Falling Absent: Get Your Rocks Off: The Complete Collection

Chapter 1

Dmitri

“Why didn’t you sign up to play tonight?”

I take a sip of my iced coffee, glancing at Tyler before letting my gaze drift around the room. “What, and steal the spotlight from all these chumps?”

The Hidden Note is far cozier than any place I used to hang out back home.

Dim amber lighting pours from exposed bulbs, shining over the plush booths that wrap along the walls.

Tiny round tables are scattered through the center like they were placed there on a whim, but Tyler swears it’s intentional.

The rough hewn wooden accents and worn-in decor give it a speakeasy vibe, more hidden lounge than coffee shop.

Charlotte is brand new to me, and I’m still getting my bearings. Before moving here last week, I’d only visited twice, so everything is daunting. My dad offered to rent me an apartment off campus so I could have my own space. “Get to know the town,” he said, but I turned him down.

Being the rich kid is something I’m glad to leave in Atlanta.

I’d rather bunk up in the dorms and get woken up by a snoring roommate than have a fancy downtown apartment, because it means I get to fit in. I get a clean slate, and an opportunity to start fresh as who I am, instead of who I’m seen as behind my family’s money.

Tyler is my assigned roommate for the year, and we hit it off immediately. He’s laid back and funny, and while he’s a little messier than I’m used to, we formed an immediate friendship. He grew up in Charlotte, so he’s made it his mission to show me around.

I’m double majoring in business and music—one for my father, and one for myself.

Tyler latched on to the second, and insisted that open mic night at The Hidden Note was non-negotiable.

According to him, it’s a rite of passage for anyone serious about music in this town, though I can’t say I’m entirely convinced yet.

The first few performers have been underwhelming at best. They’ve been either painfully off-key or so low-energy that the room barely responds. If the coffee weren’t so good, I might have already talked myself into leaving.

“Think you’re better than him?” Tyler asks, nodding toward the stage. The guy up there is a few years older than us, and the acoustic guitar around his shoulders looks one tuning away from falling apart completely.

“Can’t be sure,” I say before taking another sip. “I haven’t heard—” He strums the opening chord, and the low E string plunks out sour and flat. I wince, raising my voice just enough to carry over the noise. “Okay, yep, never mind. I’m definitely better than him.”

“Thought you didn’t play the guitar?” Tyler teases.

“I don’t,” I respond with a grin. “Still better than him, though.”

The guy on stage starts singing, but it’s nothing groundbreaking, so I lean back into our conversation. We ease into talking about the year ahead, and our nerves around starting college. It’s scary, but also freeing. Everything about this move feels like a reset button I so desperately need.

It’s a new city, with new faces and things to do, but most importantly, it’s the chance to be myself without my parents hovering in the background.

Ever since I came out to them last year, there’s been an extra layer of tension at home.

Our household has never been warm or inviting, but after that revelation, the strain has been undeniable.

It isn’t that I think they’re upset about me being gay.

That would mean my dad actually paid enough attention to form an opinion one way or the other.

Unless it involves trophies, grades, or something he can brag about at the club, he rarely notices me at all.

What bothers them more is that, as their only child, I might be the end of the family name.

It would be the ultimate disappointment to someone like my dad who believes legacy is the only thing in this world worth having.

The guy on stage finally wraps up his set to a polite smattering of applause, and I glance around the room, already plotting my escape route toward the door. Just as I’m leaning over with a fresh excuse on my tongue, a sharp squeal of feedback cuts through the speakers.

My attention moves back to the stage, expecting to find the same fumbling performer adjusting his gear, but a new face stands there.

“Sorry,” he says into the mic, his voice booming a little too loudly through the intimate space.

He cringes, then lets his mouth slip into a sheepish grin as he dials back his volume.

“I, uh, it’s my first time.” Thick, wavy blond hair catches the spotlight as he runs his hand through it, pushing the rogue strands from his forehead.

I settle deeper into my seat without really meaning to, curiosity overriding my earlier urge to bolt.

Surrounded by abstract art and a crowd dressed in moody blacks and deep maroons, he stands out like he accidentally wandered in from a different world.

