffling a bag, then pulls out a thumb drive in a clear case. As if he couldn’t have just brought it inside with him. He licks his lips like a cartoon villain and holds it out.

I take the case and set it on the hood of my car. I set the envelope next to it. We both look at both. “Say it.”

“I give you the video and take the money. I destroy mine. Everyone’s happy. Fucking hell, Salem, do I have to explain blackmail to you?”

The sedan door opens. The detectives are already moving. One says, “Police,” like a punctuation mark. Another says, “Troy Turner, you’re under arrest for extortion, attempted extortion, and burglary.” He turns to run and runs straight into a badge.

He looks at me like I cheated. “You set me up!”

“You set yourself up by being a fucking idiot your whole goddamned life. You had a name, Troy. A family who loved you. A girlfriend who cared. You threw it all away for fuck all. You’re pathetic.”

They cuff him. He starts talking about Quincy again. “Call him,” he says to the air. “He’ll fix it. He told me to do it. He told me to threaten. He told me it would work. This is all his fault! Salem, you gotta call him! Get me out of this!”

“Get fucked, asshole.”

They put him in the car. Counsel steps out of the diner and nods at me. “Don’t say a word online. We’ll handle it.”

I sit in my car and put the thumb drive into my laptop. A single file. I look at the first frame. The angle is high and off to the side, propped somewhere awkward. I don’t see her face at first. I see hair I know and a shoulder.

I stop. My gut turns.

She isn’t performing for the camera, but he is. Making dumbass faces from behind her, grinning at the camera. He smacks her ass too hard, and she pulls away, still not aiming for the camera.

She has no idea it’s there.

“That was too hard.”

“That’s what I am, baby.”

“Not your cock,” she snaps at him. “The smack. Never your cock. You’re barely hard as it is.”

Something tells me he was going to edit this before he released it.

“And whose fault is that, Lou?”

“Are you saying it’s mine?”

He shrugs and flops on the bed, limp. “You stopped trying to be sexy for me. It worked.”

I don’t need to see more of this bullshit. I make a copy, pull the drive, pocket the copy, and hand the original to the detective who walks up with a bag and a form. He labels it. Chain of custody stays clean. Counsel tells me to go to the hotel and sit still. I nod.

I don’t go to the hotel.

I drive straight to Quincy’s. He’s doing a long-term townhouse rental while we’re here. I call my brothers. “Meet me at Quincy’s. Now.”

“Salem,” Knox says, warning in his voice.

“Worth the drive.”

Houston says, “We’re coming.”

I park in the slot marked with his unit number. Not a fan of waiting, but I want them here for this, so I wait. When they show up, I don’t explain. I pound on the door until the porch light comes on. He opens in a white shirt and slacks like he expects company. “Boys⁠—”

“We’re not your boys right now,” I say, walking past him. Knox looks like he came straight out of the rehearsal room. Houston looks like he ran.

Quincy closes the door behind them. He starts to raise both hands like he’s a host.

I cut him off. “You’re working with Troy. On the sex tape threat. On the break-in.”

He blinks. He’s good at old man neutral. “What did he say?”

“He said it was your idea to use the tape to break us up. He said you told him Lou would ruin the launch. That the label wanted the old masters. That you were working together this whole time.”

Knox shakes his head and smiles at me. “You’re confused, Salem. Troy is a liar. We all know that.”

“He wasn’t lying. Not about this. I know it.”

“Quincy has managed us for fifteen years,” Houston says. “He’s been like a dad to us. He wouldn’t do that.”

But it only matters what Quincy says. “What about it? Is Troy a liar about this too?”

“I did what had to be done,” he says, quiet, like he’s disappointed in a child. “Just like I always have.”

Knox tenses. “What does that mean? Exactly what?”

“You boys are soft-hearted. You can’t handle breakups.”

“And…?” Houston asks.

“You needed me to break it up for the good of the family and the album. It’s not pleasant. But whenever a girl clung too hard, I handled it. One way or another. I always have. That way, you can focus on the music. It’s better this way.”

“Say that again.” Houston’s jaw clenches.

Quincy keeps going, calmer now that he’s chosen his lane. “You’re too close to see it. She’s talented. She helped. She also turned the cameras. We don’t need another person with claims on your brand. This is a long game. You pay me to play it for you.”

I feel my hands shake. I don’t move them. “You paid yourself to play it,” I say. “With our brother. With threats to her life.”

He tsks. “The death threats aren’t real. They’re a troll farm I use to drum up attention or apply pressure. Nothing to worry about.”

Knox’s face goes blank. “Fake death threats?”

“Tried to scare the girl off, but she’s a stage five clinger. I had to use other methods. Honestly, you shouldn’t concern yourselves with the things I do for you. I’ve made you millionaires. I’m the reason your mother has two homes and all the cheap jewelry she loves. The reason you three can do whatever you want in the world. I make things easy for you. That’s the deal.”

I grind my teeth. “Belinda. Is this what you did to her too?”

He chortles. “Well, if you must know how the sausage is made, yes. A little money disappears, hire a girl who looks like her to shoplift and pick fights, it’s honestly easier than you think.”

Knox looks sick. Houston looks like someone pulled a rug out from under him.

I catch their attention. They both meet my eyes and nod once.

I turn back to Quincy. “You’re fired. You can expect to hear from our lawyers. And the police.”

He laughs like I told a joke and then sees I didn’t. “You’re the reckless one, Salem. Not the leader⁠—”

“He’s right, Salem,” Knox says. “I’m the one with power of attorney for the band.” He turns to Quincy. “You are so fucking fired that I wish it were a literal term.”

Quincy sputters, turning to Houston. “They’re being ridiculous. You understand it, right? You three are like the sons I never had because I was too busy managing your careers. You know how much I care about you boys. I was there for you when your mom was sick. When you lost gigs. When you⁠—”

“With no due respect, Quincy, go fuck yourself,” Houston growls.

We turn on our heels and head for the door. He follows us, hands open like a preacher passing the plate. “You’re making a mistake. You need me. I’ve kept you out of worse.”

“We’ll risk it,” Knox says, not turning around.

We walk. He calls after us by our names, as if they’re tethers to him. But his voice fades as we keep going.

I drive back to the hotel with a copy of a file I hate and a plan I like. I want to go to Lou and tell her everything. But I want one night where the world doesn’t ask her to carry more weight. “We don’t tell her tonight. Not yet. She needs a break. I want to give it to her.”

My brothers nod, and we go our own ways.

I stop at the grocery store and buy tomatoes, garlic, basil, boxed pasta, a carton of cream, a bag of salad, a loaf of bread. I grab a sprig of thyme because I don’t know what I’m doing. That’s the point.

I knock on her door with the grocery bag in my arms. She opens in a T-shirt and shorts and bare feet. Her hair is up. She smiles like the day didn’t take a bite out of us, and it makes everything new again.

“What’s this?”

“Teach me how to cook. I understand that’s something girlfriends do for their boyfriends.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Is that what we are?”

My stomach drops. I keep my mouth shut. Did I misunderstand or⁠—

She yanks me in by the collar and kisses me hard enough to reset the world. Then she grins. “Just playing. I’ll teach my boyfriend how to cook. Come on.”

We put the bag on the counter. She washes tomatoes and hands me a knife. “You chop. Small. Fingers tucked.”

I chop, and she laughs and adjusts my grip. We crush garlic. We salt the water and set a pot to boil. We tear basil. She shows me how to hold a pan so the oil spreads. I try to toss the tomatoes like I’ve seen on TV and almost flip them onto the stove. She catches the handle and steadies me.

“Careful, crazy.”

“Crazy about you.”

“Oh, so you’re cheesy tonight?”

I laugh and kiss her cheek, and then we get back to it.

My hand finds her hip when she reaches for the salt. Her mouth finds my jaw when she steps back. We bump into the drawer and laugh. It’s silly. It feels like real life, or what I think real life should feel like.

I stir and look at her face, and the words come out because they’re here now and I don’t want to pretend I don’t hear them. “I love you.”

It knocks the air out of both of us. She grips the counter and looks at me like she didn’t think it would be tonight. I didn’t either. My throat is tight. I don’t take it back.

She steps into me and puts both hands on my cheeks and kisses me slow, then again, not slow. “I love you too,” she says back, and I’m done.

We forget the timer. We forget the sauce. We remember the counter when the edge hits my hip. We kiss hard. We laugh into each other’s mouths because I fumble the ladle and it clatters, and we don’t care. She hops onto the counter and pulls me by the shirt. I fit between her knees like I’ve been here my whole life. We press together with the stove hissing behind us and the pan trying to get our attention.

“Wait,” she says, grinning. “Turn it off.”

I try to kill the flame with one hand without looking away from her. She hooks her fingers in my collar and pulls me back. Her mouth opens under mine, and I let the part of me that always wants speed learn a different tempo.

“Tell me,” she says, breath short.

“You’re it,” I say. “You’re the one.”

Her laugh is messy and perfect. “Say more.”

“I want this. A lot. All the time. Here. Now.”

“Good,” she says, and kisses me like we’re making the same promise.

Clothes don’t survive long. Once I have her naked, it’s all I can do not to rush. She bites my lip because she knows how to turn my brain off. When I thrust inside of her, the world stops. I put my mouth on her shoulder and tell it to go bother someone else.

We move with the counter edge against my hip and her breath at my ear. I say her name, and I keep my hands where she wants them and let her set the pace. She wraps her legs around me, and we find a rhythm that makes us both forget everything else.

She clings to me the way I always thought a girl should. Arms, legs, mouth, all in contact. Not porn star perfection. Someone who wants me as much as I want them. Crazed. Animal. Love.

Her cries drown out the other sounds in the kitchen, sharp, soft, loud, quiet. There is nothing else but this woman. This moment.

When it hits, it’s messy in the way that makes you bite your own fist. She laughs a half laugh and hides in my neck, and I hold on because I don’t know what else to do with all the swelling in my chest.

We breathe. We come back to earth.

Something smells wrong.

“The pasta,” she says, eyes wide.

We scramble. The pot is empty of water and full of smoke and regret. The sauce on low has turned the color of a bad idea. I pull it off the burner and turn the knob and laugh until it hurts. She’s laughing too, hand over her mouth.

Then the smoke alarm proves it still works. We both jump. I’ve destroyed enough hotel rooms to know the drill. I grab a towel and fan the sensor. I flip the bathroom fan on and prop the door.

The hotel phone rings anyway. I answer with the voice I use for security.

