Chapter 18 #2
We duck into a side alley between a closed souvenir shop and a cheap hotel. Out here, the city noise fades; even the sunlight seems to dim. He stops and turns to face me.
“I shouldn’t,” he says softly. “Anyone could—”
“No one’s looking.”
He hesitates, then leans in. The kiss is gentle, almost shy at first. Then deeper. Slower. His hand finds my jaw; mine slides to his hip. The world shrinks to the sound of our breathing and the faint buzz of a neon sign overhead.
When we part, his eyes are half lidded, his smile dazed. “Every time, it gets harder to stop.”
“I know.” My thumb drags across his bottom lip. “We’ll have time later. I promise.”
He swallows. “You really think so?”
“I do.”
He lets out a long breath. “You’d better text me after the show. I want details. Setlist, crowd description, everything.”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
“Good.” He straightens, hood back up. “I’ve got meetings, film review, all that before my flight. But—” He glances around and lowers his voice. “I’m glad we got this. Even if it’s just an hour.”
“An hour with you beats a day anywhere else.”
He laughs under his breath. “You and your lines.”
“Only when they’re true.”
He steps closer again, forehead almost against mine. “You’re gonna kill it tonight, you know that?”
“I hope so.”
“I know so.” He presses one more kiss to my temple, quick and fierce. “Go make them see what I see.”
“Go remind the world why you’re the best damn player in this tournament.”
We start to pull apart, slowly, like gravity’s giving us a break but only just.
“Talk tonight?” I ask.
He nods. “Tonight.”
And then he’s walking away, long strides, hood up, head down, blending back into the city that doesn’t know what it’s holding.
I watch until he disappears, the heat shimmering in his wake, then shove my hands into my pockets and head for rehearsal. The Strip hums louder the closer I get, a pulse that feels almost like my own heartbeat.
Miles is tuning his guitar when I walk into our room half an hour later, head bent, eyes sharp. Eli’s slouched on the couch, nursing a Red Bull like it’s the sacrament, and Drew’s crouched over his pedalboard again, cables looping like veins across the carpet.
“You’re late,” Eli says without looking up.
“You’re annoying,” I shoot back.
He grins, all teeth. “So, breakfast with your beau went well?”
I freeze for half a second. Miles doesn’t look up, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.
“You guys really are the worst,” I mutter. Of course they know I was with Ollie, but it’s kind of badass that they pretend to be nonchalant. Not that I’ll tell them that.
Drew snorts. “That’s a yes, then.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to. I grab my bass, sling the strap over my shoulder, and hit a few chords until the room hums right.
Miles adjusts his amp, the low thrum filling the space. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” I say, and for once, it’s true. “I’m good.”
Eli leans back. “We ready to blow this town up tonight?”
I glance at them—these idiots who’ve been with me since our first semester of college with duct-taped mics and dreams too big for our awkward limbs—and feel something like awe.
“Yeah,” I say. “We’re ready.”
Eli claps his hands together. “Hell yeah, we are. Vegas, baby. Mirage freakin’ Theater. We’re not going back to open mics after this.”
Miles’s fingers still against the strings. “You really think it’ll change things?”
I nod slowly. “I think it already has.”
That makes him look up, eyebrow raised. “You mean the buzz?”
“I mean all of it. The agent, the emails, the gigs lining up. We’ve been running full speed since The Lantern. Feels like the world finally caught up.”
Eli kicks a spare drumstick across the floor. “Good. About damn time.”
Drew, still fiddling with his pedals, glances over. “You think they’ll actually offer something? Like… real money, real deal?”
“Maybe,” I say. “But we can’t think small. Tonight’s about proving we can handle the next step.”
Eli smirks. “Which is what, Mr. Front Man? Fame? Fortune? Matching tattoos?”
“All of the above,” I say, grinning. “But seriously—if anyone comes knocking after tonight, we take the shot. No hesitation.”
Miles tilts his head. “You mean… quit school?”
“Yeah.” I meet each of their eyes, one by one. “If we get the offer, if someone gives us a real chance, I’m not walking away from it. We’ve worked too damn hard.”
Drew whistles low. “You’re really ready to throw that cap and gown away, huh?”
“I never cared about the gown,” I admit. “Just the music. The rest was a way to keep people off my back. But this—what we’ve built—this feels real.”
