Page 12 of Spotlight Hearts

“Whit—”

She waves me off, grabbing her wine. “Whatever. I’m getting a refill.”

She stalks inside, screen door slamming behind her. Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Just…tour stuff.”

Dad chuckles, plating the steaks. “Women and rock stars, kid. Eternal battle. Eat up—you look like you need it.”

I force a laugh, but as I sit there, the sun dipping low over the city, the weight settles heavier. Whitney’s pissed. Dad’s words echo. And I’m just trying to prove I belong up there, under the lights, without the shadow of his name swallowing mine whole.

Sunlight slices through the blinds as though it’s personally offended I’m still asleep.

I jolt awake, heart already hammering before my brain catches up. The room smells like Whitney’s vanilla perfume and last night’s sex—sheets tangled, air thick. My phone’s face-down on the nightstand. I snag it up and squint at the time.

10:42 a.m.

Call time was 9:30. Flight to Phoenix leaves at 11:45. We’re supposed to be wheels-up in an hour. I’m never going to make it to the airport in time.

“Fuck.”

I throw the covers off, adrenaline flooding in. Whitney stirs beside me, naked, one leg hooked over the sheet, blonde hair fanned across the pillow. She makes a sleepy sound, reaching for me without opening her eyes.

“Luca…come back. You can catch the next plane. Or just…stay.”

Her voice is soft, coaxing, as though this is cute. Like we’re still teenagers sneaking around after curfew.

I freeze, staring at my phone. The alarm should’ve gone off at 7:45. Three times. I set it myself last night.

“Did you turn off my alarm?”

She cracks one eye open, shrugs one bare shoulder. “Maybe. You were so stressed last night. Thought you needed the sleep.”

“You turned it off.” My voice comes out flat, dangerous. “You turned off my fucking alarm so I’d miss call time.”

She sits up slowly, sheet slipping to her waist, expression shifting from sleepy to defensive. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. The band can wait five minutes. You’re always running yourself ragged for them.”

“For them?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “This isn’t about them. This is about me showing up. On time. Like everyone else has to. Like Kai does, every goddamn day, no excuses.”

Her eyes narrow. “Oh, so now it’s about Kai again? You’re really letting him get under your skin, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. I’m already moving—yanking open the dresser drawer, grabbing whatever’s clean. Ripped black jeans—no boxers, no time. Black ribbed tank top, the one that clings too tight after a wash. I pull them on fast, not bothering with socks, shoving my feet into sneakers by the door.

Whitney watches, arms crossed over her chest now. “You’re seriously leaving like this? You look like you just rolled out of a club at 3 a.m.”

“I look like someone who’s late because his girlfriend decided to play games with his schedule.” I snatch my phone, wallet, keys. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know my hair is a mess, but I don’t stop to fix it.

“Luca—” she starts, softer now, reaching for my arm.

I step back. “Don’t. I have to go.”

She stands up, sheet falling away completely. Naked, beautiful, and suddenly looking smaller than she did a minute ago. “You’re really mad about this? It was one morning. I just wanted you here. With me. Not running off to play pretend boyfriend with him again.”

I pause at the bedroom door, hand on the knob. For a second, I almost soften—because yeah, part of me gets it. She’s scared. The Kuca thing is blowing up, and every new choreo move makes her feel like she’s losing ground. But that doesn’t make this okay.

“You don’t get to decide when I show up for my job,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to sabotage me because you’re jealous.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. Tears shimmer in her eyes, but I can’t stay to deal with them. Not now.