Chapter Four
Paige
Olive
Good luck girl!!! You’re gonna kill it!!!
This is surreal.
I’ve been in studios before, usually more high-end than this, but never on this side of it.
I’m the one who writes the songs, tweaks the lyrics, maps out harmonies, then hands it over for someone else to take the mic.
I haven’t even sung backing vocals for anyone before, let alone really stepped onto the stage myself.
I’ve always been in the shadow of someone else’s spotlight, tucked away where no one looks.
No one’s heard of me. Not really. Not this version.
Yet here I am, standing in a room where, for once, I’m not invisible.
It’s smaller than I expected. The kind of practice space a band rents monthly just off a main strip. Cheap but functional, doing exactly what’s needed.
The overhead fluorescents buzz faintly as I take everything in, wanting to commit it all to memory.
There’s a couch against one wall, faded and frayed from years of abuse, and a mini fridge hums in the corner, half-buried under cables and a spare amp.
The carpet is dark and uneven, probably older than me, holding the ghosts of every artist who’s passed through here, praying to make it big.
Still, it feels…right. Even if I keep waiting for someone to walk in and tell me this was a mistake.
I move slowly around the room, letting my fingers drift over the edge of a cymbal stand, the smooth metal of a mic boom, the peeling corner of an old set list taped to the wall.
None of it scares me; it’s all as familiar as breathing, but the drum kit in the middle, the drum kit, with Sip Station printed across the bass? That’s new.
And it’s mine.
A flutter hits low in my stomach, the faint wave of nerves and excitement trickling in as I close my eyes and breathe in deep. The stale tang of coffee and the ever-present smell of warmed-up electronics fill my lungs with musk, recycled air, hopes and dreams.
When I open them, everything looks the same but feels different all at once. Like the ground is waiting to open up under my feet at any second.
Holy shit, I’m so out of my depth.
My heart rate kicks up a notch, my palms damp. I need a familiar voice, one that will talk me off this ledge.
Digging into my bag, I pull out my phone, tapping the top name on my call log. Sliding the strap off my shoulder, I drop it near the couch, barely waiting as the call connects, the clacking of her heels ringing through the speaker as soon as she answers.
“Paige? What’s going on, honey?”
“Tell me why I’m here again?” I ask, pacing a slow loop around the room, pressing the phone tight to my ear.
Mom chuckles, the sound like a balm. “Because they called you back and said you got it.”
“Yeah, I got that part,” I say, rubbing my forehead with my thumb. “I mean this. Joining the band, playing alongside someone who clearly didn’t want me here.”
Even as Olive sat in my living room the following day, hungover as hell but listening smugly as Beau called to give me the good news, it just didn’t make sense. Maddox sounded so adamant in his decision, so did Beau and Eli force his hand? Or did he have a change of heart?
Why does it even matter? I’m here, aren’t I?
A soft beep sounds in the background, then the click of a door, and I picture Mom walking into her office, coffee in one hand, folder tucked under her arm.
“Maybe he was just having an off day,” she says. “You did say they’d been auditioning all afternoon. That’d wear anyone down.”
“An off day?” I snort. “He tried to trip me up by doing some sort of mega-mix of their old tracks, and then shut me down completely when I held my own.”
She laughs. “I’m sure they all want you there, honey.”
“I guess.” I slow my pacing, now near the guitar rack. “I just thought since he’s the frontman or whatever and clearly had so much to say about who got the job, he would’ve at least reached out to clear the air or something.”
It’s not that I wanted him to reach out, not to say I belonged here, anyway, but I can’t seem to shake this need to know what he really thinks now he’s had time to… cool off. Even if I’ll never admit that I sat with my phone glued to my hand, jumping each time it so much as vibrated.
I slam my eyes shut as embarrassment coats my skin at how fucking pathetic I was all weekend. And the feeling obviously hasn’t faded.
“Maybe the real question is,” Mom says, the sound of her laptop powering up crackling faintly over the line, “why does his opinion bother you so much?”
I open my mouth to answer, but my throat closes around exactly zero excuses. Because the truth is, I want him to like me. Not in the way that matters to the band, but in a quiet, twisted way where it would feel good to impress him without even trying.
See? Pathetic.
“Don’t let one bad encounter ruin something great,” she adds gently. “Just play like you always do. Show him why saying yes was the right call. He’ll come around.”
