I almost correct the record—we never made it that far—but shrug instead. Let Vivienne believe the usual.
“Not planning to.”Planning to let it detonate everything else,maybe. But I keep that part to myself and follow her inside.
Our rehearsal loft doubles as boardroom on non-show days. Lucas Trent—my lifelong partner-in-rhythm and the only person who knows my every secret—lounges over the mixing console, beanie hiding messy curls. DeShawn and Annie from rhythm section split a cronut the size of a vinyl.
I watch Lucas for a second, and the memory reel spools up before I can stop it.
We were fifteen when we met—two kids at a crummy Detroit open-mic, him with a pawn-shop bass held together by duct tape, me with a scuffed acoustic and stage fright disguised as swagger. He plugged into the wrong amp, blew the circuit, and the bar lights died. While the crowd booed, we swapped panicked grins that turned intolaughter—the kind that bonds you faster than blood. An hour later we were on a splintered back porch, plotting a band name and swearing we’d headline Madison Square Garden “before twenty-five or death, whichever comes first.”
Lucas was there for the highs—first record deal, first bus tour—and the lows no fan blog ever sees. He carried me offstage in Hamburg when I tore my shoulder slamming into a monitor. He’s the one who drove me to every shady clinic hunting pain pills, then dragged my half-dead ego into rehab when the pills stopped killing the pain and started killingme. During visiting hours he read bad sci-fi aloud just to drown out my withdrawal shakes, swearing the galaxy needed our next album.
Whenever doubt gnaws, I replay that motel-parking-lot oath we made at fifteen:No one gets left behind.Lucas kept me tethered to it when I would’ve cut the line myself.
Now he’s eyeing me across the room, curiosity punching through his grin.
“I hear you had fun at the masquerade, huh?” His grin is pure mischief. “Our front man disappears for ten minutes and comes back smiling like he tasted fairy dust. Spill.”
“Calm down, Romeo,” I mutter, heading for the coffee urn.
Lucas blocks the path. “Opposite.Romp-up.Who was she? Feathers, corset, scandalous duchess?”
“Blue dress, half mask,” I admit, my mouth going soft at the memory. “Black lace, feathered with gold. She had her head on straight. I liked that about her.”
He squints. “Not your usual type, then?”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Maybe you’re concussed.” He flicks my temple. “So, conquest accomplished?”
“Just a kiss,” I say, pouring coffee I don’t need. “One hell of a kiss. That’s it.”
Lucas whistles. “Hold up. Maxwell Damien Archer Donovan left a gala with his pants still zipped?”
“Elevator ride was too short,” I deadpan, then shake my head. “Besides, she’s… different.”
“Different how? Like she doesn’t own a selfie ring-light?”
“Like she looked at me and saw a person instead of a rockstar. Like being with her didn’t have to mean fucking to feel good.”
Lucas laughs so loudly the crew techs glance over. “Damn. This is a different tune from you. Brainy with banter.Definitelynot your usual type.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, I like it. Keeps life spicy.” He elbows me. “Just promise when you crash and burn you’ll write a sad album so we can buy bigger amps.”
“Optimistic as ever, Trent.”
***
Vivienne taps her tablet; the wall screen fires up. “Agenda: we’re supporting a literacy charity here in New York.The city’s library foundation expects a record turnout ifStorm & Silenceheadlines at their charity concert.”
Vivienne swipes to another slide labeledKey Personneland up popsNora Davidson, Library Liaison for Community Events.
The photo punches every molecule of air from my chest. For a heartbeat the room tilts, sound warps, and I wonder if sleepless delirium is staging hallucinations. But no—even without last night’s lacemask I know her. I know the shape of those eyes, set wide like they’re always looking for possibilities; the small beauty mark just right of her mouth, uncovered when our kiss smudged her lipstick; the perfect V in her upper lip where my tongue traced the edge of a gasp. You don’t forget geography you’ve mapped with your own heartbeat.
In the publicity shot she’s framed by orderly bookshelves instead of chandeliers. A librarian bun replaces the feathered fascinator, pearls replace glitter, and the contrast hits harder than any encore spotlight. My pulse stumbles into a new tempo—half terror, half holy-shit wonder. Out of eight million New Yorkers, the foundation paired us withher.
And just like that, last night’s reckless spark ignites into strategy. I want another taste of that laugh—sharp and clever, not the practiced giggles I hear in green rooms. I want to see if the woman who challenged me with that sharp mind will spar with me over coffee—then maybe let me kiss the comeback right off her tongue. Part intrigue, part conquest—the kind of challenge that used to keep tour boredom at bay—yet something warmer thrums underneath: the hope that she might see the man beneath the stage lights and still decide he’s worth a second chapter.
