“Great. I’ll start a WhatsApp group and invite them all. Just the six possibles, right? Liam, Sebastian, Oliver, Julian, Milo, and Elliott.”
Theo grinned. “You haven’t included Phillip Warburton or Wayne Abbott.” He waited for the explosion. Those two applicants had been consigned to theNo Fucking Waylist. Someone had apparently told them both at some point that they could sing.
Someone had lied.
Max growled. “Funny man.”
“I’ll book a train ticket for Saturday, and a room,” Theo said finally. “There’s a Premier Inn nearby, and a Travelodge.”
“You don’t need to,” Max countered. “I’m staying in a mate’s flat. The couch is free if you want it. And before you ask, it’s a comfy couch.”
Theo closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. One night.”
Max chuckled. “That’s all it ever takes.”
Theo hung up before Max could push the innuendo further.
The client’s email was still sitting there.
Focus, Theo. Focus.
The warm bar was thick with the tang of beer, leather polish, and a low thrum of bass rattling through mismatched speakers. Voices battled with each other, bodies swathed in the dim lighting.
Sebastian was perched on a barstool, half-hidden in shadow, his latte-boy posture at odds with the smoky eyeliner around his eyes. Julian was already in the middle of a dramatic story, leaning in close to Oliver, his fingers glittering with rings as he gestured. Liam nursed a pint, watching the chaos around him.
Max, of course, looked like he owned the place. He’d claimed a booth in the corner, sitting there in his worn leather, a dark beer in hand, his posture loose and predatory, as though he could melt into the crowd or command it with one word. He radiated satisfaction, an easy confidence that only made Theo’s spine lock tighter.
The bar was alive with heat, bass, and bodies. A haze of beer and leather clung to the air, and the booth was already spilling over with laughter.
Sebastian twirled the straw in his glass, his eyes gleaming. “So—how long before Max insists on choreographed thrusting in every number?”
Julian was sprawled across his seat like a cat. He smirked. “Depends how many numbers I get front and centre. Thrusting’s an art form.”
Liam coughed into his pint. “Christ, isthiswhat I signed up for? I thought it was a singing group, not a pelvic workout.”
Milo, half-shadowed at the corner of the booth, murmured without looking up from his glass of water: “Same thing, if you do it right.”
That earned him a stunned beat of silence, followed by a roar of laughter.
Elliott arched one sharp brow. “Well. Looks like our quiet one bites.”
Milo only shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Oliver, his cheeks already a little pink, tried to redirect. “I’m just hoping the costumes aren’t,youknow, excessive. I can handle a jacket, but?—”
Julian cut him off. “Oh, sweetheart, you’d lookdivinein leather pants. Trust me.”
Oliver raised his eyes heavenward. “Thisis why I didn’t tell anyone I was auditioning.”
Julian leaned in, his grin feral. “You didn’t tell anyone? Oh, you delicious little secret-keeper. What else are you hiding?”
Max finally intervened with a lazy drawl. “Settle down, children. You’ll scare off the baritone before he’s even had a chance to sweat on stage.”
Theo sipped his gin and tonic. “For the record, this isn’t about costumesorthrusting. It’s about blend. Balance. Control.”
Julian slung an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “God, you sound like my dad. Max, back me up here. Leather’s half the blend, right?”
Max grinned. “A quarter, at least.”