“Everything okay up there, Ms. Navarro?”

“Burnt pot on the stove set off the alarm,” I say, honest enough. “No fire. Sorry.”

“Please put Ms. Navarro on the phone.”

Right. Not my suite. I pass her the phone, but I hear them on the other end when she answers. “We’re sending someone to confirm.”

“Copy,” I say. I hang up and look at her. She’s flushed and trying not to die of embarrassment. “Happens all the time. Get dressed quick⁠—”

There’s a knock. Damn, they’re fast.

I pull my shirt on and pants, check she’s dressed, and open the door a crack. Two staffers, one with a fire extinguisher, one with a checklist. I let them in the threshold and point at the fan and the off stove, and the sad pasta.

They take a breath like they wanted drama and got pasta instead. They ask if we need housekeeping. I say no, thank them, and close the door.

Lou leans on the counter and covers her face. “I can’t believe we did that.”

“We made dinner. Well, we made a mess. It happens.”

She peeks at me and starts laughing again. “We made love on a counter and burned dinner.”

“Was that so bad?”

“No. Except wasting food. I hate wasting food.”

“We should go get fries somewhere.”

She pulls me close by the pocket and kisses me. “I love you.”

“If that’s what I get for suggesting fries, what do I get for suggesting a whole meal?”

She laughs and kisses me again. “Let me put on real clothes and we’ll get those fries.”

“Deal.”

We get to a diner and sit on the same side of the booth because I can’t stop touching her. I put my nose in her hair because it smells like soap and garlic now. I want to tell her about Troy and the arrest and the tape and Quincy’s confession and the way my hands shook when I fired a man who thinks he made us. I don’t. Not tonight. Tonight I want one more normal.

“Teach me to cook.”

“You’ll burn something.”

“I’ll turn off the smoke alarm faster next time.”

She kisses me again, and the room goes silent.

We do breakfast in the big suite because none of us wants the hotel restaurant today. Room service trays, coffee, a pile of toast Houston keeps buttering like it’s his job. Salem looks like he slept hard for once. Pretty sure I wore him out last night. Knox is in a black tee and jeans, already on his second cup. I sit on the end of the couch with my laptop closed.

They look at each other the way people do when someone has to start.

Salem starts. “We fired Quincy. Last night.”

I set the napkin down. “What happened?”

Knox answers. “We have evidence he was colluding with Troy. Pushing him to use a threat to break us up. Calling it good for the album. He used Troy to steal the masters for the label, so we’ll be suing them too. He said he’s done the breakup thing before when someone ‘clung.’ So, he’s fired. And probably facing criminal prosecution when all of this is said and done.”

My stomach goes tight. “He said that to your faces?”

“Yes,” Houston says. “He said it like it was just business. And then he tried to make me feel bad for him.”

Knox adds, “Oh, and at least some of your death threats were fake.”

I nearly spit my water. “What?”

“He hired a troll farm to scare you into dumping us.”

“Holy shit.” My mouth goes dry. Then I hear Talia in my head, that easy little “mm” when she doesn’t like someone. “Your mother never liked him. She said there was too much math in his smile. If you’re smart, you’ll let her help pick the next one. She’s seen every kind of manager three times.”

“Agreed,” Knox says. “We’ll sit with her this week. No rush hires. Counsel has interim covered for contracts in the meantime.”

“Good.”

They watch me like they’re trying to gauge the hit. I check myself for cracks. I feel steady and angry in an old way. I pour coffee and doctor it like I always do, so I don’t wreck my hands. “I’m glad he’s gone. Not just for me. But for you guys too. That’s fucked up.”

“There’s more,” Salem says, softer. “Police picked Troy up. Extortion and the break-in. We have the file he was waving around. It’s in evidence, but I made a copy.”

“What extortion?”

He swallows. “Troy made a sex tape of you. Threatened to leak it.”

My hand shakes, jiggling my coffee. I set it down with both hands. “Oh.”

“Based on what I saw, it looks like you didn’t know it was being filmed⁠—”

“I did not. In fact, I told him never to film us.”

“I’m not asking you to deal with it today. Or ever, if you don’t want to. We’ll handle it, and the court will handle it. I’m telling you because I won’t keep things from you.”

I sit still for a beat because I don’t want to vomit information back at him. “Okay. Thank you. I’m not talking about it now. I need to not think about that for a while.”

“Understood.”

We go quiet. It’s not uncomfortable. It’s a block of silence we can stand on. They keep eating. I sip coffee and let my brain sort files.

Quincy is gone. Police have Troy. The studio is ours with new glass. The work is moving. I have the credit I deserve and men I’ll keep trying to deserve because they keep trying to deserve me too.

They start to chatter, and I check out of the conversation a little, even as they keep talking about interim managers and radio spins and rehearsal blocks. I look at the string of choices behind me and the one ahead.

I have what I wanted, and I didn’t notice it arrive: a home. Not a street, not an apartment, not a ring. A place where I can set a pencil down and know it will be there when I reach for it. A place in a family, even if it’s only temporary.

But it doesn’t feel temporary. This feels like the real thing.

I hate that I let a man talk me out of my career once. I hate that I abandoned my career to orbit his. That I liked the feeling of belonging so much that I let him take the rest of me. That I called it love when it was convenience and a way to stop being scared.

Now I have three men who handed me back my hands, my voice. Knox, who shares the load and thinks out loud with me and doesn’t pretend he knows things he doesn’t. He respects me and listens when I say the line is crooked.

Houston, who checks locks and records guide tracks and keeps asking where support turns into weight. He finds the song under whatever noise the day is making and brings me into it without turning me into a prop.

Salem, who hands me the wheel and means it. He lets me steer without sulking and takes my notes without turning them into a fight. He is chaos on a leash that he’s finally holding, and he gives me the leash when I ask.

I’ve never had any of that. Not from a man. Not from anyone.

There’s mutual trust. There is respect. It’s simple. I’ve never had simple. It makes me greedy. I want it to last.

But they are about to go on tour. Tours kill things. I know because last time I chased a musician onto a bus, my life fell apart. My inbox went stale. My clients slid away. My identity turned into someone’s plus-one. I don’t want to repeat a loop just because it’s familiar.

So I don’t wait to see what they’ll offer. I cut into their conversation, because I don’t wait for answers anymore. “What do you want me to do when you go on tour?”

Three heads turn. Knox sets his fork down. “Come with us. Be on the road. Be in the rooms. We work better with you near.”

“But I can’t work on the road in a busy tour bus or plane.” I breathe in slow. “Last time I followed a musician, I lost my life. I can’t be the tagalong who waits in a green room. I need space and bandwidth and a door that locks that isn’t someone else’s door.”

“Okay,” he says, not defensive. “That’s fair.”

Salem leans forward. “Then don’t follow. Fly out every couple of cities. Come for three days, go home for seven. Ping-pong. You keep your life and still see us. We get you without derailing you.”

“As much as I’d love that, dropping into your process mid-run yanks you off your track. It would yank me off mine. You hate interruptions in the middle of a build. So do I. It sounds romantic, but it’s not stable.”

“True,” he says, conceding cleanly.

Houston taps the edge of the table, thinking the way he does with his hand. “Tour with us. But not on our bus. Take your own. A small bus if you want wheels. A plane, when we jump across the country. You have your own desk, your own bed, your own call sheet. You can come see us when you want to. You can shut your door when you need to. You can do your job and still be with us.”

I don’t answer right away because my brain goes to budgets and logistics and whether I’m going to turn into that person who requires a private anything. “That’s expensive.”

Salem shrugs. “We pay you. You’re our Creative Director. You do the visuals and the mapping and the behind-the-scenes cadence and the merch drops and the venue looks. You’re not a guest.”

Knox nods. “And you’re our advisor. You’re good at listening, and at telling us when we’re being dumb. That’s a job.”

Houston adds, “And our backup singer, since you worked on ‘Locket’ and I used your vocals on a couple of other tracks without making a fuss about it until now.” He gives me the small guilty smile he uses when he knows I’m going to call him out and love him anyway.

I sit back. Flabbergasted is a dumb word. It fits. I think out loud because I don’t want to build a fantasy in my head before the facts are out on the table.

“It’s one thing to be the girlfriend who tags along and waits while you do the real work. It’s another to be a full participant on a tour. If I’m going to have a bus, I’m not going to pretend it’s because I’m delicate. It would be because I have a job. Several jobs. Creative Director. Advisor. Backup singer. That is a lot of hats and more than one paycheck.” I smirk. Can’t help it.

They snicker, not unkind. “We are not paying you in pizza and vibes,” Salem says. “We pay you for every job you do. We should have formalized it earlier.”

Knox is already in his head making a list. “Creative Director retainer monthly. Per-deliverable fees for assets. Advisor fee baked into the retainer. Performance fee per show for backup vocals. Per diem. Travel. Crew pass for your assistant if you hire one. Bus lease is billed to us through management if we go that route.”

Houston adds, “And a clause that you can go home when you want to without penalty. This only works if you’re not trapped by our calendar.”

I laugh once because it’s insane. It’s big and simple and exactly what would have saved me five years ago. “You’re offering a whole life.”

“A whole life with us. If you want it,” Knox says.

My throat catches. I drink coffee to make it stop. It doesn’t.

“Tell me the other side. Tell me the part where this goes wrong.”

Knox doesn’t sugarcoat. “We travel. We get tired. We get short with each other. You’ll hear us fight. You’ll be in rooms that aren’t made for your work. You’ll be bored sometimes. You’ll be overbooked other times. The bus will break. A projector will die. A venue will say no to your request because they hate being told what to do by someone who isn’t on their payroll.”

“Fans will talk,” Salem says. “You know that part. They’ll DM you dumb and worse. They’ll assume things. They’ll call you names. They already do.”

Houston says the thing I need someone to say out loud. “And we have to keep doing the work we promised each other. No barking. No minimizing. Halt means halt. You say you’re not safe, we stop. You say you’re fine, we believe you. We mess up, we fix it. Not in public. In our room.”

I look at them. Three men who didn’t ask me to be less. Three men who keep asking me to be more. Who keep expecting more of me. Who don’t see me as a liability, but an advantage.

“Okay. Here’s what I want if I say yes.”

Knox straightens like he’s in class. Salem sits up. Houston smiles, small.

“A bus I can work and sleep on. A desk that isn’t a joke. A door. A driver I trust. An assistant when I ask for one. Security that doesn’t treat me like cargo. Control over what goes out under my name. If I have to pick between your optics and my safety, I pick safety.”

