Hot Leather Guys. Gay Male A Cappella. Leather. Lust. Lungs.
His pulse raced. He didn’t even think before tearing it down and cramming it into his pocket.
I’ll look at this later.
Liam collapsed into his battered armchair and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He should have gone straight to bed, but he needed coffee in the worst way.
Then he remembered.Hot Leather Guys. That brought a smile he didn’t think he had in him after the shift he’d just survived. He fished out the crumpled paper and typed the URL into his phone. It took him to a stark page: a microphone laid across a leather jacket, nothing more. Contact details, an email, an audition link.
That’s it? That’s all they’re giving me?
He hadn’t sung in four years. Not since?—
The voice came back, rough and smoky. The reek of cigarettes. Fingers gripping too tight. Promises whispered, then broken.
Liam shoved the memory down hard. He’d built walls for a reason.
And yet…
Maybe it was time to see if his voice could carry more than grief.
He clicked the link before he could talk himself out of it. Manchester auditions, next week, Velvet, Canal Street. Confirmed.
Only then did he collapse into bed, pillow over his head as if it could block out the ghosts.
It didn’t.
But for the first time in years, his chest burned with something other than fatigue.
Canal Street was its usual throng of drinkers and hen parties. Patrons ignored the threat of rain and sat outside at tables, lights strung up along the street, glinting off the cobbles. In the background was the constant hum of traffic, heavily laden buses trundling along London Road, in and out of Piccadilly.
Liam paused at the door to Velvet.A chalkboard outside proclaimed the bar to be closed until five, for a private function.
This is crazy.
That wasn’t about to stop him.
The bartender pointed him toward the back, and Liam’s pulse drummed faster than it should for a man who stitched arteries for a living. Velvet’s reception had been transformed into a small stage space, stripped down but humming with potential.
Two men waited at the table.
The one on the left raised his chin. “Liam? I’m Theo Sinclair, and this is Max Rivers.” Theo’s posture was tight, his eyes sharp, a pen already in his hand, a notebook balanced on his knee.
Liam felt the weight of assessment before he’d even uttered a single word.
Max Rivers on the other hand, sprawled in his chair, radiating lazy dominance. The leather jacket and dark grin added to the impression. His gaze swept Liam’s frame, not lecherous, but knowing, as if he’d already heard the audition in his head and was waiting for confirmation.
“What part?” Theo asked.
No small talk. Professional, if a little brusque.
“Baritone. Mostly,” Liam answered, his voice steadier than he’d anticipated. Then, after a beat: “I dip lower when I’ve had whisky.”
That earned him a slow smile from Max. “Dangerous promise. What are you singing?”
“Mad World.” Liam adjusted the mic without hesitation. He didn’t want to ease into this.
He wanted to cut.
