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I inspect every connection myself.

If Luca is dragging me onto a stage I never agreed to, the least I can do is ensure neither of us gets electrocuted.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says while I tune the borrowed acoustic.

“I’m making sure your bass doesn’t explode.”

“Your shoulders have dropped.”

“I’ll drop you.”

He grins because he knows he’s right.

The familiar anticipation has already started low in my stomach. The restless charge. The pull toward the stage.

I hate that he arranged this.

I’m still going to give these people a hell of a show.

I texted Bea earlier.

Cal

Luca trapped me into playing a charity set tonight

want to watch me suffer?

Bea

Is the music going to be any good?

Cal

deeply insulting response

Bea

Owwww

We’ll be there.

I haven’t seen her yet, but knowing she’s coming settles something in me.

“Ten minutes,” the clipboard girl tells us.

“Thanks.” I check the tuning again. “What’s the donation total?”

“Just over six thousand.”

“Announce it before we play. Then pass the bucket again during the second song.”

Her eyes widen. “Okay.”

“And get someone to put the payment link on the screen behind us.”

“We can do that.”

“Good.”