“Done,” Knox says. He means it. “I’ll call counsel and start the draft. We’ll build a budget with the bus company this afternoon.”

“I also still want the option to stay put,” I say. “If I need to stay put for a few days and catch up later, no guilt.”

“The option is yours,” Salem says. “We’ll miss you. We’ll live.”

“And I want to keep the door open to not sing on a given night if my throat or my head isn’t there,” I add. “No hard feelings.”

Houston nods. “We’ll have a pad track ready for those nights and run the house mix clean.”

Feels like I negotiated myself into a different world. I breathe and let the idea land in my body. My own space, rolling with theirs. My own desk, doors, calendar. Their rooms when I want them. My rooms when I need them.

“Say yes,” Salem says, impatient in the way that’s funny now.

“Yes. With a contract. With all the lines we just said written down where the world can’t pretend we never said them.”

Houston reaches across the table and rests his hand on mine, not pinning, just there. “Thank you. For asking for what you want.”

“Thank you for answering straight.”

A knock at the door breaks the moment. Room service forgot the jam and came back with three tiny jars. It’s absurd. It helps. Things got too heavy for a moment.

The door shuts. The room steadies. I look up and find three faces watching me with their version of soft.

“What?”

“You look like home,” Salem says.

“You look like our partner,” Knox says.

“You look like yourself,” Houston says.

I don’t cry. There’s too much to do. I reach for my laptop, but Salem rests his hand there.

“What are you doing?”

He says, “There’s a stipulation I want to discuss.”

“Oh. Okay.”

He stands and takes my hand. “Up.”

I stand too. “Where are we going?”

“To my office, so we can discuss further negotiations.”

“But we were discussing things right here just fine.”

“It’s better in there. Trust me.” He walks me down the hall, his brothers behind us. Then he leads me into his bedroom.

I glance around and point to the door I thought was a closet. “In there?”

“No.” He gives me a light shove onto the bed.

I laugh, still bouncing. “What are you doing?”

He smirks and tugs my pajama bottoms off. “Negotiating.”

“This is not negotiating.”

“Sure it is.” He strips his shirt, his lounge pants off. Naked, ripped, pierced. Glorious. He splits my legs apart at the ankles and climbs between them, lifting my right leg around his waist. “You see, I’m what some call an expert negotiator.” He cups my pussy, and I gasp. “And I get what I want.”

I moan. “What do you want?”

“A successful arrangement on both sides.” He strums my clit slowly. “A deal that tells the world we’re partners. Deals like this can take time, so I’m going to go slow so we get it right.”

“Mm, you’re getting it right.” I ride his hand, rocking back and forth.

“Not so sure about that.” He slides between my legs, his cock poised at my entrance. He motions with his eyes behind me, and the next thing I know, his brothers have my wrists above my head. “You’ll see we drive a hard bargain.” He enters me with a hard thrust and growls. “That’s how we get what we want.”

“I want it too,” I purr.

He smirks. “All the better.” He drives in and out of me in slow strokes, watching where we’re joined. “Fuck, you cling to me when I pull back, do you know that? Like your body doesn’t want to let me go.”

“I don’t. Not ever.” Too much truth. Fuck. How do I backtrack⁠—

“Good. Don’t.” He buries deep, and I can’t move to hold him, so I wrap my legs around him and keep him inside of me. He pumps gently and murmurs into my hair. “You like it when we hold you down. When we have you. We like holding you down. Taking care of you. Match made in heaven.”

Those words crumble something inside of me. My heart knots up. The room shimmers, and then I feel it. Tears welling. I don’t know why I’m crying. But the tears make the world wobble.

I take a quick breath, but it doesn’t help. “Halt!”

They back off instantly, and I sit up, then race to his bathroom and slam the door shut. I brace on the counter and sob. How…how can I do this? How can I let them do everything for me? It’ll go wrong. It always does. I can’t⁠—

“Lou,” Houston says behind the door. “Are you okay?”

How do I even answer that?

“Need a minute.” I try to sound strong. I sound like I’m dying.

“Coming in,” Salem says as he barges into the room.

“Oh my god, what if I was peeing?”

“You think I haven’t seen a girl pee? Do you know how many dive bars we played at?” He shakes his head. “Not the point. What the fuck is up?”

Knox and Houston stand in the doorway, watching and trying not to crowd.

I wrap a towel around myself. I don’t know why. Then I sit on the closed toilet. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“No, you know exactly how to do what we were doing. I promise you.”

I have to tell them. We promised honesty.

But I don’t want to. It’s too hard.

“I don’t…you said that thing about taking care of me.”

Salem shrugs innocently. “So?”

“We love doing that,” Houston says.

Knox nods and listens.

“What happens when you stop loving…that?” Me. I mean me.

They glance at each other, confused. Then Salem kneels on the bathroom rug at my feet to make me look at him. “Lou. What makes you think we will ever stop loving that?”

I shrink inside myself. My voice does too. “Because everyone always does. My parents did.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, before he surges up and kisses me. His hands weave into my hair, and he doesn’t let up until we need to breathe. He doesn’t move back much, just enough to speak. “You are it for us, angel. There is no one else. There is nothing we want to do more than take care of you for the rest of our lives. After this tour⁠—”

“Salem,” Knox warns. “It was going to be a surprise.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“She needs to know,” he says without looking away from me.

“Yeah. Okay. She does. Houston?”

“I told you we should have already said it, man.”

I’m so lost. “What is going on?”

Salem takes a breath. “After this tour, we want to buy a house for you. For us. To build a life there together. Dogs, cats, a zebra⁠—”

“A zebra?” A little laugh pops out, and I wipe a tear away.

“If you want one. Kids too, if you want them. The whole nine. If you’ll have us. We’re kind of a mess, so I understand if you say no.” He pauses for a second. “Say yes instead.”

“We can’t get married—obviously,” Knox says as he comes closer. “But we want to enmesh you into our legals as much as we can, so you’re secure.”

Houston steps in behind him, making the bathroom feel even more crowded. “This is our version of a proposal.” He smiles and shrugs. “Didn’t plan on doing it naked. But here we are.”

I snort a laugh and close my eyes. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

“That sounds like a yes to me,” Salem teases.

I throw the towel off and wrap my legs around him. “Take me back to the bed.”

He stands and carries me there again, this time laying me down gentler. We lie next to each other, and the other two join us. Knox behind me, Houston lying at our feet. Salem rubs my arm while staring into my eyes.

I’m trapped and free at the same time. “You three really mean it, don’t you?”

“I will always mean what I tell you,” Salem vows. “I know life has been shitty to you. I get why you have low expectations. And we will do everything in our power to raise them every fucking day.”

There’s nothing to lose, and everything to gain. All I have to do is say yes.

So, I kiss him and pin him to the bed, straddling him. The tension flows out of his body as his hands circle over my ass. He’s hard again, so I take him inside of me. His piercing hits my clit every time I move. He fits perfectly. They all do, in their own ways.

I motion for Houston to join us. “I want you in my mouth.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He crawls to the head of the bed to take position.

I turn to Knox. “And you in my ass.”

“Fuck yes,” he says before disappearing behind me.

When Houston pumps into my lips, Salem growls, “Fuck, I love watching that.”

When Knox enters my ass, I’m sure he says something else, but I’m too lit and loud to hear it.

We move together, the heat building inside. It’s like music, flowing at its own rhythm. Let it lead, and you find the meaning.

I’m coming before I know it, shocked by the quickness and ease. It’s not like before. Not like when it took time to get into a comfortable headspace and then let go. I’m already there.

They have me. I have them. They’ll hold me down and let me fly.

When they come, the world pulses wet, and I’m so full of them that I can’t think straight. They set me between them, dripping, sated. Blissed out of my mind.

This is my new life. I’m with them. They’re with me. Safe. Protected. Happy.

Home.

Closing night in Vegas doubles as the tour opener. The marquee says so. The crew shirts say so. My inbox says so. We’ve packed the rooms, paid out the bonuses, signed off on the last invoices from the residency, and loaded the first cases for the road. The bus for Lou is parked in the service bay with fresh tires and a desk bolted down exactly like she wanted. It smells like new carpet and tape.

It’s bright fucking pink. Not my choice. Not my call. She loves it. That’s all I care about.

I start the day with a list and a checkmark pen. Stage plot printed. Comms tested. Backup power verified. Security briefed with the TRO and the updated names list. Meet and greet set for ninety minutes after the show, no deviations. The lobby screens run the new opener reel Lou cut last night. I watched it once. It’s lean and clean. Our girl does immaculate work.

Lou shows up at soundcheck with her laptop and a coil of tape on her wrist. Tank top. Black jeans. A trademark pencil behind her ear. She flags one lens shift, and Salem slides the stand a hand’s width. Houston hums into the ribbon. I walk the room with a radio and a metronome in my pocket, making note of two squeaks and one light that needs to be moved an inch.

We run “Locket” last in sound check because we’re closing with it. Lou takes the mic for the whisper line because it’s her part now, and we don’t pretend it isn’t. She looks calm. I know she threw up in a sink twice at rehearsal yesterday, so I’m glad to see her comfortable now. I hope it holds for tonight.

Backstage an hour before doors, I gather the band and the core crew for the last run of house rules before we take it outside this building. Security calls go to me first, and then the hotel. No surprises after ten. It’s muscle memory now, but it helps to hear it spoken.

Houston ties his ponytail and gives Lou a nod that says he hears her part in his head already. Salem bounces once and then stops himself because he can. I look at all three and feel the catch in my chest that hits before a show.

Doors at seven. The house swallows people like it always does. The opener does twenty-five and hits their mark. I can feel the floor through the soles of my shoes when the crowd’s weight shifts forward.

We walk on at nine sharp. I hit the downbeat, and the night becomes lines and bars. The opener run of songs lands like it does when the set has been lived in for weeks. It still hits. The projection mapping paints the back wall with the Sagebrush silhouette and a grid of notes so faint you only see it if you’re looking for it.

Halfway through the set, I check my hands. They’re steady. My chest still gets a flutter before I walk up to a mic to speak. I’ve done this for decades, and that never leaves. It’s useful. It keeps my sentences short.

We build to the last run. The lights drop, the stage breathes, and the hush lands. I step to the mic. “Before we close, I want to tell you where the last song came from.”

The room answers with quiet. Not silence. Listening.

