“Like you didn’t hold anything back.” His gaze catches mine, steady, like he knows exactly how much he’s saying without saying it.
I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my ears. “That’s kind of the whole point of music, you know? If you’re not bleeding it out, what’s the use?”
Something flickers in his expression, softer now, like he gets it—even if he won’t say more.
Before I can push, the door bangs open and Drew’s voice cuts through the night. “Rafe! Get your ass in here, man! Someone wants to talk to us.”
I glance over my shoulder, then back to Ollie. He stiffens, hood tugged lower, already retreating into the shadows.
“Come on,” I urge, half grin tugging at my mouth. “Come with me.”
His jaw works, and he shakes his head. “Can’t. Not like that.” His eyes flick toward the door where bass still thrums from inside. “Not me.”
“Rafe!” Drew again, sharper this time, almost frantic.
I’m caught in the pull—between him, between them—when Ollie steps close, so close his hand finds my arm. The squeeze is quick, grounding, but it lights me up anyway.
“Go,” he says quietly, thumb brushing once before he lets go. “Call me after.”
It takes everything in me to move, but I nod, saying, “Wait for me here, if you can,” then force myself inside.
The club’s air is thick with sweat and spilled beer. Our band gear’s stacked haphazardly against the wall. Drew, Miles, and Eli are buzzing like live wires near the bar, orbiting a man who doesn’t look like he belongs in this dive at all. Tall, broad-shouldered, mid-forties maybe, his dark skin gleams under the neon, his suit jacket open but cut so severe it could take someone’s eye out. He carries himself like he’s already walked through bigger rooms than this—the kind of guy people make space for without realizing why.
“Rafe,” Drew blurts, practically shoving me forward. “This is the guy I told you about. He’s—fuck, just tell him yourself.”
The man turns, eyes sharp but not unkind, and extends his hand.
“Anthony Price.” His grip is firm, deliberate. “I do talent development—mostly showcase curation and scouting—for an independent music collective in Vegas. We partner with a bunch of labels in LA and out in New York.” A wry smile. “I was off the clock tonight, someone dragged me in for a drink, and—well, you kids made me stop drinking my beer.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yeah?” It comes out rough, half a croak.
“Yeah.” He leans one elbow on the bar, easy and assured. “You’ve got something I don’t see often. Stage presence, chemistry, songs that actually stick instead of fading the second the amp cuts out. You front the band?”
I nod, pulse banging like a drumline. “Yeah. Vocals. Bass too.”
“Good. You know how to command a room. That’s not something you can teach.” His eyes flick to Drew, Miles, and Eli. “The rest of you are tight too. Rough edges, but that’s normal. You polish with time. What matters is the spark. And you’ve got it.”
Eli’s practically levitating, Drew is wide-eyed, and I—I can’t breathe.
Anthony slides a card across the bar, the weight of it somehow heavier than cardboard has any right to be. “I want to get you into a real industry room. My collective’s putting on a mixed-genre showcase—small venue in Vegas, but the crowd’s the right kind of people. A&Rs. Managers. The ones who matter. I can slot you in.”
“Showcase,” I repeat dumbly, like the word is foreign.
“Don’t waste it,” he says simply, not cruel but firm. “This is the kind of door most bands never even get near. Your job is to kick it open.”
Drew swears under his breath. Eli grabs my shoulder like he might shake me. Miles is silent and nodding. My chest’s so tight it hurts, adrenaline and disbelief tangling until I don’t know if I’m shaking from the music still ringing in me or from what just landed in our laps.
“Holy shit,” I manage, breathless. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
Anthony gives the slightest smile. “Good. Call me tomorrow. Don’t wait longer.”
When he walks away, he parts the crowd without even trying, and all I can do is stare down at his card. Black letters, silver edge. Something real. Something I didn’t dare think could happen this soon.
The guys are shouting, grabbing me, but I’m already reaching for my phone. Because the only person I want to tell first—the only one who matters more than any of this glittering madness—is standing outside under a streetlight, waiting for me. I hope.
The guys are still buzzing, pulling me into chest bumps with half shouts that bounce off the walls. Drew’s swearing like he’s won the lottery. Eli’s already talking about what we’ll wear for our album cover, like it’s a done deal. And Miles is still wide-eyed and mysteriously quiet.
But all I can hear is my heartbeat. And all I can see is the silver-edged card burning in my hand.
