Page 140 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“I work in food service. The firing squad would probably be more polite.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of him.

I’m proud of that.

We stop outside a glass-walled studio where a band I don’t recognize is setting up around a drum kit. The singer’s pacing with a lyric sheet in one hand. There’s an energy to all of them that feels half restless, half hungry.

Gabe opens the door and gestures me in.

“This is Willow,” he says. “She’s helping us think through some outreach and positioning.”

I nearly choke. “Positioning?”

He looks at me calmly. “Would you prefer I said vibes?”

The guitarist laughs.

I glare at Gabe. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little.”

The drummer, a girl with shaved sides and a silver hoop through one eyebrow, grins at me. “I like her already.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m fighting for my life in here.”

The singer finally stops pacing. He’s tall, dark haired, probably twenty-three at most, with that nervous intensity some musicians have when they still care so much it makes them awkward.

“I’m Noah,” he says. “We’re South Avenue.”

“Willow,” I say dryly. “Positioning expert.”

The guitarist snorts. Gabe doesn’t apologize.

For the next twenty minutes, I mostly listen. It turns out to be easier than I expected.

They tell me how they found each other. What kind of venues they used to play. Which songs the crowd always latches onto first and which ones matter more to them, even if nobody streams them.

Noah talks too fast when he’s excited. The drummer, Lena, talks over him whenever he starts sounding pretentious. Their bassist barely says anything until music comes up, and then suddenly he has a whole thesis on why people are tired of polished indie bands pretending to be raw.

I like them right away.

They’re talented and serious enough about what they make that it leaks through everything else.

I find myself asking questions without thinking.

What songs do people remember after a set? What line gets quoted back to you online? Who makes your flyers? Do you hate your social media or just tolerate it?

That one gets a collective groan.

“Okay,” I say, flipping my notebook open. “That’s already useful.”

Gabe says nothing, but I can feel him watching, which should make me more self-conscious than it does.

Instead, I start writing. Bits and pieces. Words they use more than once. The kind of details people latch onto when they feel real.

Lena has this brutal, deadpan delivery that would be great in short video clips if someone let her loose. Noah’s nervous in a way that’s charming once he forgets to be polished. The bassist, Omar, has opinions biting enough to build a whole identity around if they stop hiding him in the back.

I hum under my breath while I write, some half-formed tune that’s probably been stuck in my head since I walked in.