Max is magnetic when he plays. Confident, raw, a storm just barely held in check.
And when he starts singing—voice low and rough and climbing toward something that sounds toorealto be safe—I forget how to breathe.
He’s not performing.He’sbecoming.
My fingers tighten around the coffee mug in my lap.
Because I’ve seen Max sleepy. I’ve seen him making us coffee, tipsy, coming undone. I’ve seen his hair messy from sleep, his arms wrapped around a cat. I’ve seen him curled up on the couch.
But this?
This is the version of Max that belongs to the world.
And somehow—impossibly—he keeps glancing over at me. Mid-verse.
Like I’m the only thing tethering him to the stage.Annie leans into her mic for the chorus, her voice bright and sharp, and Max steps back, just enough to give her the space to soar—but not so far the tension breaks.
They’re a unit. A machine. A fire.
And suddenly, I get it.Why people scream. Why they lose themselves. Why they follow bands from city to city like it’s a religion.
It’s not about the volume.It’s about beingseen. Aboutfeeling.
And I can’t wait to hit the road with them.
22
MAX
Don’t Make Me Scream
The first thing you learn about luxury tour buses?
They’re not buses.They’re rolling penthouses with a backup generator and a million-dollar sound system.
From the outside, ours looks like something out of a Bond movie—matte black, mirrored windows, subtle Storm & Silence logo ghosted near the door. Nothing too flashy. Not until the doors slide open.
Inside? It's ridiculous.
Warm wood paneling. Dimmable recessed lighting. Plush leather seating in that deep, espresso color that feels more like a private jet than anything with wheels. The air smells like cedar and expensive coffee beans—someone must’ve fired up the espresso machine already.
To the right: the front lounge. Long custom sectional. 85-inch OLED screen. Built-in soundbar. There’s a climate-controlled wine fridge, a gleaming espresso setup with beans sourced from who-the-hell-knows-where, and a touchscreen panel that controls everything from music to mood lighting. Theminibar is fully stocked, the drawers have actual glassware, and somehow there’s a fruit bowl that hasn’t been touched by death yet.
We’re not savages.
Further in: the sleeping quarters. No triple bunks here. Just six private pods—each with a queen-sized memory foam mattress, blackout curtains, and smart LED mood lighting designed to lull you into relaxation. Each one has its own screen, charging station, and shelves built into the headboards for headphones, books, or—if you’re me—emergency guitar picks and cat treats.
My pod’s across from Lucas’s, tucked behind a sliding smoked-glass door. I already dropped my duffel inside and threw Melody’s cat bed on the opposite pillow like she owns the damn place. (She does.)
And at the back? The rear lounge. All brushed brass and velvet accents. There’s another screen, a huge U-shaped couch, an integrated gaming system, and floor-to-ceiling windows on one side. At night, it turns into the movie den. During the day? It’s the chill-out zone.
Behind me, Nora steps in—eyes wide, mouth parted, just staring.
“Oh mygod,” she whispers. “It’s like a luxury hotel got drunk and married a spaceship.”
I grin, dropping her bag onto the couch.
She walks forward slowly, brushing her fingers along the leather seating, the silk throw pillows, the backlit panel that hides the wine rack.
