That does it. Kyle practically trips over himself grabbing his jacket, his guitar case banging against the doorframe in his rush to get out. "You guys are fucking insane," he mutters, but he's already halfway down the hall.
"Have a great day!" I call after him, injecting maximum cheer into my voice because I'm a petty asshole like that.
The door slams. Phoenix slumps back onto the couch, cradling Nash's notebook like it might disappear if he doesn't hold it tight enough.
"We're running out of options," I say, dropping back into my chair.
"Maybe we should lower our standards," Phoenix suggests half-heartedly.
"Lower them to what? Having a pulse? Not being a mouth-breathing piece of shit apparently rules out ninety percent of available singers."
Phoenix doesn't argue. We both know the real problem isn't usually the singers. And as volatile as Rex is, it isn't him, either. It's the shadow Nash left behind. It's us trying to fill a space that was never meant to be empty.
The studio door opens again, and we both tense, expecting Kyle to come back for round two. But it's Rex, moving with that striding gait that means he's either about to explode or he's planning something.
He doesn't even glance at Kyle, who's still visible through the window, practically running toward his car. That's... weird. Rex usually goes out of his way to intimidate people, especially if they're already scared shitless. Instead, he walks past us toward his equipment.
"Where the fuck have you been?" I demand, because someone has to.
"Out," Rex says, not looking at us.
"Out where? We've been auditioning singers all morning. Alone. Again."
Rex turns to face us, and there's something different about him. The usual rage that simmers just under his skin seems... not gone, but redirected. Focused. Like he's figured somethingout and the rest of us just haven't caught up yet. "You can stop. No more auditions."
Phoenix perks up like a golden retriever who just heard the wordwalk."You found us a singer?"
"Maybe."
"Who?" I press. "Where did you find them? When are they coming?"
"Two weeks."
"Two weeks?" Phoenix croaks. "Rex, we have shows. We can't just use stand-ins for two weeks, hoping whoever you found is the one?—"
"He is." He's already walking off. "Trust me."
Phoenix and I share an eye-roll.
I hope he sees it.
Chapter
Ten
BELLS
Two weeks. Fourteen days of watching my phone light up with Stephen's name while my lawyer fielded increasingly unhinged threats about breach of contract and career suicide.
Now I'm standing outside a warehouse that looks like it should be condemned, not converted into a recording studio. The graffiti covering the brick walls has been there so long it's become part of the architecture—layers upon layers of tags and murals weathered by rain and time until they blur into abstract art. A rusted sign reading "Foxhole Studios" hangs crooked above a door that looks like it's been kicked in more than once.
This is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. Trading The Reverie's soulless but state-of-the-art facilities for whatever the fuck this is.
My phone buzzes again. Stephen. Again. He's been calling all night. I decline it without looking, shoving the phone deeper into my jacket pocket. My lawyer already delivered the news three days ago—clean break, citing "irreconcilable creative differences" and mental health that apparently even Stephen can't fight without due legal process.
Amazing what a good lawyer can do when you threaten to go public with workplace harassment allegations. And between all the pressure to violate the clauses of my contract on photoshoots and Stephen's general creepiness, she's definitely got ammo.
Not that Stephen knows the real reason I'm here. Not that anyone does except Rex fucking Steele and his collection of blackmail material.