He looks like someone who spends more time on a field or gym than hunched over sheet music.

His powder-blue polo shirt stretches over broad shoulders and sits neatly tucked into jeans that hug his solid legs.

The whole vibe feels like it belongs at a fraternity rush rather than open mic night.

He’s cute, but he’s clearly out of his depth here.

There’s a long pause as he drags a worn wooden stool over to the center of the stage.

He sits down carefully, resting a well-loved acoustic guitar across one thigh, then flashes another endearingly awkward smile at the crowd.

When he absentmindedly strums a chord to test the setup, I’m relieved that the instrument is perfectly in tune.

There’s one more soft squeal of feedback as he nudges the mic stand closer, then he leans in close enough that the light catches the flush on his cheeks.

“This is an original song,” he says, his voice steadier now, but still carrying that nervous edge.

“I’ve never played it for anyone except my parents and, uh, the chickens.

” Quiet chuckles roll through the crowd, breaking the tension just enough.

He flashes another quick, self-deprecating grin. “I hope you like it.”

“Do you know him?” I ask Tyler.

“No, never seen him before,” Tyler replies, tilting his head. “Looks a little lost up there, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does,” I agree, but before I can add anything else, the opening chords ring into the space in a heavier beat than I was expecting. The guy leans into the microphone, and the voice that pours out of him catches me completely off guard.

I had braced myself for a thick twang or a lazy southern drawl—something that would match the frat-boy posture—but what comes through is deep and perfectly pitched.

It carries a smokiness that belongs to someone who’s lived far longer than the not-yet-twenty face suggests.

A low growl threads through every note, giving his voice a gritty edge that sends goosebumps racing across my arms and the back of my neck.

He has my full attention now.

I lean forward in my seat as the song unfolds, really listening for the first time all night.

The lyrics are heavier than anything the previous performers offered, framed by a melancholy that settles over the room like fog.

He might look like a walking ray of sunshine, but he sings like he’s carrying a lifetime of shadows inside him.

Somehow that contrast only makes him more compelling.

The low chatter that drifted between songs earlier vanishes entirely.

Everyone else in the room seems just as captivated, and we’re all drawn into the quiet spell he’s weaving.

His earlier nerves have melted away, and he’s lost in the music now, with his eyes half-closed and his body swaying as though the melody is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

He sings like it’s the only language he’s ever truly spoken.

When the final note fades, there’s a suspended beat of silence that lasts long enough for my heartbeat to feel loud in my ears.

But then the applause erupts, louder and warmer than anything we’ve heard all night.

He blinks as if it startles him back to reality, then flashes a lopsided smile at the crowd as he stands and drags his palm down the leg of his jeans.

“Y’all are better listeners than the chickens,” he says, drawing another ripple of laughter from the room.

He lifts one hand in an awkward wave, then shuffles off the stage, guitar still slung over his shoulder.

He looks a little dazed, like he’s not quite sure the room is real yet, and I can’t stop watching him move through the crowd.

A new performer starts setting up, and I take the opening as everyone’s attention turns back to the stage. “Excuse me,” I mutter to Tyler as I push out of the booth, weaving through chairs and bodies.

The singer is kneeling to tuck the guitar back into a case absolutely covered in stickers. I recognize most of the bands immediately, because the same ones are tacked up on my bedroom wall back home.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low enough not to startle him.

He glances up, hazel eyes bright from the lights and cheeks faintly flushed. Up close he’s even more handsome, even if he does look like he belongs on a football field rather than under these moody Edison bulbs. He snaps the case closed, then stands with a wary nod.

“Hey.” His voice is softer off-mic, and a little rough from singing. “You’re not here to tell me the chickens would’ve sung it better, are you?”

I huff a quiet laugh at how unexpectedly charming he is. “No chance. That was great… really great, actually. The way you held back in the verses and then let it build in the chorus? It pulled the whole room in. Felt honest.”

He ducks his head for a second, rubbing the back of his neck with one callused hand. “Thanks. I was convinced I’d choke halfway through. Guess I didn’t.” He studies me for a beat. “You play?”

