Impulse tugged hard. Sebastian scrolled to Brandon’s number, then deleted it. A small, sharp exhale left him lighter. He pulled up Instagram, posted a story with too much bite to be casual:
Auditioned for a gay leather a cappella group today. Definitely not projecting, you are.
He didn’t expect to be chosen. But the part of him that still ached refused to stop hoping.
Max waited until Sebastian’s footsteps had died away before speaking. “Isaidwe’d find talent in London.” He glanced at Theo. “What did you make of him?”
Theo tapped his notes, his expression thoughtful. “Musicality: strong. Emotional intelligence: striking. He pours all of him into every note. That… fascinates me.”
Max leaned back, his eyes narrowed. “He’s holding himself together by threads. Touch him too hard, and he’ll break.” Then he smiled. “And you know what? The crowd will eat it alive.”
Theo’s brows knitted. “Fragile performers can pull focus. Worse, they can collapse when we need them most.”
Max couldn’t contain his grin. “Fragility’s a kink. People love to watch someone on the edge.”
Theo sighed. “This isn’t Obsidian, Max. This is supposed to be music.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s still performance. It’s still control and release. You, of all people, should get that.” Theo was the most controlled person Max had ever encountered.
Not surprising, though, considering his past.
Theo’s frown softened into speculation. “He could be dangerous. Too much emotion, not enough structure. But…” His lips curved slightly. “He’s a hook.”
Max’s grin widened, triumphant. “Exactly. He’s the one who’ll make them cry before we hit the chorus.”
Theo nodded once, and Max took it as a concession. “Fine. He’s on the list. But we keep an eye on him.”
Max twirled his pen. “Oh,I’llkeep an eye on him.” His phone buzzed. He glanced down and let out a low whistle. “Next up’s a baritone. He’s sent a photo of himself.”
Theo chuckled. “Let me guess. You’d sign him based on looks alone?”
Max angled the phone toward him, grinning. “With those chocolate-brown eyes? Hell yes.”
Theo smirked. “Then let’s hope the voice matches the eyes.”
Chapter Four
Oliver Bennett caughtsight of his reflection in the locker room mirror and almost didn’t recognise the man staring back.
Soot smeared across his cheeks, black streaks carved into his skin like war paint. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched tight. He looked as if the fire was still burning inside him.
The blaze had taken seven hours to die, a Soho bar, gutted to its bones. Twenty dead. Thirty more clinging to life in hospital beds. The investigators were already mutteringarson,but Oliver didn’t need the word—he could still smell the smoke clawing his throat, hear the roof screaming as it collapsed.
This was supposed to be the job. You ran into the inferno, you pulled people out, you carried the weight of other people’s worst nights. But tonight had carved something out of him he wasn’t sure he could get back.
“Bennett.” Ray Gorton, the station chief, clapped a heavy hand to his shoulder as he stripped off his gear. “You did good.”
Oliver nodded. “Thanks, sir.” The praise slid over him, hollow. He’d planned on a workout after shift. Now all he wanted was oblivion.
The showers hissed, steam rising off exhausted bodies. “Beer later?” Pasha called from the farthest cubicle, too casual, too loud.
Oliver let the hot spray pound into his muscles and said nothing. The water did its best to wash away the smell of charred wood, of death, and at least it gave him an excuse not to answer.
By the time he stepped into the changing room, a towel low on his hips, the place was deserted. His phone blinked in his locker, one link waiting like a dare. He’d opened it before, late at night, his thumb hovering over the screen, his heart hammering.
Hot Leather Guys.Leather. Lust. Lungs.
Ridiculous name for a group, but it definitely conjured up images. A friend from uni had sent it, obviously recalling their days in the college choir.