“We made this record in a small studio on the edge of this city. It raised us. We go back there when we need to remember how to work. This song is about family and second chances. It’s about a home that is a person, not a place.”

I don’t look at Lou to my left. I don’t need to. “You’ll hear a voice on this one that you haven’t heard on this stage before. She’s part of us now. She helped us build this song and this album. Please welcome our Creative Director and our heart, Lou Navarro.”

She steps forward like she’s walking onto a train she meant to catch, and the crowd cheers. Houston gives her a small nod. Salem grins like a kid and then folds it away. I count the song off.

Houston’s voice sits on the piano. My hands know what to do without looking for it. Salem stays in his lane, bass guiding us. Lou’s whisper singing comes in on the first chorus, and I can feel the place where the room tilts toward her without her having to chase it.

On the last chorus, the phones go up, even though they’re not supposed to, and the voices come back at us in a way that makes the floor feel like it’s breathing. Lou doesn’t look at the sea of screens. She keeps her mouth near the mic and her eyes low. It looks like stagecraft, intimate. Calming. The audience sways with her when she moves.

They love her.

The song ends, and the crowd cheers wildly for her. For us too, I imagine, but this is her night. I hear my own yes in my head and keep my face flat because we still have bows and walk-offs and an encore to run.

Offstage, Lou is breathing hard like she ran a mile. She’s smiling in a way that’s new for her, big and unguarded. It hits me like a freight train.

“That’s a rush,” she says, leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, hand still on her in-ears.

“It comes natural to you.”

She laughs. “I threw up twice before I walked out there.”

I laugh too. “I still get nervous every time. I just hide it behind checklists.”

“So that’s what those are for?”

I nod and smile. “Makes me look important instead of nauseous.”

She reaches out, pulls me in by the shirt, and I kiss her. It’s not long. “I love you, Lou Navarro.”

“I love you too,” she says, like it’s obvious and should have been said on the way to load-in. “There is no one else but the three of you who could get me on a stage.”

Houston walks up with two bottles of water and a smile that knows exactly how hard she just did a thing. Salem bumps my shoulder with his and says, “Our heart,” just to make her roll her eyes. She rolls them and takes the water, and drinks half without stopping.

We do the encores and the last meet and greet because we promised it. Winners of a radio thing. Venue VIPs. A couple of contest kids with markers and sleeves they want signed. No new faces other than the list. Security checked IDs on the way in. Quincy’s troll farm threats were fake, but not all of them were, so we keep it tight.

I stand in the line with my brothers and shake hands and look people in the eye and listen to the quick stories about how their cousin used our old song at a wedding or how their kid learned drums on a kit that barely stayed in tune. I love hearing how our music affects people. Makes the craziness worth it.

We end the line on time. The tour manager we hired for the road closes the curtain and checks the list, and gives me a thumbs-up. We move the last people out and walk the corridor to the dressing rooms. The crew is already half loaded. The buses are half full. The show file is backed up three times and sent to the cloud.

More items off the checklist.

In the room, Lou sits on the arm of the couch with a piece of toast someone found and a look on her face like her brain is back to grids. “We should swap the second and third phrases on the projection for a couple of cities where the wall is brighter. It’ll read cleaner.”

“Workaholic, take a night off.”

“This coming from you?”

“Someone ordered me to relax. I think she should take her own advice.”

I step over and set a hand on the back of her neck and rub the way Tia the Chocolate Fairy did to me. Lou’s moaning in seconds. “Wow.”

“We’ll hit the spa before we leave the hotel.”

“Done.”

Mom texts a string of hearts and one note that says, you did good, baby.

Thanks, Mom. See you before we leave town?

I’ll be by in the morning.

The radio station that pushed the single sends a note saying the call-ins spiked when the whisper hit. The label sends a bland congratulations that reads like it was approved by a committee. The people who wanted the old masters were fired and/or arrested for the break-in. The case is going to be messy, but that’s life sometimes.

Quincy is still fighting for his freedom in the case, and that thought makes me smile every day.

The four of us shower and tuck into Houston’s bed for the extra space. It won’t always be like this. Not during a tour. Tour time is crazy. One night bleeds into another. You might do a little sightseeing between shows, or you might just sleep. Lou mentioned that the tour with Troy was bare bones—he didn’t have the money to fund a good one. So, I plan to make this one wipe out her memories of that first tour.

Same with her old life.

I can’t imagine what it takes to give up a child. The hardest circumstances, the worst situation. Has to be. No one does it for fun, certainly. It’s hard for me to not be angry with her parents. Stupid, I know. They could be dead for all we know.

But they hurt her, and that makes the primal, stubborn part of my brain very, very angry.

Lou snores. In the middle of the night, she sometimes burps in her sleep. I don’t think she knows that about herself. It’s funny every single time, because it wakes us up, and the three of us have to hold in our laughter so we don’t wake her.

She’s funny in ways I never see coming. Supportive in ways I don’t deserve. She sees the world differently from us. From me, especially. Yet she also understands me. It’s some kind of magic trick, and I never want to figure it out.

I’d rather there was magic in the world.

She snores against my chest, her face buried there. My arms are wrapped around her, and Houston spoons her, breathing deep. Salem lies on his back next to me, arm draped over his face, also snoring. She likes being stuck between us; it’s like she feels safer the more she’s buried in us.

We make her feel safe. It’s an honor I never expected.

I’m the last one awake. Typical. It’s my job to keep watch over this crazy family. I want to do it forever. I breathe deep. Peaceful. Sleep is coming. I kiss the top of her head, and she shimmies unconsciously. And burps.

I almost snort a laugh. Salem does. Houston takes a breath that could be a laugh. But we settle in tight, and the night takes us all.

The first week on the road feels like a test I didn’t study for. My bus rides smooth, my desk is bolted down, the lamp is perfect, the driver is a saint—and I still get queasy the minute the wheels roll.

Ginger chews help. So does staring at the horizon and breathing through my nose like a yoga video. I keep crackers in a cup by the keyboard and try not to think about it.

By afternoon, my stomach settles and I get work done. Type rules, show rolls, a new slide for the opener. I ping the guys with revised captions and a note about a lens I want swapped. They answer with thumbs-ups and a string of checkmarks. It’s our normal, or it passes for it.

We hit the hotel late, and my body sighs in relief at the stillness. The suite smells like soap and paper and the kind of air that doesn’t move. I shower the day off and put on a soft tee and shorts, and sit on the couch with my legs tucked under me. Houston hauls in a tray from room service. Knox checks the locks. Salem falls face-first on the bed for exactly nine seconds, then pops up like he’s powered by a switch.

They’re all running hot with tour night energy. I should be tired. I’m not. The queasy edge drops away. The quiet snaps tight, good tight. We eat fries and pick at a salad and pretend the tray is dinner.

Salem is the first one to admit it. He drops a grape in my mouth and grins like a teenager. “You’re not green anymore.”

“I’m fine,” I say, lying halfway and enjoying it anyway.

Houston takes my plate and sets it aside. He sits close. Knox settles on my other side and turns his body to face me, as if he’s guarding a door. Salem kneels on the carpet and rests his arms on my knees, and looks up like I’m the show.

I have a feeling I’m about to be.

Houston kisses me first, generous and slow. I taste salt and soda, and that low hum he carries like a pocket metronome. Salem steals the second kiss, mischief and heat in a line that makes my knees loose. Knox waits, patient, then takes my mouth like a promise and I feel the floor tilt in a way I trust.

T-shirts go up and over. I don’t do coy. I do yes.

Knox’s mouth licks a line straight up my throat. Houston’s hand on my hip, grabbing me onto his lap. Salem’s laugh against my knee, his breath hot where it counts. I slide my fingers under cotton and over ribs, into hair, around biceps that feel like home.

“Tell us,” Knox says, the commander turned soft.

“I want you. All of you. Here. Now.”

The couch becomes a stage I don’t have to fear. I’m the only one in the center, and it suits me. Houston’s mouth is on my shoulder, careful with his teeth until he isn’t. Salem kisses down my thigh and back up, slow enough to be rude on purpose. The tease. Knox braces me with both hands and holds eye contact until I forget what it felt like to be looked at and not seen.

Knox’s breath catches when I tug his hair and pull his head between my thighs. Each of them love to go down on me, and tonight, he called dibs. Who am I to say no to that?

Houston goes quiet when I scratch the side of his neck. He kisses me deep, his hands gliding over my tits. Salem swears when I stroke him with my free hand. Through tight teeth, he hisses, “Multitasker.”

“Add that to my fee,” I tease between kisses with Houston.

It should be too much. The three of them. It isn’t. It’s exactly enough.

Suddenly, Knox yanks me down onto him, fully hard, fully inside of me. It’s a surprise that makes my cells shudder. He stands with me on his cock and carries us to the full-length mirror by the closet. There, he pulls out and sets me down, turning me to face it. He pins my hands against the mirror and murmurs in my ear. “Watch your face while I fuck you.”

I don’t have time to gasp. He pulls my hips back slightly and slides in from behind. Slow strokes. Long strokes. Long enough that I’m shaking already.

“Now, that’s not fair, Knox,” Houston says without heat. “She needs someone on her clit.”

“By all means.”

He joins us, his hand anyway. He comes in from the side to play with me there. “Can’t neglect this morsel.”

“Or her tits,” Salem says as he strolls close. He crouches between us and the mirror so he can maul my tits with his mouth as his hands skim up and down my sides.

Overload. Their specialty.

“Watch that pretty face when you come, baby,” Knox commands.

It’s hard. I’ve never watched myself. But the more they touch me and fuck me, the more I’m into it. My face flushes. My lips go dark and plump. When I catch fire, I watch myself burn.

They take over from there.

Salem helps me to my trembling knees and says, “Use that pretty mouth and those hands, multitasker.”

I swallow him down and grab the other two. They use my hands to jerk themselves off, so I can concentrate and not bite Salem too hard. His fingers weave into my hair to control my pace, back and forth down his shaft. I feel his pulse in my lips. Sometimes, he chokes me, and that only gets me hotter.

Him too. “Fuck, that’s it. Right now!” He goes deep, and I weather his thrusts, not losing a drop.

“Oh, fuck this, I need more,” Knox says as he gets down on the floor next to me.

“What—oh!” I chirp as he pulls me onto his face.

My knees sit on either side of his head, and he holds me to him, willing to drown, apparently. Then Houston is there, cock in my face. “Give me that mouth, precious.”