“Yeah. Mostly piano and drums. Keys when I want to feel it, sticks when I need to burn off energy.” I shrug, gesturing toward the stage. “Don’t ask me to sing though. You wanna talk farm animal comparisons, I’m sure that would raise a few.”

He nods toward the current performer. “Not getting up there, then?”

“Nah, I came here to listen. You made it worth the trip.”

He bites his lip to try to hide his smile, and that flush on his cheeks deepens. He’s clearly unaccustomed to the commentary on his voice, which is shocking with how much talent he has.

“I’m Dmitri,” I offer.

“Eric.” He extends a hand, and I accept it. His fingers are rough in the same places as mine, with musician’s callouses on his fingertips and palms. “I just got to town this week, and I don’t know anyone. This was my attempt at putting myself out there, I guess.”

“Yeah, I just moved here, too. My roommate insisted this was the place to be tonight.” I give him another smile to test the water. “Looks like he was right about that.”

He chuckles as he gestures vaguely behind him. “Sounds like my new roommate is sharing wavelengths with yours. He set me up with a friend of his tonight, and once she learned I could sing, she insisted on coming here.”

The “she” lands casually, and the way he says it tells me what I need to know.

Straight, or at least not available in the way I’d let myself hope for half a second. The little spark in my chest flickers once and settles into something platonic.

That’s okay.

The guy just played a set that made the room go quiet, and he seems sweet. I’d still want to talk to him about music even if that’s all it ever is.

“Smart roommate,” I say evenly, not allowing the disappointment to shift my tone. “If you ever want another set of ears, guitar and keys can make some interesting layers. Or drums if you’re feeling rhythm-heavy. No pressure, just an open invite.”

Eric’s face brightens a touch, like the idea actually lands. “Yeah? That could be cool. I’ve got some stuff I’m working on, but it’s hard to tell if it’s actually good without someone else hearing it.”

“If it was anything like that powerhouse you just performed, I think you’re good.

” He flushes and glances down, and I peek over my shoulder to where Tyler is watching us with open curiosity.

I roll my eyes, then turn back to Eric. “Outside perspective is gold, though, and I’d be happy to give it.

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re at UNC? ”

“Yeah,” he says with another smile. “Freshman.”

“Same.”

“Guess we have to stick with the coffee houses for a few more years before we hit up the bars,” he teases, before gesturing up my frame. “Though I would’ve guessed you were older.”

“It’s the height,” I say with a shrug. “Haven’t grown an inch since I was fifteen, and most people assumed I was already in college back then.”

“How tall are you?”

I tip my chin down, clocking him to be four or five inches shorter than me. “Six-five.”

“Damn, man. I bet the ladies love that.”

“Ah, yeah,” I say awkwardly, running my hand over my hair. “Listen, if you’re serious about jamming together, I’m in the music building most afternoons. My classes will be done by three, so I’ll probably be in there afterwards until I get hungry.”

“You’re sure you wouldn’t mind me interrupting your time?” he asks, biting at his lips.

Movement from behind him draws my attention, and I catch a pretty brunette watching him impatiently. I swallow my disappointment again with a nod. “I don’t know a lot of people here yet, and with a voice like yours? Yeah, man, I’m definitely in.”

He huffs another of those shy laughs. “Okay. Cool.”

“There’s a practice room on the first floor, right past the vending machines. It’s open for free use, but usually empty. Look for the keyboard case that looks like it lost a fight with a sticker factory, or the drum set that’s carved up in teenage angst. That’s me.”

He chuckles, glancing at his own decorated case. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he promises. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” I agree with a nod. “Nice meeting you, Eric. And seriously, great set. You’ve got something real.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate you saying that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it,” I promise, before flashing him one last smile. “Enjoy your night, man.”

“You, too.”

I turn toward Tyler, getting pulled into the hum of the crowd as I make my way back to our booth. My heart’s still thudding a little too hard, and I know I’ll be thinking about him for hours. That voice, and the way he looked under the spotlight.

It’s a tragic recipe for a crush.

But the tinge of disappointment is overshadowed by the possibility of finding a new friend, even if it’s never meant to be anything more.