Chapter 15 #2
After, I push through the crush and find him outside. The street hums with traffic, the club’s sign buzzing overhead. He’s leaning against the wall, hands shoved in his hoodie, like he didn’t just spend thirty minutes watching me bare my soul into a microphone.
“You came,” I say, breathless from the rush.
He shrugs, eyes flicking to mine. “You said it mattered.”
It takes everything in me not to close the distance and kiss him right here in the street. Instead, I grin, though it’s sharp and shaky. “So? Honest review?”
His mouth quirks. “Loud.”
“That’s the point.”
“Good loud.”
I swear my heart stutters.
We stand together for a beat, the street noise filling the silence between us. For a second, it feels like it’s only us—like no one else exists.
“You were…” He trails off, searching for the word. His shoulders lift as if the admission costs him something. “Different tonight.”
My throat tightens. “Different how?”
“Like you didn’t hold anything back.” His gaze catches mine, steady, like he knows exactly how much he’s saying without saying it.
I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my ears. “That’s kind of the whole point of music, you know? If you’re not bleeding it out, what’s the use?”
Something flickers in his expression, softer now, like he gets it—even if he won’t say more.
Before I can push, the door bangs open and Drew’s voice cuts through the night. “Rafe! Get your ass in here, man! Someone wants to talk to us.”
I glance over my shoulder, then back to Ollie. He stiffens, hood tugged lower, already retreating into the shadows.
“Come on,” I urge, half grin tugging at my mouth. “Come with me.”
His jaw works, and he shakes his head. “Can’t. Not like that.” His eyes flick toward the door where bass still thrums from inside. “Not me.”
“Rafe!” Drew again, sharper this time, almost frantic.
I’m caught in the pull—between him, between them—when Ollie steps close, so close his hand finds my arm. The squeeze is quick, grounding, but it lights me up anyway.
“Go,” he says quietly, thumb brushing once before he lets go. “Call me after.”
It takes everything in me to move, but I nod, saying, “Wait for me here, if you can,” then force myself inside.
The club’s air is thick with sweat and spilled beer.
Our band gear’s stacked haphazardly against the wall.
Drew, Miles, and Eli are buzzing like live wires near the bar, orbiting a man who doesn’t look like he belongs in this dive at all.
Tall, broad-shouldered, mid-forties maybe, his dark skin gleams under the neon, his suit jacket open but cut so severe it could take someone’s eye out.
He carries himself like he’s already walked through bigger rooms than this—the kind of guy people make space for without realizing why.
“Rafe,” Drew blurts, practically shoving me forward. “This is the guy I told you about. He’s—fuck, just tell him yourself.”
The man turns, eyes sharp but not unkind, and extends his hand.
“Anthony Price.” His grip is firm, deliberate.
“I do talent development—mostly showcase curation and scouting—for an independent music collective in Vegas. We partner with a bunch of labels in LA and out in New York.” A wry smile.
“I was off the clock tonight, someone dragged me in for a drink, and—well, you kids made me stop drinking my beer.”
My mouth goes dry. “Yeah?” It comes out rough, half a croak.
“Yeah.” He leans one elbow on the bar, easy and assured. “You’ve got something I don’t see often. Stage presence, chemistry, songs that actually stick instead of fading the second the amp cuts out. You front the band?”
I nod, pulse banging like a drumline. “Yeah. Vocals. Bass too.”
“Good. You know how to command a room. That’s not something you can teach.” His eyes flick to Drew, Miles, and Eli. “The rest of you are tight too. Rough edges, but that’s normal. You polish with time. What matters is the spark. And you’ve got it.”
Eli’s practically levitating, Drew is wide-eyed, and I—I can’t breathe.
Anthony slides a card across the bar, the weight of it somehow heavier than cardboard has any right to be.
“I want to get you into a real industry room. My collective’s putting on a mixed-genre showcase—small venue in Vegas, but the crowd’s the right kind of people.