My jaw aches, but I want this. Tonight, I want them all in my mouth. I crave it.

I take him, stretching my mouth around his girthy cock as best I can while Knox eats me from underneath. His tongue ticks my clit to the rhythm of my orgasm. Houston gags me over and over, making me dizzy on him.

“Damn. Keep this up, and we’re never going to dinner,” Salem says.

I look at him, and he’s stroking himself to the scene. Glad we could put on a show for him.

A finger hooks into me, and I come all over Knox’s handsome face, choking on Houston. He erupts down my throat, making a mess of me. I can’t swallow it all, but I try.

Once he’s through, I wipe my mouth and warn Knox, “You’re next.”

“Mm?”

I turn around on him, straddling his face the other way, then bend forward and take him in my mouth too. I taste his salt and get lost in the flavor of him. He grips me against his face, his chin at my clit, bristled and rough on my most sensitive parts.

That only makes me want it more.

I ride his face while I suck his cock, and he thrusts up as much as he can to meet me. When I feel him throb against my tongue, I’m shaking. New fingers slide into me from behind, talented ones. They find my G-spot and work me there while Knox’s chin does the rest.

I explode. “I’m coming, fuck!”

“Oh, good girl,” Salem says.

Someone strokes my back while the climax takes over. But I get back on Knox’s cock and he doesn’t disappoint, shooting across my tongue as I come with him.

It takes me by the spine and shakes me out, and I let it, jaw open, breath rough, hands grabbing for his thighs for balance. We fall into each other on the floor. We breathe. Rough. Hoarse.

“Bathroom,” I say, when I can think again. I rinse my face in cool water and see a version of myself I like. Flushed, hair ruined, eyes clear. Not bad for a queasy day.

Is cum a nausea remedy? I don’t know. All I know is that I wanted it.

I come back and we do the after, which is my favorite part. Houston finds water. Knox wipes the worst crumbs off the couch. Salem steals the sheet off the bed and makes a little tent, and we lie there, limbs everywhere, calm in a pile that reads as chaos from the outside and as home from here.

We sleep. The bus will move again tomorrow. My stomach will try me again. I’ll handle it.

By Friday, we pull into Vancouver for a weekend run. Talia meets us in the lobby in a dress with a flower on her hat the size of my hand and a smile like a sunrise. She kisses cheeks and pinches Salem’s jaw and coos at Houston’s ponytail and tells Knox he looks tired and needs a nap. She smells like pricy lotion and lipstick. “I missed Canada. I had some wild times here.”

“I’m convinced you had wild times anywhere you went.”

“Correct,” she says, delighted. “Pool boys in LA. Pool boys in Vegas. It’s a lifestyle.”

We go to dinner in the hotel. Brick walls, soft lights, menus on paper. Talia orders a glass of something sparkling and tells a story about a Malibu pool guy versus a Henderson pool guy, like it’s a sports rivalry. Salem heckles from the end of the table. Houston blushes. Knox pretends not to hear the worst adjectives.

“To indecision,” I say, lifting my water as if it were wine, because the smell of actual wine pinches my nose and turns my stomach in a way that feels unfair. I set the glass down and that’s that. The table keeps talking. The room spins one notch. I breathe through it.

It doesn’t pass. I excuse myself with a hand on my mouth and speed-walk to the bathroom. The stall is clean enough. I throw up, and it leaves me weak and annoyed.

Someone in the next stall knocks. “Sorry to bother you after that. Do you have a tampon?”

“Sorry, no,” I say, voice hoarse.

She grumbles and leaves. I sit there longer than I need to, blinking at my knees, doing math I haven’t done in too long. I haven’t needed tampons for a while now. I’ve been busy and stressed and traveling and in love and working and—count it, Lou.

The numbers don’t make sense unless they do. My stomach sinks, and I’m nauseous all over again.

I stand up too fast, and the room tilts. I wash my face and stare at myself, water dripping off my chin. My mouth says a word I can’t hear over the sound of the sink.

The door swings open and Talia steps in like she owns the place. “Baby? You alright?”

I can’t keep it to myself. I’m good at keeping things to myself. Not this. It just comes out, unbidden. “I think I’m late. I think I might be⁠—”

“Pregnant,” she says for me, hands already on my upper arms, eyes bright. She doesn’t flinch. She smiles as if I’ve handed her a present.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I haven’t tested. I haven’t⁠—”

She hugs me like I’m not made of glass, just a person who needs a hug. “No matter what the boys say,” she says into my hair, “I will be here for you and my grandbaby. If there is a grandbaby. And if there isn’t, I will be here for you anyway. Understand?”

“I don’t know how to feel. Or what they’ll say. Or what to do. Or⁠—”

“You don’t have to know. We can just be confused and happy and scared and then finish dessert.” She steps back, checks my face, fixes my hair, and then ruins it again because she likes messy, and takes my hand. “Come on. Tell them. They’re not made of sugar.”

But I freeze. “I can’t.”

“You can. I’ll stand there with you and smile and nod and then threaten to steal the baby and run away to Tahoe if anyone says a word I don’t like.”

I laugh because I can’t help it. She leads me back to the table. The guys look up at the same time with that same worry, triple guilt, bandleader face they do. I stand at the end of the table and hold on to the chair back like it’s the only stable object left in the city.

“I think I’m pregnant.” The words sound like I stole them from someone else’s mouth.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then the noise is joy. Not show joy. Real joy. Houston’s eyes spill water. Knox says “okay” like a man who just changed a plan and likes the new plan better. The smile sells it. Salem goes very still, then laughs once, loud, and then not. They stand, unnecessary, and crowd me without crowding me. Talia claps.

People look. I wouldn’t know how to care.

“Really?” I ask because my brain is slow and my heart is faster, and I need confirmation that I’m not about to get blamed for rearranging someone’s life.

“Yes, really,” Houston says, hand on my face, voice gone soft in that way he gets when he can’t fit the feeling into his chest.

Knox kisses my forehead because he does old-fashioned. “We couldn’t be happier,” he says, and I believe him because he sounds relieved in some way.

Salem is the one who surprises me. He looks at my stomach like it’s already a person and then at my face like he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do. “I’m so fucking happy,” he says, voice rough in a way I’ve never heard. “I didn’t know I’d be this happy.” His eyes shine.

Talia wipes my eyes even though I didn’t know I was crying. The server appears with bread, and I devour it, because it smells holy. My stomach makes a tiny decision to cooperate. The room steadies. The table shifts from panic to planning in under ninety seconds because that’s who we are.

“Doctor,” Knox says. “Tomorrow morning. We’ll find a clinic.”

“You like those ginger candies you’ve been devouring on the bus.” Houston pats his pocket like he already has them. “I grabbed some just in case, so let me know if you need them.”

“Saltines,” Salem says. “Sprite. A bucket. I’m kidding. Kinda.”

Talia fans herself with the menu. “Names. We need names.”

“Too soon,” I say, laughing into a napkin.

Her phone rings and she looks at the screen. “New manager,” she says, then answers on speaker because she’s chaos.

He’s young, bright, recently poached from a different corner of the industry, nothing like Quincy, and blessedly boring on the call. He says the line we’ve been waiting to hear since the single dropped. “The album is officially platinum. Congrats.”

The table explodes again. The timing is obscene. It feels like a bad movie in the best way. Talia squeals. My men grab my hands like the number belongs to all of us.

“Platinum,” Talia says, eyes wide. “That makes a great name. Girl or boy or they. Platinum Turner. We can call them Tinny.”

I choke on a laugh I didn’t know I had left. “Absolutely not. My child will not be named Platinum. Or Tinny.”

“Fine,” she says, unbothered. “Shiny it is.”

“Mom,” Houston says, pleading.

She pats his cheek. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

The End

 

PART 2

 

 

Three Days Earlier

“Should I go say hi?” I ask Cheyenne, my eyes glued to the tall blond, his smile easy as his hazel eyes dart from person to person in a circle of suits.

I avert my stare just long enough to look at her and see that she’s rolling her eyes as she sucks on a green curly straw, siphoning a margarita into her body as fast and direct as possible.

She shrugs one shoulder. “I mean, probably, because you’re staring and it’s weird, but also I thought this would be just girls.”

“And Dylan, you mean,” I say, pointing to her husband offhandedly.

“Right, just girls,” she quips with a grin. She’s been with her husband since she was eighteen, and frankly, we’re all so close that I know it’s not the same as me meeting a guy on the cruise, but still…if she gets some, it doesn’t feel fair that I have to be celibate for the sake of our group hang.

“You know, I know you mean it as a compliment, but it still hurts,” Dylan tells her, his voice clipped.

She whispers, “You and I both know how much of a man you are,” and Dylan gives me a satisfied grin as I mime vomiting.

“Okay, and with that, I’m definitely going to say hi.” I slide off of my bar stool and as I stride toward the muscular man, I run through any ideas I have for a meet-cute. I could run into him and spill my drink, ask him to buy me another. Or I could…wait, what else could I do? I stop short, standing just feet away from him, and rack my brain for romantic comedy plots. It’s been so long since I’ve approached a man. Usually, men approach me.

“Did you figure it out?” a voice says, and I look up to realize that the friendly man with the dirty-blond hair and chin like a superhero is looking straight at me, smiling a crooked smile, showcasing a dimple in the middle of his stubbled cheek.

“Um, figure out what?” I ask, smiling back, snagging my lip on my tooth and quickly looking down to fix it out of his eyeline.

“What you’re going to say to me. You were coming over to talk to me, weren’t you?” His question is simple, and accurate, but his accent is Irish, disarming, and I’m suddenly embarrassed in front of this charming man. I have half a mind to lie, to call him delusional. Before I can, he sticks out a meaty hand, a hand almost as big as my face, and says, “Dr. Sean Byrne.”

Willow Byrne. I say in my head, practicing what it would sound like to be married to him. Married to an Irish doctor—my mom could finally relax about what a mess I am. “Willow Byrne,” I say confidently, sticking out my hand, and my face burns instantly as I realize my mistake.

My hand burns even hotter when he swallows mine in his and keeps his eyes on me, his grin never wavering. “Aye, I like the confidence. Will you give us a dance, then, future Mrs. Byrne?”

I nod numbly, my brain full of the cold alarm bells of my own humiliation, and our handshake turns into hand-holding as he guides me to the dance floor. He gives Dylan and Cheyenne a thumbs-up, and I hide my face in his chest as he pulls me close to him, laughing affably. He’s easy on the eyes, a doctor, charming, and funny…what is he hiding?

