Second to None

1. Levi

CHAPTER 1

Levi

M acclesfield, Monday, July 21st

I woke up to paws sauntering across my dick. Lovely. Then again, it was the most action I’d seen in months, so maybe I shouldn’t be complaining.

Next stop—my stomach. By the time my lids had come unstuck and my eyes were open, Alba was purring, kneading both the duvet and my chest in what Emily called making biscuits.

Seven on the dot, was it? My daily wake-up call had arrived. No need to set an alarm, really, although I still did.

“I'm awake,” I told my feline bed companion. “You can get off me now.”

She peered at me as though assessing the truth of my statement. To show I meant business, I tickled her chin. Graciously, she accepted my affection for a minute or so, purring, before she jumped off the bed to check for mice underneath. Places to go, things to do.

Yeah, me too.

One, wake Emily. Two, coffee. Three, pack the muffins I’d slaved over last night because apparently, store-bought birthday treats would lose my seven-year-old points with the other kids.

Hi. Levi Blake—former superstar, mentor of hopeful musicians, and aspiring baker. Nice to meet ya.

After I’d woken Emily again and shepherded her through all the usual morning things, we left five minutes behind schedule. As usual. She was no morning person, and with school holidays just around the corner, she clearly sensed that my grip on family discipline was slipping. Even the reminder that this was a special Monday since she got to celebrate her Saturday birthday with the class didn’t keep her from dragging her feet.

Man, at only twenty-seven, I was getting too old for this shit. Although in fairness to Emily, I wasn’t a morning person either. Ran in the family, didn’t it? My sister had been the queen of the snooze button who’d reigned over an empire of missed alarms, forever scrambling to get Emily ready before the daycare closed its doors. God, I’d give so fucking much to mock her just one more time, to mimic her frantic scrambling while she laughingly told me to shut my trap. ‘You try raising a child, Levi. Then we’ll talk.’

How about now, Jess? Can we talk now?

Fuck. I exhaled and released my impossible wish into the clear brightness of a summer morning.

* * *

Manchester, Monday, July 21st

Cosma.

Unusual name and the same cheeky confidence I’d had at seventeen—ready to take the world by storm and blissfully unaware of the price. She came highly recommended, though.

The second she opened her mouth, I got it. Fuck yes. This was why I’d stayed in the music business, despite everything: because once in a while, you found a voice that stopped you cold, reality melting away. Cosma had that kind of voice.

She finished on a long, sweet note, her timbre reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, and stood with her head ducked as I ended the recording. Alone in the dimly lit booth, equipment strewn around, she looked every bit as young as she was. Not quite so confident after all, was she? Five-foot something, with a cascade of dense, springy curls framing her pretty face. Baggy clothes that didn’t quite hide a slightly curvy figure.

They would want her to lose weight. If she took me on as her mentor, I’d fight tooth and nail that any change to the way she looked, talked, walked? It would be her call.

I pressed a button. “ Brilliant , love. Thank you. That was amazing.”

“Yeah?” She fiddled with the ring on her thumb, glancing up through her lashes.

“Yes. You’ve got a voice to melt glaciers.” No wonder Jace had told me she’d be right up my street—I thrived where soul met pop, while he specialised in a blend of hip hop and R of course they did. I signed the occasional autograph, had fans come up and tell me how much the band had meant to them. But it was mostly chill now, slightly nervous excitement rather than stadium-level screaming and hysteria. It was… nice, kind of. The reminder that we’d had such an impact.

“Sure, yeah.” Cosma arched a brow, and yep, there it was—a playful air of healthy scepticism. It would serve her well. “A hiatus. Like, five years and running?”

Just about, yeah. Five years for Neon Circuit, almost six since Cass and I had fallen apart. I probed at the edges of the thought like tonguing at a loose tooth. After we’d ended, we’d tried to keep working together for another awful year because that’s what we’d promised the others when it had all started—that it wouldn’t affect the band. But of course it did.

“Yeah.” I exhaled and made sure to keep the strain out of my voice. “What’s the question?”

“After Neon Circuit went on hiatus ”—Cosma emphasised it, slightly mocking but sweet about it—“you’re the only one who didn’t release a solo album. Why?”

It was true. Even Jace had recorded one LP before he’d decided his social anxiety wasn’t suited to a solo career and retreated into the background. Me, I’d just been so tired that by the time my demons had settled and tentative buds of creativity finally unfolded, I was yesterday’s news.

“Good question.” I considered Cosma over the rim of my cup. How honest did I want to be with her? I didn’t have many secrets left, really just one. Cass . But I’d made a deliberate choice to steer clear of the limelight—no interviews, no social media unless it served my artists.

