Theo stilled. “Why London? You need to take out a loan these days if you want to take the train.”
Max rolled his eyes again. “Then they take a coach. And therearecheaper options for getting around by train. I speak from experience. How’d you think I could afford to get here today? But I’m betting we’ll find most of the guys in London. It’s a way bigger pot to choose from. More talent.”
“And once we have our group? Where do you intend rehearsing? In London?” Theo smirked. “You’ve told me often enough how much it costs to live there.”
“Yeah, but it dependswhereyou live. It doesn’t have to be central. Everywhere’s reachable by train or Tube. And sharing a place brings the costs down.”
Another shrug. “Maybe we need to talk about this some more.” He paused.
“Howmanymen are we talking?”
“Two basses—us. Two baritones. Two tenors. A soprano or two, maybe falsetto. Ten men total. Ten voices.” Max grabbed a napkin, scrawled in bold strokes, then shoved it across the table.
Hot Leather Guys. Ten voices. One filthy harmony.
Theo barked a laugh, the fizz of adrenaline sparking in his chest. “Well,that’llget attention.”
Max raised his mug. “We won’t know if we can do it until we try. But I’m telling you—we’re better than Grayson.” He set his jaw. “And we’ll prove it.”
Theo clinked his cup against Max’s. “Fine. But we need a better name thanHot Leather Guys.”
Max rolled his eyes, grinning. “Placeholder. The real name will come when the ten of us stand together.”
Theo smirked. “Then here’s to us—and to making a better noise.”
Chapter Two
Liam Brooks scrubbeda hand down his face, and it came away gritty with sweat and the faint tang of antiseptic. He wasn’t just tired—he was hollowed out, every nerve threadbare.
Twelve hours in the major trauma centre at Manchester Royal Infirmary would do that to a man.
Bar fights, broken glass, fists that didn’t know when to stop. The city had bled itself dry after the match last night, and he and the other trauma nurses had been catching the fallout until sunrise: concussions, shattered jaws, fractured ribs, one kid barely clinging to life after a boot to the skull.
What the hell is wrong with people?
The locker room was too bright, too clean after the carnage. Liam sat on the bench, his head in his hands. He wanted to peel his skin off, crawl into darkness, and sleep until someone dragged him out.
Only twelve hours until I get to do it all over again.
Mike Grant’s voice broke through. “You should do that, you know.”
Liam cracked one eye open. “Do what?”
Mike looked as wrecked as Liam felt. He pointed toward the noticeboard. “They’re putting a choir together.”
Liam snorted. “And why would that interest me?”
“Because I’ve heard you in the shower. You’ve got a voice.Anda body.” Mike’s grin was shameless.
“Subtle,” Liam muttered. “Your husband would be proud.”
“The joys of an open relationship.” Mike winked. “Joel would probably thank me for recruiting you.”
The old, familiar banter. Liam deflected it like he always did, because what was the alternative? Sarcasm kept things smooth, kept him safe. But when Mike finally left, Liam’s gaze settled on the board.
That was when he saw it.
Not the bright poster for the hospital choir. Not the rainbow flag thumbtacked in the corner. What filled his vision was the scrap of paper tucked beneath it. Handwritten. Bold.