My brain is screaming at me not to get comfortable, like it always does whenever I start to feel like I might just like a man. Ever since my father left me, my sister Camille, and my mom for a secret second family, I haven’t trusted men.

But this time, it doesn’t matter. We’re on a cruise, and he’s obviously from Ireland. I can just dance the night away, no complications, no attachments…even as his arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me into him. Even as I relax my cheek against the barrel of his chest and feel his heartbeat in my face. Even as his fingers run through my hair and down my spine.

By the time he leans to murmur, “I have a private room,” I’m already warm all over. I should stop. I should make a joke, run, anything but this. The joke’s gone on too far, too long, and my friends are waiting. But when he kisses me, slow and certain, I don’t. My body betrays me, softening against him.

The music fades behind us as we slip into the hallway. The air is cooler here, and the music of the dance floor thumps in the background like a dream. Each step brushes his thigh against mine. His hand stays anchored at the small of my back like he’s guiding me somewhere I’ve already decided to go.

He clutches my fingers tightly and suddenly starts to run, and I run with him, my legs wild underneath me trying to keep up with him. Until we’re at his door, and he’s lifting me off my feet, kissing me and pulling me into his hotel room, his big fingers already struggling with the small button on my jeans…

His hands are clumsy only because he’s in a hurry, and I’m not helping. I’m laughing too much, fumbling with lifting his tie over his head, getting it caught halfway.

“Hold still,” I scold, even though I’m grinning like an idiot.

“You first,” he shoots back, catching my chin between two fingers and kissing me so suddenly I forget what I was doing. His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of whiskey and something minty. His stubble scrapes my skin in a way that makes me want to get closer, not pull away.

The shirt finally falls open, and I press my palms to his chest, feeling the heat of him through the cotton of his button-up. He’s solid under my hands, every inch of him carved and warm, and I think, God, this man is going to ruin me.

His hands find my waist again, thumbs brushing under the hem of my top, and he lifts it in one smooth pull. The rush of cool air on my skin is replaced by the weight of his gaze.

“Christ, you’re a sight. Beautiful,” he says, the word wrapped in that accent, like it’s worth more than when anyone else says it.

I roll my eyes because I don’t know what else to do with the sudden twist in my stomach, but before I can laugh at him, he bends his head and presses a slow kiss just below my collarbone.

The button on my jeans gives way under his fingers, and then they’re sliding down my hips, dragging my underwear with them. I step out of them, kicking them aside, and we both take a moment to look at each other. He looks at my thick thighs and the patch of freckles on my pelvis, and I look at his broad shoulders and smooth chest dusted with light hair.

I look at that faint vee that disappears under the waistband of his slacks, and I want them gone so I can see where the vee ends up.

He must read my mind because he reaches for his belt, but I slap his hands away and undo it myself, making him watch as I pop each button, as I slide the zipper down slow enough to make him huff out a laugh that sounds like it’s coming from deep in his chest.

The slacks pool at his ankles, and then there’s nothing between us but the heat of our skin. His hands come back to my face, gentler now, as though he’s savoring the pause before we give in completely. His lips brush mine once, twice, then deepen the kiss until my toes curl against the carpet.

He walks me backward until the back of my knees hit the bed, and I go down with a soft bounce, pulling him with me. His weight is perfect—solid, heavy, anchoring me to the moment. His thigh wedges between mine, and I can’t stop the small sound that escapes me when I shift against him.

“That’s it,” he whispers, and I feel it more than hear it, his lips grazing the shell of my ear.

My hands roam—his back, his sides, the dip of his waist—mapping him like a new land I’m claiming. His mouth trails down my throat, over my chest, and lingers above one of my nipples before his tongue finally, mercifully, flicks over me. I arch into him, and he smiles against my skin like he’s been waiting for that.

His hand slides lower, slow and sure, until his fingers slide into my slick, warm spot. He moves two thick fingers inside me with a rhythm that makes me forget every reason I had to keep my distance, my hips moving without thought, chasing the pressure he gives so well.

“Sean…” It comes out as a breath, and his head lifts, my nipple between his teeth. There’s a spark of satisfaction in his eyes. He lets go of my nipple and, still pumping his fingers into me, he lifts onto his heels so he’s above me, holding his cock at my entrance.

I watch him, waiting for him, enjoying the sensation of his fingers but wanting to feel his member. Finally, I cry out a single, “Please!”

That’s what he wanted. When he slides into me, it’s all heat and stretch and the dizzying realization that I’m letting this happen with a man I met less than an hour ago. And yet, it feels like we’ve been moving toward this since the moment our eyes met.

His pace starts slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing how I feel around him, but when I hook my legs around his hips and pull, he groans and gives me more. The bed creaks under us, the air between us thick with heat and the salt of our skin.

I match him move for move, my nails digging into his shoulders, my breath catching every time he hits the place that makes my vision blur. He says my name like it tastes good in his mouth, like it belongs there.

His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, and I realize my lips are still parted like I might say something. But instead I take his thumb into my mouth and suck. His eyes darken and he plunges into me harder, pushing my head against the headboard.

The world narrows to the sound of his breathing, the feel of his body against mine, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps, sending me over the edge with a rush that steals my voice. He follows a heartbeat later, his hips stuttering, his forehead pressed to mine.

It’s supposed to be nothing—a cruise fling with a doctor, a big, burly blond Irishman, just one night. B

Cheyenne spots him before I do. “Don’t look. Don’t—okay, you’re looking.”

“I’m not looking.” I am absolutely looking.

Same suite of suits, same cluster of crisp collars and loosened ties at the edge of the ship’s karaoke lounge. Only it’s different tonight—no thudding bass and neon wash, just a cozy stage framed by velvet curtains and a crowd juiced on liquid courage and eighties ballads.

And there he is. Sean. Sitting with the same doctors, commanding everyone’s attention. His ankle is crossed over his knee, and he winks when he catches me looking, then goes back to talking.

“Lord, look at the ginger mountain beside him,” Dylan crows, a laugh stuttering out of him as he pretends to wipe his glasses to see Sean’s friend clearer.

My eyes wander over to his friend, the “ginger mountain.” Somehow, that first night, I was too focused on Sean to notice him, but now that I see him, it seems impossible that I ever missed him. Tall, broad-chested, wearing a shirt that can’t decide whether to be formal or stretched across him like a test of fabric integrity. Red hair that doesn’t obey gel. Blue eyes that cut through the dim like they’ve got their own internal backlight. He looks strong, like he could pick me up and throw me over his shoulder.

Dylan looks between us, between the man and my open-mouthed stare and leans close to me to whisper, “I dare you to see if you can get with his friend too.” Surprised, I look over at him, and he has a mischievous smile as he waggles his eyebrows at me. “You’re considering it,” he says, knocking my shoulder with his.

I let my gaze move back to the Irish ginger, who takes up space uncomfortably, like he doesn’t think it’s fair how big his body is, how much of the couch he needs. I notice with a twinge of emotion that his pants ride just a little too high for how tall he is, that they show a tiny bit of his ankle.

Cheyenne snaps her fingers in front of my face. “No. Absolutely not. You like Sean. Sean likes you. He’s sweet.”

“Sweet.” I cringe, thinking about how many women waste away in relationships with sweet men. “We’re all having fun. Don’t I deserve some fun?”

The ginger laughs at something one of his friends says, and I snap my head to attention. The laugh is brief, contained, like he’s rationing it. He’s not scanning the room for attention the way Sean did. He’s watching. Noticing. The air around him feels…safe. Dangerous, but safe.

Dylan leans in. “Double the trouble, double the fun. Get yourself a duet.”

Cheyenne groans. “Dylan, stop. Willow, baby, you can do what you want, obviously, but come on. Haven’t you been jumping from man to man enough? Maybe settle on one for the next three days here, at least.”

“But…look at him.”

Cheyenne gives me the face she reserves for when I get attached to a feral cat. “You don’t have to prove anything. You don’t have to run away from liking someone by chasing someone else.”

“I’m not running,” I lie. And then, because Dylan is doing a drumroll on the table with two chopsticks he absolutely stole from a sushi plate, I stand. “I’m…singing.”

The sign-up sheet is a mess of hearts and illegible handwriting. I pick a duet—“Shallow”—and sign up myself and an imaginary man—Herb Davis—because I’m a woman with a plan. A humiliating plan, but a plan. The emcee, a woman with glitter eyeliner and the confidence of a thousand open bars, calls the performer before me. The crowd whoops. Stage lights warm the cheap carpet. The ship hums under my feet.

When I turn from the clipboard, I nearly collide with a barrel chest.

“Sorry,” I blurt, hands up.

His hands are already out, not touching, but ready to steady. Blue eyes, close now. Freckles across the bridge of his nose like someone dusted him with cinnamon and forgot to blow it off.

He takes me in, like he’s making an inventory of me, making sure he didn’t break anything. “You grand?” His voice is a low Irish burr, different from Sean’s quick lilt. Slower. Weightier. Like a bass note you feel in your ribs.

“Grand?” I ask, confused.

“You all right?” he clarifies, his ginger eyebrows knitted together.

“Grand.” I chuckle breathily, then say, “Perfect,” which is bold for someone whose heart is trying to sprint a 5K.

His mouth doesn’t smile. His eyes do. The effect is disarming. “You’re up next. You nervous?”

“You keep a schedule for strangers?”

“I watch the room. I noticed you.” He tips his chin toward the stage, where a man is currently performing a power ballad like he’s rescuing it from a burning building. Then he leans toward me, practically bending in half, and whispers, “I noticed you watching my friend last night too.”

Shooting him an innocent smile, I stand up on my tiptoes to whisper back, “I don’t see him here now.” Because it’s true. Sean’s gone off somewhere, almost as if the stars aligned for me to flirt my butt off with his friend. Oh, I am winning this dare.

He looks around overtly, pretending to check under chairs. “Nor do I.” Then he holds out his hand. His fingers are big, blunt, a worker’s hands in a doctor’s crowd. “Declan,” he adds, as if offering a tool rather than a name. “Murray.”

“Doctor Declan Murray?” It slips out before I can catch it. I see him swallow a smile as he tongues his cheek.

The emcee calls my name. My stomach flips. Declan steps to the side to let me pass and somebody behind us jostles with a slosh of beer. Before I even register it, Declan’s hand is at the back of my elbow, firm, guiding me out of the splash zone, placing his body between me and the spill. It’s nothing. It’s everything. I feel…tucked.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it more than it warrants.

