Oliver snorts, spitting out a mouthful of beer as he and Tom burst into laughter.
“Fuck you guys,” Will mutters, raising his drink to his lips, draining what’s left.
“Calm down,” Oliver says, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got a guitar to play, mate.”
“I’ll be fine,” Will says sharply.
“Don’t get sloshed, Will. This is a paid gig—don’t fuck it up,” I say, pointing at him in warning.
“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, making his way over to the coffee table to drop the empty bottle onto it.
My phone buzzes on the sofa next to me, and Tom and Will lean in to see who the notification is from.
“Blond from Pret,”Tom says, scoffing.
I roll my eyes. Yesterday morning, I met her at the local Pret while grabbing a coffee and a slice of banana bread. She was hot and struck up some small talk. One thing led to another, and she talked me into meeting her for a glass of wine last night—which quickly turned into three. Before I knew it, I had her bent over my sofa, fucking her from behind. Now, she’s been double-texting and blowing up my phone all day.
I don’t have time for dating or the drama that comes with it—not with the big audition coming up. I just needed to blow off a little steam before tonight’s gig. We had a good time. She was fun, and I enjoyed her company for what it was. But there’s only ever been one woman I’d actually consider making an effort for.
Fuck, that’s the first time I’ve admitted it.
I push the thought away before it takes root. I don’t need the distraction. Not now. Focusing on our music is too important. I can’t keep working as a labourer forever—it’ll never give Mum the life she truly deserves. Music runs in my veins, and that’s where I belong.
“Just ignore it,” I say, waving it off. I look over at Oliver, who returns a smirk, but doesn’t say anything.
We finish our beers, and I gather my bass and gear. The guys help me haul everything out to the van, loading it up like clockwork, like we’ve done a thousand times before. As Oliverturns the key and the engine rumbles to life, music blasts through the speakers, rattling the windows. Butterflies stir in my stomach, restless wings beating faster with every passing second. Tom taps my knee, sensing my nerves, and I shoot him a grateful nod.
I’ll never get used to the feeling that hits me right before we play. It doesn’t matter if we’re at home rehearsing or standing in front of an audience. Whether there are five people watching or a packed room, it always hits the same way—settling deep in my bones, thrumming in my veins like a second heartbeat. It’s a fire under my skin that I burn for.
This is what I was meant to do. The nerves, the rush, the music. And no matter how many gigs we play, I know I’ll never stop chasing this feeling.
We pull into the alley behind the venue, loading through the back entrance. The place is quiet as we haul our gear onto the stage, getting everything set up before the patrons arrive. It’s only 8:00 p.m., and we know the crowd won’t start filtering in until closer to 9:00.
The quiet, early evening chatter from lingering afternoon patrons is welcome—it gives us a chance to focus, adjust, and fine-tune without distraction. And once everything’s in place, it leaves us with just enough time to kick back with a drink. It’s a ritual we all love—the calm before the storm.
Once everything’s set up, the bar manager, Victoria, hands each of us a cold beer. Lugging in speakers, running cables, tuning our gear, and testing the sound takes time—and a lot of energy. We often work up a sweat by the time everything’s ready.
As the bubbles pop on my tongue and the cold liquid slides down my throat, I feel my shoulders loosen as the chill eases the tension from my muscles.
“Good luck tonight, guys. You’ll smash it—you always do,” Victoria says, turning to Tom and flashing him a wink before slinking down the hall, her hips swaying with deliberate force.
“Well, well,” Will says, grinning mischievously as he nudges Tom. “Looks likesomeone’sgetting lucky tonight.”
“As long as she keeps hiring us, I’ll keep shagging her,” Tom says with a wicked grin.
“That’s so wrong,” Oliver mutters, shaking his head.
We hover backstage as people trickle in, the room gradually filling with the hum of chatter and the buzz of bodies swaying to the DJ’s music. The energy builds with each passing moment, and I feel the excitement radiating from the guys—it’s infectious. I pull my pick from my pocket and nibble on it, waiting.
Will peeks his head around the curtain separating us from the main bar, his eyes widening before he ducks back with a grin. “James, mate, you’re not gonna believe who’s here.”
“Who?” I ask.
“April. And she looks incredible.”
Fuck.
Chapter 16
