The lyrics hit different when they’re not coming through earbuds at 2 AM. Different when I can see his throat working around each word, can see the way his brow creases on the bridge like the melody costs him something to produce. Thecheap guitar sounds nothing like the studio version. It sounds better. It sounds like someone telling the truth in a language they invented for the occasion.
I stop six feet away. Close enough to see the calluses on his fingertips, the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline, the way his foot taps a rhythm against the barstool rung that’s slightly ahead of the beat—impatient, driving the song forward.
Damn it.
He’s good.
Not just talented in the way that money and access and Grammy-winning tutors can manufacture. Not just the polished product of a dynasty designed to create exactly this kind of performer. He’sgoodgood. The real kind. The kind you can’t buy or teach or fake, the kind that lives in the marrow and comes out whether you want it to or not.
I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by talented people. I know the difference between skill and something deeper, and this—this thing vibrating off him like heat from asphalt—is the deeper thing.
And it makes me furious.
Because if he’s this, if he’srealunder all that armor, then I can’t dismiss him. Can’t file him away under “arrogant alpha with good cheekbones and a trust fund.” Can’t keep the walls up in the places where they need to stay up the most.
My grandmother’s voice surfaces, unbidden. The memory hits with the specificity of a scalpel: Elena’s kitchen, the cracked linoleum floor, me standing on a step stool so I could reach the counter while she kneaded bread. The radio playing something old and Spanish and sad, and my six-year-old voice trying to follow the melody.
“You have the gift, mija. Don’t let anyone take it from you.”
But someone did take it.
Not all at once. In pieces. The contract at nine that gave the network ownership of my vocal recordings. The handlers who said acting paid better, lasted longer, built a more sustainable brand. Victoria’s voice, sharp as broken glass:“Singers are a dime a dozen, Phoenix. Do you know how many pretty girls with guitars are waiting tables right now?”
The recording sessions for theAlly’s Worldtheme song: standing in a booth with headphones too big for my head, hearing my own voice come back through the monitors for the first time—amplified, supported,enormous. The feeling of my whole body ringing like a bell that had finally been struck.
I was thirteen. It was the first and last time I would ever be able to convince someone to let me in a recording booth.
God, I need some air.
I push my way toward the door, muttering apologies as I bump shoulders and step on toes. No one notices. They’re all watching Atticus, captivated by the performance I’m running from.
The night air hits me like a slap, cold and bracing. October in Maine isn’t kind to people wearing thin blouses and no jacket, but I welcome the sting. It clears my head, burns away the fog of emotions I refuse to name.
I dig in my purse for my cigarettes—the emergency pack I keep hidden in an inside pocket where Mason won’t find it when he does his periodic sweeps for contraband. I quit three years ago. Officially. On paper. In reality, I keep a pack for moments exactly like this, when the walls close in and my skin feels too tight and I need something to do with my hands that isn’t breaking things.
My fingers close around the slightly crushed pack. One cigarette left, bent in the middle like a broken promise. I straighten it as best I can, put it between my lips, and pat my pockets for a lighter I know isn’t there.
“Need a light?”
The voice comes from my left, deep and rough, like gravel under tires. I turn to find one of the bikers from inside leaning against the wall, a Zippo already flipped open in his hand. The flame dances in the night breeze, illuminating a face that probably hasn’t smiled in decades.
He’s older than I first thought—lines around his eyes that speak to years of hard living, a neck tattoo that’s gone slightly green with age. His leather cut bears patches I don’t recognize, but the way he holds himself tells me he’s not just some weekend warrior playing dress-up.
“Uh…yeah, thanks.” I lean in, letting the flame catch the tip of my cigarette, careful not to get too close.
He snaps the lighter shut with a practiced flick and extends his hand. “Aaron Keenan.”
I take his hand briefly, plastering on my camera-ready smile—the one that’s gotten me through a thousand uncomfortable interactions with men who think my time belongs to them.
“Phoenix.”
“I know who you are.” His gaze travels over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. “Even prettier in person than on TV.”
“Thank you.” I take a long drag, letting the smoke burn my lungs. It’s been long enough since my last cigarette that the nicotine hits my bloodstream like a shot of tequila, immediate and dizzying. I’d love to suck it down fast and go back inside, but the nicotine buzz is too nice even with the present company. “Nice night.”
“Getting nicer.” He shifts closer, invading my personal space with the casual entitlement of an alpha who’s never been told to back off. “You staying in town long?”
I take a step back, maintaining the distance. “Probably not.”