Eli grins. “Good. ’Cause I’ve been looking for an excuse to drop out since freshman orientation.”
Miles chuckles. “You’d need to actually attend class to drop out, man.”
“Details,” Eli says. “Besides, my mom already assumes I’m a degenerate.”
Drew drops into the nearest chair, rubbing his jaw. “My dad’s gonna lose it if I quit. He’s still got the same speech memorized from when I bailed on pre-med.”
“Tell him it’s a different kind of anatomy,” Eli says. “You’re studying sound waves and heartbreak.”
We all laugh, the sound echoing off the walls—loud, familiar, a little reckless. But under it, there’s something steadier. A hum of belief.
Miles plucks a low note and lets it vibrate through the air. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say again, softer this time. “We are.”
He nods once, thoughtful. “Then we’d better be ready to burn everything else down if we have to.”
Eli raises his can. “To the burn.”
Drew clinks his water bottle against it. “To the chaos.”
I lift my bass neck, tapping it lightly against the Red Bull can. “To the band.”
Miles smiles. “To the moment.”
We drink to it—whatever “it” is. The risk. The hunger. The hope.
For a few minutes, no one talks. We just play quietly.
Nothing formal—no setlist, no structure.
Drew catches a riff, Miles finds the pulse, Eli slides in with a rhythm so tight it makes the air thrum.
I follow, instinct leading the way. It’s messy, improvised, perfect.
The kind of sound that feels alive enough to bite.
When it ends, the silence after feels holy.
“That,” Eli says, still breathless, “that’s what they’re gonna hear tonight.”
“Damn right,” I say.
Miles leans back, rubbing a hand over his face. “Feels weird, you know? Like this might be the last time we’re just us.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean—what happens if it works? If a label is interested and says yes, if we tour, if we stop being a college band and start being something else? Everything changes.”
I think about it for a second—really think about it. The long nights in shitty apartments, the times we almost quit, the near misses, the tiny victories that kept us breathing.
“Then we hold on to this,” I say finally. “The music, the friendship, the way it feels right now. We carry that with us. Everything else is noise.”
Eli points at me with his drumstick. “You really should be the one giving the interviews.”
“I am the one giving the interviews.”
“Yeah, well, now I see why the reporters love you. You talk like a Hallmark card with a leather jacket.”
I roll my eyes. “You love it.”
“Only when you’re buying drinks.”
Drew chuckles. “You two are hopeless.”
Miles just watches, half smile in place. “You know what’s crazy? We’re all from different corners of the same storm. Eli’s the chaos. Drew’s the control. I’m the caution. You’re the spark.”
“That’s poetic,” Eli says. “You rehearsed that?”
“Just came to me.” Miles grins. “Guess Rafe’s rubbing off on me.”
I laugh, but the truth of it hits somewhere deep. This isn’t just my dream—it’s ours. Every chord, every sleepless night, every fight over tempos and lyrics and sound levels has led us here. And for once, it doesn’t feel impossible.
“We make a pact,” I say. “Right now.”
Eli leans forward. “I like the sound of this.”
“If we get an offer tonight—any kind of offer—we take it. No second-guessing. No ‘let me think about it.’ We go all in.”
Drew’s the first to nod. “All in.”
Miles follows, calm but sure. “All in.”
Eli grins like a kid. “Hell yes, all in.”
They all look at me then, waiting. I lift my bass a little higher. “All in.”
We knock fists—four hands, calloused and rough and steady. For a second, it feels like a promise carved into something bigger than all of us.
Eli stands and stretches, groaning. “Okay, boys. Showtime in a few hours. Let’s eat, shower, and try not to pass out.”
Miles chuckles. “You’re gonna need another Red Bull.”
“I’m gonna need divine intervention.”
They file out one by one, still joking, still alive with that jittery kind of joy that only comes before something life changing.
I linger a moment longer, fingers tracing the strings of my bass. The silence hums again, low and familiar. I think about Ollie’s face when I told him about tonight—the disbelief, the pride, the way his eyes softened like I’d just handed him part of my dream to hold.
And I think about the promise I made him—that I’d make them see what he sees.
I set the bass down gently, the metal still warm beneath my fingertips.
Because for the first time, I’m walking onto a stage with something more than ambition in my veins.
I’m walking in with a name still echoing in my chest like a song I can’t stop replaying.
Ollie.