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“For the money?”

“Money hasn’t consumed everything yet.”

“How bold,” Daniel exclaimed, rolling a joint. “But let’s be honest. Most of what comes out is crap.”

“Leaf won’t like hearing that either,” Nathan said and laughed. “Nightstalker just released their second album.”

“What! You’re … Nightstalker? Fuck! Nate! Why didn’t you say so earlier? I’m sitting next to a damn rockstar and didn’t even realize it.” Daniel grabbed Leaf’s upper arm. “Dude! I love your sound! You guys are awesome! It’s just great acid rock.”

As if that wasn’t enough attention, Leaf sensed someone sitting next to him. He gradually opened his eyes again and turned his head. Was that April or Diana?

Where’s Tristan?

“You’re really hot,” the blonde whispered in his ear. She put her hand on his cheek and searched for his lips. Completely high, Leaf turned his head away.

Tris …

But April—or Diana—wasn’t deterred. Her hands wandered over his upper body, eliciting a pleasant shiver in him. Helplessly, Leaf lifted his head. He was at the mercy of the high, and the sensations aroused him more than he wanted.

Shit … No … We’ve been together all afternoon …

No matter how hard he tried to resist, he found himself unable to muster the strength.

The blonde undid his belt and slipped her hand into his pants. Contrary to his expectations, something stirred, and he groaned in disappointment. It had to be the drugs; ever since he’d been with Tristan, he hadn’t been able to get aroused with any woman. Desperately, he tried to focus on Tristan, imagining it was his touch.

Oh Tris, I’m so sorry.

Thursday

24

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Setlist

Tristan stood in front of his open wardrobe, freshly showered and contemplating what to wear. Just as he was about to make a decision, a knock interrupted his thoughts. It had only been an hour since he returned. He had spent the night at Leaf’s, hoping Leaf would return to bed with him. Sleep had been elusive, and Tristan was already missing several hours of it.

Dressed only in black jeans, Tristan walked to the entrance and opened the apartment door. José stood outside, staring at the leaf-covered terrace. When he turned to Tristan, he raised his eyebrows and scrutinized him, his gaze lingering on Tristan’s forearm, wrapped in a fresh bandage.

The wound had healed well over the past three weeks, but the scar tissue was thin and sensitive to sunlight, prompting Tristan to keep the bandage on for a while longer.

“Hey!” José said cheerfully. “Are you ready?”

“Hi,” Tristan mumbled, shielding his eyes from the sun with his arm as its rays beamed directly into his face.

“We said two o’clock. Get dressed!” José reminded him.

Tristan left José standing and returned to the room. From the wardrobe, he pulled out a slightly oversized black shirt—preferring the comfort of loose clothing over feeling constrained. Leaving the top three buttons undone, he tucked the shirt into his pants and slipped on his shoes. Grabbing his wallet and putting on his sunglasses, he left the apartment.

“Ready?” José asked, rising from one of the loungers.

Tristan grunted in agreement.

“Isn’t Leaf here?”

“I wouldn’t have called you otherwise, would I?” Tristan replied monotonously.

After Leaf failed to return home by eight in the morning, Tristan saw no other option but to call José. He used Milo’s phone, which had been in a box in the living room since his death, along with his wallet, car keys, and a few bracelets.