Chapter 19 #3
Thank God. Because if he’d already flown out—if I’d missed this chance to be with him—I don’t know what I would’ve done.
My body’s still wired from the show, still humming with adrenaline and his name, and every time he looks at me, I can feel that edge of danger that lives somewhere between lust and gravity.
I take a slow breath, trying to rein myself in, but it’s useless.
The truth is, I’m already imagining him behind a locked door, that hoodie peeled off, the lean lines of his body under my hands.
I want to take him apart, taste him, learn every sound he makes when he forgets he’s supposed to be perfect.
He’s standing right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. Please tell me he booked a room. Because if he didn’t, I’ll find one. I’ll sell my damn bass if I have to.
But I don’t say any of that. I swallow it down, force my voice to stay even, and land on: “Where are you flying to next?”
“Phoenix.” His mouth twists. “Then, if we win, back to Vegas for the regional final.”
“Then it’s fate,” I say. “You’re meant to keep winning.”
He gives me a look. “You think fate watches basketball?”
“Only when it’s rooting for you.”
That earns me a deep laugh—soft, genuine, cutting straight through the noise.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the far side of the club. “Let’s get out of the spotlight before someone asks for your autograph.”
He hesitates just long enough to make my heart stutter, then follows.
We slip through a half-open side door onto a quieter mezzanine that overlooks the main floor.
The bass is muffled here, just a slow pulse under our feet.
From up here, the crowd looks like another universe—glittering, loud, somewhere else entirely.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Then Ollie exhales, leaning his elbows on the railing. “You know, I didn’t plan on staying,” he says. “I told myself I’d come by, see the first song, leave before anyone noticed. But then you kept on playing, then finally landed on that new one.”
“‘Velocity,’” I say softly.
He nods. “Yeah. That one.” He looks out over the crowd, jaw flexing. “I couldn’t move. I just… stood there.”
The air between us hums again. “That song’s kind of about you,” I admit.
“I figured.” His mouth curves, small but sure. “You didn’t exactly hide it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Guess subtlety’s not my strong suit.”
He turns then, facing me fully. “Rafe,” he says, and there’s something in the way he says my name—like it’s the first time all night anyone’s spoken to him and not about him. “Thank you for being there yesterday. At the game. It really meant everything.”
“Back at you, baby.”
His eyelids lower at the term and he clamps onto his bottom lip. And fuck if I don’t want to haul him to me and kiss the shit out of him.
Something shifts. The lights strobe across his face, the edges of the room blurring. I want to reach for him, to touch his wrist, to feel something real in the middle of all this unreality—but I don’t. We’re standing close enough for the heat between us to do the talking.
“Come here,” I murmur.
He doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he steps closer until our arms brush. Just that—skin against fabric, a breath apart. His thigh presses lightly against mine. My pulse jumps.
“People can see,” he says, but it’s not a protest.
“Let them look,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, smiling that small, wrecking smile. “You like trouble.”
“Only when it looks like you.”
He laughs under his breath, then lowers it into something rougher. “You should probably go back before your guys wonder where you are.”
“They’ll survive.”
He looks at me, steady now. “You’ve got something huge waiting for you tonight, Rafe. Don’t let me be the reason you get distracted.”
“You’re not a distraction.” My voice catches. “You’re the reason it feels real.”
He studies me for a beat longer, something unreadable in his eyes. Then the sound of Eli’s laugh cuts through the music—loud, unmissable.
“Rafe!” he shouts across the room, waving an arm. “C’mon, man, we scored a booth!” He offers Ollie an up nod, not showing an ounce of surprise that he’s beside me.
I glance back at Ollie, half expecting him to use it as an excuse to ghost. But he surprises me, glancing toward the others, then back at me with that small, helpless grin.
“Go,” he says.
“Not without you.”
He hesitates, but when I tug gently at his wrist, he lets me.
We wind through the press of bodies to the raised section at the back, roped off from the crowd.
There’s a low table already loaded with bottles, ice, and gleaming glasses.
The waitress appears like she’s been waiting just for us—short dress, sharp smile, eyes fixed on me when she leans in to pour.
“You killed it tonight,” she says, voice sugar-sweet. “That last song—damn. I’m pleased I managed to make it before my shift started.”
I thank her automatically, but she keeps her hand on my shoulder a moment too long. When I glance at Ollie, his jaw’s set, his polite smile paper-thin.
Adorable.
As soon as she steps away, I slide a hand under the table, fingers brushing his thigh. A subtle touch, hidden in the shadows. He startles, then exhales, shoulders loosening as if I’ve just pulled him back into orbit.
“Better?” I murmur.
He smirks, eyes darting down. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously effective,” I say.
Miles lifts a glass, grinning. “To Vegas, baby!”
Eli whoops, Drew bangs the table, and the first round goes down in a blur. Ollie hesitates when the waitress sets another in front of him.
“Rafe, I can’t—”
I cut him off, grinning. “Give me your phone.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Your phone.” I wiggle my fingers until he rolls his eyes and hands it over. I swipe the screen awake, then wave it in front of his face so he sees me set not one but three alarms—7:30, 8:00, and 8:15.
“There,” I say, handing it back. “You’ll make your flight. Promise.”
He looks at me, half exasperated, half amused. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here,” I counter.
He stares for a beat, then lifts his glass. “Fine. But if I miss that flight, I’m blaming you.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The shot burns down smooth and fast. The music swells again, the kind that makes your blood run louder than your thoughts.
Ollie’s laughing now, the sound loose, free in a way I’ve never seen from him.
Drew cracks a joke about our gear, Miles counters with something about groupies, and Eli starts doing a mock victory speech with his Red Bull can as a mic.
Through it all, Ollie leans just close enough that our knees brush under the table and our shoulders press when we laugh. It’s nothing that anyone would notice, not here. But I feel every point of contact like a live wire.
I look at him, at this man who risked his image, his curfew, and his damn flight just to be here tonight. The man who doesn’t know I’ve written half a record about him.
He catches me looking and tilts his head. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, smiling slow. “Just thinking it’s going to be a hell of a night.”
And it is. Because for the first time, I’m not just celebrating a gig. I’m celebrating him—this impossible, quiet, reckless miracle sitting beside me, laughing like he’s got the whole night to give.