“But not one you’re going to answer?” she asked with a cheeky smile, and yep, I liked her.

“No, I will. Just trying to decide what to tell someone starting out in the music industry.”

“Give it to me straight?”

She sounded like she meant it, so I nodded. “All right. How much do you know about Neon Circuit?”

“I wasn’t a fan or anything—I was just a teensy bit too young. But you guys were huge, and I did my research when Jace Everett contacted me about my demo.” She tilted her head, intelligence sharp in her dark eyes. “Five guys who got picked through an online competition and put into a boy band. I think you were my age when it started?”

Yeah. So bloody young .

We’d been an internet-first band, taking over social media before we’d ever done a proper show or appeared on TV. Some poor intern must have sifted through thousands of auditions to narrow it down to a couple hundred hopefuls, of which fifty had been sorted into a dozen distinctly different groups and put through a heavily documented bootcamp. We’d been the fun, pop-with-an-edge boy band that didn’t take itself too seriously, and something had just… clicked . Between the five of us, yes, but with our audience too. Through weeks of one group after another being voted out, our fan base had grown bigger and more devoted—to the point where our celebrity mentor seemed nearly as overwhelmed as we were.

Our fans had made us. And the label had leaned on that, on our sense that we owed them, to run us ragged. But that was then.

I nodded and waved for Cosma to go on.

“Right,” she said. “So, like, four albums in five years that broke all sorts of records.” Something like longing crept into her tone. “You guys filled stadiums, travelled the world, that sort of thing. But now it’s only two of you that still make music—Mason Callahan’s doing some folksy indie stuff and seems pretty chill about it. And then there’s Cassian Monroe, obviously.”

Obviously .

Released from the logic of a boy band that required sharing the spotlight, he shone bright like a supernova, his appeal reaching far beyond our original fan base. Sex symbol, two Grammys, a regular top spot among the most-streamed artists in the world. After the end, I’d mainlined news about him for months, a bitter replacement for sharing a stage, a tour bus, a bed. It had been a sad, lonely time. For the sake of my own sanity, I’d forced myself to go cold turkey, to quit Cass just like I’d had to quit drinking.

I cleared my throat and managed a smile. “That about sums up the facts, yeah. What it doesn’t account for is how bloody young we were. The crazy pressure we were under—an album a year, for one, do promo and travel and perform. But also how we were asked to fit into these neat little categories. The heartthrob, the bad boy, the sensitive one…”

“The funny one?” Cosma supplied quietly, nodding her chin at me.

“The funny one, yeah.” That had indeed been me—the joker, the mischievous one, the token Brit who drank tea not coffee, all bright green eyes, artfully dishevelled hair, and charming accent. I sent her a lopsided smile. “Not the gay one, though. No room for that in a boy band.”

She blinked, then opened her mouth on a small “Oh” that blended surprise and understanding. My sexuality wasn’t a secret, but I’d never felt the need for a public announcement. Only someone who dove into the murky depths of the usual gossip rags would know.

“Yeah.” I paused for a mouthful of coffee. “When you’re the face of a massive franchise, people tend to forget you’re human. They treat you like a commodity. Essentially, it was a non-stop rollercoaster for five years—so when it ended, I needed a break. Needed to be myself, too. Find out who that even was, you know?”

She made a quiet noise that showed she was listening, attention glued to me while all around us, people were busy with their own lives.

“Then some family stuff forced me to take a long, hard look at my priorities. Turned out I missed music, missed the creative side of it—but I didn’t miss fame. So this?” I wiggled my fingers at her. “Mentoring talent, helping with songwriting and production? It’s the perfect gig for me.”

Cosma was silent for a second, sipping her tea with a tiny crease between her expressive eyebrows. “Is that why… What you said earlier, the thing about people wanting to fit me into some box and how you’d want to help me find my own voice instead. Is that why?”

“Yeah. Even when people love you— especially when people love you—the music business can chew you up and spit you back out in pieces. If you decide to walk this path, no one can really protect you from that.”

“Not even you?” she asked.

“No.” Jesus, it was a good thing my bosses weren’t listening right now. As far as elevator pitches went, this was the ‘brutal truth’ edition. “ But .” I held her eyes, dropping my voice. “If you choose me as your mentor, I will be in your corner. I know how isolating fame can be, so if you need to hear a friendly voice at three in the morning? You call me. I’ll remind you to take breaks. I’ll remind you that it’s okay to push back sometimes, and that you need to stay sane to stay passionate.”

She stared back at me, straightening her shoulders as she drew a deep breath and swallowed. Her voice wavered just slightly. “Okay. Okay . I’m in.”