He studies me a beat. “You really are nervous.”

“No,” I say, because pride, and also yes, I am nervous.

“In for four, out for six. Go on now.” The numbers arrive like a steady metronome. “Head up. Don’t lock your knees.”

“Are you…coaching me?”

“A bit.” The corner of his mouth thinks about a smile.

“What are your credentials? Do you sing?”

“Only when I have to.”

“And what constitutes ‘have to’?”

A beat. “When someone dares me.”

“What about if I dared you?”

His eyes hold mine until heat crawls up my neck. He doesn’t answer, and the emcee calls my name—“Willow Abel! Abel? Willow Abel?!”—so loud it feels like the building is made of my name.

“You’re up,” Declan says with a small smile, leaning just close enough for me to catch the faint trace of salt water and cologne clinging to him.

The stage is warmer than I expect. The microphone is a little sticky in my hand, and the overhead lights make it feel like there’s nowhere to hide. The opening piano notes ripple out, familiar and soft, curling into the space between heartbeats.

The words appear on the screen, but my voice comes out thin at first.

Tell me somethin’, girl…

I keep my eyes on the lyrics for the first line, but when I glance to Declan, he isn’t scrolling his phone or whispering to the person next to him like the rest of the crowd. He’s just…watching me. Steady. Still. The noise of the bar fades under that look.

Aren’t you tired tryin’ to fill that void?

My hand trembles around the mic, but my gaze doesn’t leave his. He doesn’t smile or wink or give me anything that would break the spell, just holds me there with that blue-eyed focus, as if the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

The bridge comes sooner than I expect. The space where the second voice should come in yawns open, lonely. My breath hitches. The band track swells.

And then I see Declan walking up onto the stage, saving me just like I planned, hoped. Needed. “You win,” he murmurs into my ear before taking the other microphone and sliding into the song like he was always meant to be there—low, warm, steady.

I’m off the deep end, watch as I dive in…

He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t crowd me, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat from his arm. Our voices find each other in the middle—his low and grounding, mine rising unsteady but steadied by him. For a second, it feels like we’ve always been singing together.

When we hit In the sha-ha-ha-ha-ha-llow, the crowd actually cheers. I can’t tell if it’s for the song, the moment, or both. I’m laughing into the next note, and it comes out breathless, like my ribs can’t hold everything in.

The final chord fades, and I realize we’re still looking at each other. He’s smiling now, small and private, like this was ours first and theirs second.

We step down together, the room bright and blurred around the edges. Declan presses a cold bottle of water into my hand and tucks a napkin into my fingers. “Hydrate. You’re pale,” he says. It should be bossy. It’s not. It’s…kind.

The emcee materializes. “You two did amazing. I’m sensing a duet in real life,” she sing-songs before dancing off.

“A duet in real life,” Declan repeats with a smile. When I look at that smile, there’s a quiet, steady thing humming under my sternum.

“I’m not looking for anything,” I blurt, because this is the part where a future version of me might need present-me to have said it out loud.

Declan nods like I told him the weather. “All right.”

“You’re not going to argue?”

“Do you want me to?”

“No,” I admit. I look to my right into a porthole. Sea and night pressed together like secrets. I catch my reflection in the glass—flushed cheeks, a mouth I don’t quite recognize because it looks a little reckless, a little sure. “I don’t know.”

“Then I won’t.” He stops walking. The hall light gilds his copper hair. “But what if you don’t have to look for it? What if I just give it to you?”

My pulse trips. “Give me what?”

“Do you want to find out?” he asks, sliding his room key out of his pocket. When I don’t answer, he murmurs, “Let me take care of you for a while. You like to be taken care of.”

It should make me bristle. It doesn’t. Maybe because he says it like an offer, not a verdict. Maybe because “take care” lands on me like soft cloth, not rope. He’s right. He’s taken care of me tonight, and I’ve very much liked it.

I swallow. “Okay.”

He doesn’t move until I take a step closer. Then he does something that makes my knees go loose. Nothing showy. He just lifts his hand—slow enough to be read—and cups the back of my head, thumb sliding just behind my ear. He waits for the lean-in that I give him. It’s all heat buried under the calm that is Declan.

Cheyenne’s warning flickers through me, not to chase one man to outrun another, but Declan’s mouth silences the thought. I’m not running. I’m choosing.

His room is neat in a way that feels instinctive rather than fussy. He locks the door, not loudly but decisively, and turns to me like we’re resuming a conversation interrupted by an elevator.

“Shoes,” he says softly.

I step out of them. He sets them side by side, an order that makes something in my chest unclench.

“Tell me if anything’s wrong,” he says. “At any point.”

“Okay,” I whisper, somewhere between shy and starving.

“Good girl,” he says, and a napping cat uncurls in my chest at the words. He doesn’t leap on the turn of my breath. He notices it, tucks it away, and continues.

The way he undresses me is deliberation made tactile. Not rough. Not slow to torment. Just exact. He skims my cardigan off like it’s a page. He slides my dress down my hips with a care that makes me feel expensive. When I reach for his buttons, he catches my wrists—not to stop me, but to anchor my hands while he looks at me.

“You’re lovely,” he says, and it lands different than Sean’s “Beautiful.” Both true. This one…grows roots.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it,” I say before I can help it, the old splinter of my father’s disappearing act working itself under my skin.

His gaze doesn’t flick or dim. “I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

“Okay.” It comes out small and enormous.

He lets my wrists go. I finish the buttons with clumsier fingers than I want and laugh at myself. He presses a kiss to my temple, and I hear it’s fine in the smack of his lips on my skin.

His palm covers my sternum, warm and broad. “Breathe,” he says. I do, and the breath goes further than before, like his hand gave my lungs permission.

His mouth on mine changes without warning; the gentle line turns hungry, a dark pour over bright ice. He holds the back of my neck and tilts my head just so and the kiss goes electric. I make a sound I’ve never heard from myself. He answers with a low note that vibrates against my teeth. The calm is not a mask. It’s a gate. And he just opened it.

“Tell me,” he murmurs between kisses, “how you like to be touched.”

The command melts my knees despite the fact that I’m horizontal. I don’t know how to answer it, my throat sticky with embarrassment, so he places his palms on my thighs and says, “Show me then.” I show him, and his hands listen. When I gasp at one particular pass of his thumb, he marks it like a waypoint and returns to it with unhurried certainty until thought turns into temperature.

His pupils are blown wide, hunger in them, but he’s not lost to it. He’s completely present, steady and grounded, watching me like I’m the only thing that exists.

He moves with purpose, like he knows exactly what he’s doing—because he does. His fingers and mouth work in perfect rhythm, every touch deliberate. He’s not chasing his own high; he’s focused entirely on mine, coaxing me upward, reading every gasp, every twitch of my hips, and adjusting until he finds the exact pressure that makes me bite back a cry. Then he keeps me there, feeding it back to me over and over until I can’t think about anything but the heat he’s building.

When my hips jerk and I start to climb faster than I meant to, he smiles against my throat, warm and proud, his lips brushing my pulse. “That’s it,” he murmurs, almost reverent. “Stay with me. I’ll give you more.”

And he does, sliding his hand lower, curling his fingers deep inside me, his thumb finding that perfect spot with unerring precision. My back arches, a broken sound catching in my throat, and his other hand comes up to hold me steady.

“Declan,” I gasp, and his arm wraps around my waist, holding me to him while my body shudders through it, his gaze still locked to mine, like he’s not letting go until he’s certain I’ve taken every last ounce of what he gave me.

After, the quiet isn’t empty. It hums. He doesn’t roll away. He breathes like a man who has run and arrived. One palm moves in slow arcs on my back, a tide smoothing sand. He kisses my forehead in a way that would be condescending from anyone else and isn’t from him. It says: present. It says: I’m still here.

“I’m not looking for anything,” I say again, because I need to hear it in this air too.

He nods against me. “All right.”

I want to ask him if he’s disappointed, but I know it isn’t fair to, so I slip my dress back over my shoulders, and he doesn’t ask me to stay. He also doesn’t pretend not to want me to. He stands, smooths the back of my dress like a man who has never once let a woman leave with her hem caught in her underwear, and presses a kiss to the hinge of my jaw that feels like punctuation, not a cliff-hanger.

At the door, he rests his palm flat on the frame next to my head, not caging, just…there. “I’ll walk you.”

“I can make it,” I say, though I don’t know if I’m saying I can navigate the ship or my own choices. He waits. “Okay,” I relent, and his hand comes away from the frame.

We step into the corridor, and I think of Cheyenne’s face, and Dylan’s drumroll, and Sean’s easy grin, and the way Declan said breathe and I did. I don’t know what story I’m in. I do know this: I am not the girl who waits at the edge of the dance floor for the right song anymore. I put my name down. I took the mic. I let a man anchor me and I didn’t drown.

Halfway back to my room, a couple staggers around the corner, laughing, off-balance. Declan shifts without thinking, putting himself between them and me. It’s a small thing. It’s the whole thing.

At my door, he looks at me like he’ll remember the exact shade of my lipstick on his mouth in the morning. “Sleep well, Willow.”

“Sleep well, Declan,” I echo, using my best Irish accent.

He waits until I key in, until the lock clicks. He waits until I’m inside and the door shuts. Only then does the quiet of the hall swallow his footfalls.

Sean didn’t walk me back. The thought is sharp, intrusive, but Declan’s footsteps fading down the corridor soften it.

I lean my forehead to the wood and listen to the retreating steps of a man who waits.

Cheyenne spots them first this time, her sigh already winding up. “Oh no. Not again.”

I follow her gaze before she can physically turn my head away. Three men, three drinks, three variations of ruin lined up at the ship’s lounge table like they’re in a magazine spread titled Bad Decisions, Deluxe Edition.

Sean’s in the middle, catching my eye first because he always does, that grin turned up to eleven. Declan’s on one end, relaxed, watchful, giving me a nod that feels like a pressure point. And then there’s the third.

I’ve seen him before, I realize—in the background, leaning back in a chair, legs stretched out like the world can work around him. Dark curls falling over his forehead. Eyes the color of wet coffee grounds. Features cut fine enough to look almost delicate until you notice the sharpness in them. Lean frame, long fingers curled around a glass like it’s a prop he doesn’t quite believe in.

He doesn’t look up when I look at him. Which is…annoying. And maybe exactly the sort of problem I’m in the mood to solve.

