And that’s when Eli, of course, can’t resist. “So… about this muse of yours.” His grin is pure mischief. “Tall? Fair? Broody captain of the Panthers?”
Drew elbows him, but he’s smiling too. “Don’t be an asshole. We all know.”
The words hang for a second, louder than the traffic, louder than the bass rattling from some passing car.
They know. Of course they do. There’s no disguising a six-foot-four presence in our small apartment.
“Unofficially,” Miles adds, tone even. He glances at me, and his gaze is the opposite of teasing. It’s grounding. “We know, but it’s yours. We don’t touch it.”
Eli lifts both hands, mock innocent. “Hey, I’m not touching anything. Just saying, if I had guy blushing at me in the gym, I’d have written a fucking opera by now.”
Heat flares in my face, and I shove him lightly as we cross the street. “Shut up.”
But Drew cuts in then, softer. “You don’t have to say it out loud, Rafe. We’ve got eyes. And ears. And we’re not gonna spill it. Not to anyone. Not even him, if you don’t want that.”
The knot in my chest loosens just a little. Because that’s the thing about this band—we fuck around, we give each other shit,we make each other insane, but when it matters? We hold the line. Always.
Eli whistles low again, but his voice loses the edge of teasing. “Hell, man. If he keeps putting that kind of fire in your lyrics, I say ride it. World’s full of worse muses.”
Miles hums, almost approving. “As long as you’re careful.”
And Drew, eyes glinting in the streetlight, adds, “As long as you don’t lose yourself.”
I don’t answer right away. The words stick in my throat, tangled up with the memory of Ollie’s blush, the weight of his gaze, the way he plays guitar like it’s a secret he doesn’t want anyone to find out.
Finally, I clear my throat. “Yeah. I know.”
We walk on in comfortable silence for a while, the city humming around us. It’s not until we’re almost back at the apartment that Eli pipes up again, lighter this time. “So what’s the plan, maestro? You gonna keep writing cryptic love songs and drive us all crazy, or you gonna actually?—”
“Eli,” Miles warns, sharp but not unkind.
Eli shuts his mouth, though his grin doesn’t fade.
And me? I just shake my head, because what can I say? They know. Unofficially. And it’s enough.
For now.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Vegas breathes like a living thing,all warm lungs and neon pupils, and the hotel lobby is its open mouth swallowing us whole. The marble floor throws back the chandeliers in duplicate; the slot machines trill like birds that learned pop songs; the air-conditioning tastes like citrus and a little like dust baked into the bones of a city that doesn’t sleep.
We drag our bags past a bachelor party wearing plastic crowns and a couple in matching gold blazers. Eli clocks the grand piano by the bar and mutters something about hijacking it at two in the morning.
Miles says without looking up, “Don’t.”
Drew laughs and says, “He will,” because he believes in chaos the way some people believe in saints.
We’ve already sound-checked, and it still feels like something I shouldn’t have been allowed to pull off. The empty room, the stage bigger than any we’ve set foot on, the hush before the monitors woke and my voice came back at me twice as tall.
Anthony watched from the middle of the floor, arms folded, face set in that unreadable line that—if I’m not deluding myself—means he’s quietly pleased. Or at least… not regretting he took a chance on us.
The lighting guy ran a sweep that washed the whole house in ocean blues and bruised purples before dropping the spots into sharp white heat right where I’ll stand tomorrow night.
For the first two songs, my hands shook hard enough I thought I’d drop the pick. By the third, the tremor turned into something else—charge or hunger or both—and I thought, yes, okay, this is the edge I’ve been trying to find since I learned a G chord on a borrowed guitar.
Now the check-in clerk slides key cards across the counter with practiced flicks, her smile steady in a way that says she’s seen everything and nothing surprises her anymore.