Joy warred with worry, as always when I took a new talent under my wing. “Then welcome to my family, Cosma.”

Her smile was wobbly but true.

* * *

‘I owe you, bro.’ I sent it before starting the drive back home. By the time I arrived, Jace had responded.

‘And don’t you forget it, mate.’

Mate? Three years in London, and he thought himself a proper Brit. Nope. Can take the man out of America, can’t take America out of the man. I parked the car and replied on my way to the house.

‘If it’s my firstborn you’re after, pretty sure you’ll be waiting a long time, MATE.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’m a childless cat bloke for life.’

Funny how I’d always fancied myself a dog person, with no plans for kids. Or a husband, for that matter, what with how the only boy I’d ever loved was covering billboards. The being-single part had worked out for me. The rest? Well—I’d inherited a precocious daughter and a ballsy cat.

At seventeen, I’d been travelling the world; a decade later, I was back to living in my parents’ basement. Okay, strictly speaking, they were living in my basement. Or rather on the ground floor of a Georgian-style home I’d had remodelled to accommodate two separate units, one for them and one for Emily and me. The point was, this wasn’t how I’d planned my life.

But it was mine . And I’d move fucking heaven and earth for Emily. Even Alba’s daily wake-up calls were something I’d grown to love, not that I’d admit it out loud.

‘Guess I’m a cat bloke with a kid now,’ I wrote back.

‘Best laid plans, huh?’ Jace followed it up with one of those half-smiling emojis, and started typing again right after. ‘Speaking of, and speaking of how you owe me one—Mason’s gonna call you. Think about it, okay?’

‘Think about what?’ I toed off my shoes and made my way up the stairs with Alba winding around my legs, then let my keys clatter onto the kitchen island and peered into the fridge without any clear idea what I was looking for. Milk? Orange juice? Leftover birthday cake? My mum, bless her, must have dropped by earlier to leave dinner for Emily and me.

I reached for an apple because I was an adulty adult making adult choices and checked my phone again just as Jace’s response came in. ‘He’ll explain. Just… think about it, yeah? Might be good for you even. Good for all of us. Closure, sort of. Or the opposite?’

‘Okay, Mr Cryptic...’

No reply.

Five minutes later, Emily breezed in, my dad in tow. Her braid was mostly gone with the wind and she was chattering about how my muffins had been the best muffins ever because they’d come with “three kinds of chocolate chips, Lee, and they were all gooey and sticky and so good, and also, Kate said her mum wouldn’t bake something like that because she’s on a health trip. I’m glad you’re not on a health trip.”

Ha. Who’d just won coolest quasi-dad of the week? That’s right—me.

I grinned at her around a bite of apple, my cheeks bulging chipmunk-style. “Me too, Emmy. Because chocolate rocks .”

My dad heaved a dramatic sigh that was belied by the twinkle in his light blue eyes. “Ah, hell. It’s like one child raising another.”

“I’m a proper grown-up,” I informed him. “One, I’ve got a tax accountant. Two, I don’t go to bed without a mental to-do list. And three, I wake up before my alarm.”

Emily peered up at me from where she was cuddling Alba. The latter tolerated it with the immense patience of a cat who knows there’ll be a reward in the form of tuna treats. “You slept until nine yesterday.”

A traitor, living under my very own roof.

“Yesterday was a Sunday ,” I said with measured emphasis.

My dad snorted. “I was still up at six, my lad.”

“Probably judging the lazy sparrows for sleeping in, were you?”

“Someone’s got to hold down the fort in the early hours.” He gave a mock-heroic pose that made Emily giggle, her eyes bright.

It still hit me sometimes, how far we’d come. Two years ago, she’d been a silent, lonely shell of a girl, floundering after my sister’s death. Fucking brain tumour, God. And Emily had just… shut down. I hadn’t been able to reach her, and neither had my parents, lost in their own grief. The only one who’d been able to get through? Alba. Sleeping in Emily’s bed, demanding attention until Emily had taken out one of those cat toys that came with a mouse-like thing attached to a string.

When Alba had pounced, Emily had cracked her first smile in a month. Just for that, I loved that damn cat something fierce.

“Does holding down the fort mean there are pancakes?” Emily asked, and I shook my head at her.

“Like you’d get up early even if the house was on fire.”

“I would for pancakes ,” she said with the kind of innocently wounded pride only kids could manage. I bit my cheek against a grin as she added, “Or a fire, I guess.”

“That’s very reassuring.” I pointed at the smoke alarm above the kitchen island. “So. This goes off? You scramble.”

When she asked how it worked and my dad jumped into an explanation, I checked my phone again. Still nothing from Jace.

Oh well. Guess I’d wait for Mason’s call.