Dylan leans back in his chair, smirking. “Third time’s the charm, huh?”

Cheyenne elbows him. “Do not encourage her.”

“Oh, I am absolutely encouraging her,” Dylan says, eyes sparkling. “You’ve got two thirds of the set already.”

Cheyenne turns to me. “Don’t listen to him, Willow. These are people, not playing cards. You do not need a full set. You’re not a collector.”

I grin, lifting my drink. “Gotta catch ’em all.”

Cheyenne groans, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smile in it. “If you get your heart stomped, don’t come crying to me.”

“Noted,” I say, standing, while behind me, Dylan sings the theme song of Pokémon: I wanna be the very best…

I get lucky when the men leave my target alone, with a book in one hand and a drink in another—a classic loner move. I approach with slow steps, trying to look casual, like this is my natural path. I glance back at Dylan and Cheyenne. They’re already turned to each other, engrossed in their own love story, done with my antics.

I slide into the empty chair next to the man, crossing my legs and sipping my drink. I look over my shoulder, pretend to be interested in something behind me. The man’s eyes flick over me once before returning to his book, but I feel something like disdain in them.

“Evening,” I say, a little too loudly, and then, “Is it okay if I sit here?”

“Of course.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. His mouth is flat, emotionless, dropping words without feeling them. It should be discouraging. Instead, it’s…kind of thrilling.

“What are you reading?” I ask.

Exaggeratedly, sarcastically, the man looks at the cover and then at me, smirks, and says, “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. By James Joyce.”

“Ah,” I say, embarrassed by his tone, by his obvious disdain, and then I say softly, “That’s a good one.”

“You’ve read it?” he asks, surprise laced in every word.

“No,” I admit. He stares at me for a beat before returning to it. I watch his eyes settle back onto the sentence he was on before I start grasping at straws, saying, “But isn’t it more fun to talk about a book to someone who’s never read it?”

His eyes flick up, the whites of his eyes showing under his heavy lashes. “It’s even more fun to read it.”

It’s a pointed comment, a hint I’m not taking. “I thought people brought books on cruises to read when there wasn’t a pretty woman hitting on them.”

He smiles thinly. “Just because you want me doesn’t mean that I want you.”

“You don’t want me?” I ask, staring him down. He’s silent, and when our staring contest ends with him clearing his throat, I add, “I usually get what I want.”

“I can tell. You’re insufferable for it,” he says, not even looking up this time.

Ouch. I’m losing him, and it stings, but it only makes me want him more. I don’t quite believe that he isn’t intrigued by me, but I also don’t understand the reason for his reservation.

I almost leave. I tap the arms of the velvet chairs and look around, the silence between us overbearing. I cross and uncross my legs. I glance back at Dylan and Cheyenne, who are pretending not to watch me, but Cheyenne is clearly cringing and looking out the corner of her eye. I’m not giving up that easy. In the name of a collection of Irish doctor friends, I blurt out, “Just tell me about yourself. What’s your deal?”

He quirks an eyebrow and slams the book shut. “My deal?”

“Yeah. Like…who are you? What are you doing here?”

He smiles, plants his hands on the arms of his chair, and repeats, “Aye, what am I doing here?” and then he pushes himself to a standing position and bows, ever so slightly, before turning to leave.

I let him take a few steps before standing and calling to him, “Why don’t you like me?”

“I don’t know you,” he corrects, surprised. He tucks his book under his arm.

“Would you like to?”

His mouth curves—not a smile, exactly. More like he’s amused at the question. “Are you always this…relentless? And direct?”

“Only when it’s worth it,” I say.

There’s a pause. He readjusts his weight to the other leg and lifts the arm holding the book. “And you’ve decided I’m worth it?”

“I have. I think you’re special. And I have excellent instincts,” I say lightly, lifting my nose into the air.

“Well, let’s see if that’s true, then.” He turns and walks away, and I watch his retreating form before he calls over his shoulder, “Are you coming?”

His cabin is smaller than Sean’s, messier than Declan’s. He closes the door with his foot and leans back against it, watching me like he’s still deciding whether to let me in—figuratively, not literally.

“Last chance to leg it,” he says.

“Last chance to kiss me,” I counter.

That earns me the smallest huff of laughter. “Don’t reckon that’s true.” And then he’s moving—long strides, lean body, hands cupping my jaw like he’s been wanting to since I sat down across from him. The kiss is sharp, urgent, nothing like Declan’s slow build or Sean’s easy warmth. It’s all tension finally snapping, and I melt into it, letting him press me back against the wall.

“Wait,” I say quickly. “What’s your name?”

“Rowan,” he answers, his eyes locking with mine, dark and steady. He drags his fingers up the inside of my thigh, underneath my skirt, slow, deliberate.

“Don’t you want to know mine?” I ask, breath caught in my chest.

When his fingers find the wet spot on my underwear, I gasp, and he smirks faintly, victorious. “Sure,” he says casually. “What’s your name?” He pushes his fingertip into me, pressing the fabric of my underwear inside my wanting pussy. His eyes stare through me, and I feel myself shrinking beneath his gaze.

“Willow,” I whisper hoarsely.

His smirk sharpens, but his voice is steadier than I expect when he murmurs, “I knew you’d be soaked for me already, Willow.” His tone is cutting, but his eyes never leave mine, as if daring me to flinch away.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I whimper, but I don’t look away. My hips arch helplessly toward his hand. He slips his fingers under the fabric, the slide of skin on skin making my whole body jolt. He strokes me between the warm lips of my pussy, watching with a smile as I mewl at each touch.

When he lets his fingertip prod inside me, where I’m slick and hot with lust, my head tips back with a cry, and he looks ruthlessly satisfied, a sparkle in his eyes that borders on cruel as his fingers move deeper into me.

He pulls his fingers out of me with a soft squelching of my juices, leaving me throbbing and empty. I whimper at the loss, but he doesn’t soften. His gaze is dark, sharp, and he licks me off his fingers before he says, “Take these off” and snaps the elastic of my underwear.

My hands fumble, but I push them down, heat flooding my cheeks. He watches like he’s devouring me, and then with an exasperated groan, he pulls them off me himself, throwing them to the ground.

I’m still against the wall, unsure of where to go, unsure of my next move. As if reading my mind, he points to the bed and says, “Lie on your back. But keep your legs open. Let me see that pretty pussy drip.”

I look at him for a moment, my eyes searching his, the heat between my legs urgent, my breath gone, my blood still and electric. He watches me, not pressuring, just waiting. He tilts his head, the amusement gone from his eyes, and he whispers, “You’re trembling.” He folds himself forward to kiss me once, slow, before nipping my bottom lip. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” I breathe. “God, don’t stop.”

That earns me another of those almost-smiles, dangerous and amused. “Careful, Willow. You don’t get to give me orders.” He kisses me once, slow, and nips my bottom lip. Then he kisses me sharper, deeper, and his hand finds a fistful of my hair.

He pulls until I stumble, walking me backward until the bed hits the backs of my knees. One push, and I’m on my back with him standing over me.

He opens my thighs, exposing my tender skin to the cool air of his cabin, and he goes back to touching me, his eyes never leaving mine. His touch follows a rhythm, unrelentingly edging, exacting. He wastes no motion. Each gasp I give him he files away and uses again, building me up with merciless accuracy.

“Rowan,” I pant, throwing my head back, squeezing my thigh muscles to keep from exploding.

“Say my name louder,” he growls. “I want to hear how bad you want me.”

“Rowan!” I cry out this time, and his name breaks him open. His exhale is a rough, guttural sound, like a prayer he’s not used to saying out loud. His chest rumbles with a pleased sound, almost a laugh, but rougher.

He grabs my ankles and pulls me to the side of the bed, lifting my feet onto his shoulders, and my breath stutters in my chest. The control I thought I had slips from me completely as I feel a heartbeat between my legs, coursing up to my stomach.

“Are you ready to take me, Willow? Will we see if I’m worth it?” he asks, one of his hands sliding up my leg to hold my ankle, the other brushing circles on my sensitive and swollen clit.

I nod dumbly, like I can’t speak, because I’m not sure that I can. He nods back, mocking but good-natured, and murmurs, “Good” before pushing into me, slow but steady, filling me inch by inch with an impressive length and a girth that stretches me. It burns, but it’s so good, and I can’t hold back the broken moan that spills out of me.

His gaze pins me as surely as the hand slipping from my clit to hold my stomach. He pushes all the way in, groaning low when I clench around him. “Fuck,” he curses softly, like it’s a prayer. “Tight little thing, aren’t you? Made for me.”

He starts to move, steady and deep, every thrust measured. Not rough, not frantic—controlled. He keeps me just where he wants me, sliding out so slowly that I start to wriggle and cry out, and then jackhammering against my G-spot until tears leak from my eyes onto the sheets.

“That’s it,” he says, voice low and commanding. The hand on my stomach and the hand on my ankle slide up my curves and he’s holding my shoulders, pressing himself deeper into me, as if he’s sourcing those tears. “Take it. You feel that? That’s mine now.”

My hands scramble—clutching the sheets, his fingers. It’s too much, too deep, too alive, and he’s watching me so intently that he sees when my eyes glaze over as an orgasm starts to crawl up my spine.

He folds forward to capture my wrists and pin them above my head with one hand, and my pulse kicks so hard I swear he feels it. “Helpless looks good on you,” he says, hips pressing deeper, harder. “Don’t fight it. Just let me wreck you.”

I’m already unraveling, his rhythm too precise, too perfect. My body climbs before I can control it, wave after wave building under his control. “I’m—” I choke out, my whole body tensing as he pushes my own feet to my ears so he can fuck me as deep as possible.

“Go on,” he growls, slamming deeper, his patience turning to power in an instant. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

And I do—falling apart under him, my cry swallowed by his mouth as he claims it with another kiss. The wave crashes, shatters, and he holds me through it, his arm locked around my waist, his body keeping me grounded as I quake against him.

He follows right after, burying himself deep, his rhythm breaking for the first time as he groans into my throat, rough and guttural. He curses again, softer, like it’s only meant for me.

When it’s over, he doesn’t roll away. He stays above me, still inside me, still holding my wrists like he’s not ready to let me go. His dark eyes are steady, searching, as if memorizing the way I look right now.

“So, Willow,” he breathes with a coy irony in that bouncing Irish cadence. Underneath him, I feel too seen, and I start to squirm, but he doesn’t let go. He kisses all the way up my neck to my forehead and asks, “What’s your deal?”