A&Rs. Managers. The ones who matter. I can slot you in. ”
“Showcase,” I repeat dumbly, like the word is foreign.
“Don’t waste it,” he says simply, not cruel but firm. “This is the kind of door most bands never even get near. Your job is to kick it open.”
Drew swears under his breath. Eli grabs my shoulder like he might shake me. Miles is silent and nodding. My chest’s so tight it hurts, adrenaline and disbelief tangling until I don’t know if I’m shaking from the music still ringing in me or from what just landed in our laps.
“Holy shit,” I manage, breathless. “Yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
Anthony gives the slightest smile. “Good. Call me tomorrow. Don’t wait longer.”
When he walks away, he parts the crowd without even trying, and all I can do is stare down at his card. Black letters, silver edge. Something real. Something I didn’t dare think could happen this soon.
The guys are shouting, grabbing me, but I’m already reaching for my phone. Because the only person I want to tell first—the only one who matters more than any of this glittering madness—is standing outside under a streetlight, waiting for me. I hope.
The guys are still buzzing, pulling me into chest bumps with half shouts that bounce off the walls. Drew’s swearing like he’s won the lottery. Eli’s already talking about what we’ll wear for our album cover, like it’s a done deal. And Miles is still wide-eyed and mysteriously quiet.
But all I can hear is my heartbeat. And all I can see is the silver-edged card burning in my hand.
“Be right back,” I mumble, shoving through the crowd before they can stop me.
The night air hits cool against my sweat, the throb of the bass muffled by brick walls and distance. And there he is. Right where I left him. Hood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning like patience itself against the lamppost.
His head lifts when he sees me, that intense gaze pinning me in place. My chest loosens in a way the music, the noise, the promise of Vegas never could.
“You were fast,” he says, voice low, a curl of amusement at the edge.
“Had to speak to you,” I say, still half breathless from the run outside and the high buzzing behind my ribs. “Had to—fuck, Ollie, someone saw us. A real industry guy. Not a bar booker, not a promoter. Talent development. He works with a collective that feeds straight to labels.”
Ollie’s brows lift, surprise breaking across his face like sunrise. I push on.
“He wants us in a showcase. In Vegas. Next month. Industry room—A&Rs, managers, the whole real deal. If we kill it…” I shake my head, still stunned. “This could be the one that changes everything.”
His eyes go wide, warm, proud—so proud it hits me like a punch.
“That’s… huge, Rafe.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, shaky, like I can’t hold all of it inside. “Yeah, it is.”
For a second, neither of us moves. The street hums with passing cars, a siren wails faintly somewhere across the city, but it feels like we’re the only ones alive.
Then his mouth curves—not the small, polite smile he throws at cameras, not the forced grin for teammates. This is softer. Real. Just for me.
“I told you,” he says quietly. “You didn’t hold anything back. People notice that.”
It hits deeper than any compliment about riffs or lyrics ever has. My throat’s tight, eyes burning, and before I can think better of it, I step closer, close enough to feel the heat of him even in the cool night.
“I wanted you to notice,” I say, and it’s the rawest truth I’ve let out all night.
His breath hitches, barely audible, but I feel it like a ripple under my skin. His hand twitches like he wants to reach for me, but instead, he lets it fall back into his pocket.
“You should get back in there,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the club. “Don’t keep your band waiting. Go celebrate.”
I want to drag him inside, to show him off, to make him part of this too. But I know—I know he can’t. Not here. Not like that.
So I nod, swallowing everything else. “Yeah. But I’m calling you after. Don’t ghost me, Marshall.”
This time he does reach out. Fingers brush my arm, warm, a squeeze that lingers just long enough to steady me.
“I won’t,” he says.
And it’s enough. More than enough.
I turn back toward the pulsing glow of The Lantern, card clenched tight in one hand, the hint of his touch burning on the other. My band, my future, my shot—yeah, it’s inside. But the part of me that feels like it’s finally coming alive? That’s standing under a streetlight, waiting on me.