The door creaks open behind me, and I spin, my heart stuttering as he walks in.
Maddox hesitates in the doorway the second he spots me. It’s a brief, barely noticeable pause, but enough to slow his stride. My stomach flips, heat coating the back of my neck like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
A flicker of something close to annoyance crosses his face before he manages to mask his expression. Then, just like that, he keeps moving, eyes down, jaw tight, dropping his guitar case with a dull thud.
Off day, my ass.
This isn’t an off day. This is a goddamn choice.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I say, watching as he unzips the case and pulls out his guitar like I’m not even here, the body glistening under the lights, the deep, rich red surrounding the edges blending into a warm, golden amber. A sunset sealed in gloss. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Okay, honey. Enjoy your first practice.” I start to lower the phone, but the sound of my name makes me pause. I lift it back to my ear just as she adds, “And remember to send me the contract. I want to read it over before you sign anything.”
I roll my eyes. “Always the entertainment lawyer, huh?”
“Don’t you know it?” She chuckles. “Oh, one last thing before you go. Did you get the box with you and your sister’s things Dad left out for you the other day?”
Something tightens in my chest as I think about the worn cardboard box sitting in the backseat of my car. “Yeah. Got it.”
“It’s just some things you might want. Old notebooks, music-related items, things we thought might be useful.” A knock sounds through the phone, followed by a muffled voice. “Okay, I’ll let you go. Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you.” Smiling, I hang up, brushing my fingers across the phone screen.
“Entertainment lawyer?” Maddox asks from the couch, slipping a pick between his teeth and focusing on the tuning pegs of his guitar.
I shove my phone back into my bag and set it aside. “You know, most people acknowledge their new bandmates when they walk into a room.”
“Didn’t realize we were doing social etiquette lessons today,” he mumbles flatly, not even bothering to glance up.
“And yet you’re the one who asked about my family.”
My arms cross over my chest, my molars pressing together as I watch him—focused, detached—the yellow pick bobbing between his lips like he doesn’t even notice it’s there.
Right on schedule, the part of me drawn to bad decisions stirs to life, noticing things I should not notice about my new bandmate.
Especially not someone like Maddox Knox.
His lower lip curves slightly fuller than the top, dark lashes cast faint shadows when he blinks, and his brow furrows with that same potent concentration that was glaring back at me from across the table during my audition.
There’s something about him, though. Something beyond my superficial attraction to assholes. Curiosity, maybe?
Focus, Paige.
I try, I really do. But he’s methodical with his guitar in a way that shouldn’t be so sexy.
Most people I know use a tuner, trust the little flashing light, and call it a day.
Maddox? He does it by ear, like he can hear something the rest of us can’t, twisting each peg with slow, practiced movements, listening intently after every adjustment.
It’s a skill.
It’s annoyingly precise.
It’s also hot as hell.
And totally off-limits.
I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing my arms to relax, hating how warm my skin feels just from watching him work.
“You don’t use a tuner?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
C’mon, Paige. Don’t ask dumb-ass questions.
He still doesn’t glance up, just removes the pick from his mouth and sets it on the amp in front of him. “Don’t need one.”
His fingers move again, plucking another note, then adjusting. The muscles in his forearm flex subtly as he twists the peg, veins visible just beneath his skin, the ring on his thumb glinting under the studio lights.
My gaze lingers longer than it should, and I blink hard, dragging my focus to the window into the control room behind him instead.
“How long have you been playing?” I ask, trying to shake the growing heat prickling up my spine.
Like I’m exhausting him, he exhales through his nose. “Since I could hold a guitar.”
“Same.”
That earns me a look, an unimpressed flick of his brown eyes, like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or not.
“Drumsticks,” I clarify quickly.
He says nothing. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t nod. Just goes back to tuning.
The silence stretches, painful now, and I shift my weight, toe tapping lightly against the floor, waiting for him to throw me a bone. A single word. A grunt. Something. Whatever game we’re playing, Maddox is winning, and he’s not even trying.
I take a small step closer, like getting in range might provoke a reaction that actually lasts longer than a few seconds. “You don’t like me, do you?”
His focus doesn’t leave his guitar, and there’s a flat edge to his voice as he says, “It doesn’t matter if I like you or not.”
“Right,” I breathe out as my stomach twists.