Page 66 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

By the time I recover, he’s already gone.

The room surges as they make their way through it, people shifting back to let them through, hands clapping shoulders, voices calling out. Tommy speaks to Xander in a way that gets a rare, actual smile in return, then passes Julian a guitar from the stand by the stage like this was planned.

Maybe it was.

Maybe Tommy deserves jail.

Someone gets Xander another guitar. He settles the strap over one shoulder, steps to the mic with the kind of ease that makes my stomach tighten.

Not because I’m impressed.

Obviously not.

Because I’m bracing.

That’s different.

Julian tests a few strings, glances at Xander, and says something too low for me to hear.

Then, they start.

I’ve heard them before, technically. On Nina’s phone. Half a song here, a clip there, enough to know that yes, they were talented and yes, I understand why the internet still loses its mind over them.

That isn’t the same thing as this.

Because on a screen, it’s removed. Controlled. Flattened.

Here, it’s alive.

Xander’s voice drops into the room like a match landing in something dry. Deep and rough around the edges, all restraint and damage and heat threaded into one sound. Julian comes in around him with guitar that feels effortless in the most infuriating way possible, smooth and instinctive and bright where Xander is all burn.

And just like that, Bennett’s isn’t Bennett’s anymore.

It’s suspended. Held.

I forget to breathe.

Nina, beside me, makes a sound like she’s being spiritually healed by this experience.

“Don’t,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, without sounding sorry at all. “This is insane.”

It is.

That’s the problem.

They’re too good.

The crowd starts moving with it by the second song. Singing under their breath. Smiling openly now. Phones up everywhere, yes, but differently than before. Less scavenger, more witness.

Tommy leans against the bar looking smug as hell. Bill Smith claps at the end of the second song and then pretends he wasn’t impressed. Martha Callahan has appeared from somewhere and is openly recording like everyone else. Grace Holloway is going to be impossible about this tomorrow. I can already feel it.

The bar is too crowded by the time the third song starts. People have pushed closer to the stage without thinking, the whole room compacting into itself around the performance, and I’m half standing to see better when someone behind me shifts wrong and knocks straight into my shoulder.

I lose my balance, beer tipping dangerously in my hand, feet sliding on the worn wood floor, and then Gabe’s hand is at my waist. His other hand catches my wrist before the drink goes flying, and I’m steadied between one breath and the next like I haven’t nearly gone down in front of half the town.

“Easy,” he says.