Chapter Seven
Maddox
Goddamn Eli and his mentioning of that damn account.
I check it again on reflex—or obsession. Let’s call it what it is—careful never to leave a mark. Not a like, not a save, not a follow. But it’s there in my search history, waiting, tempting.
Because that day he showed us the unknown drummer again, it kicked off a fantasy I never thought would turn real. But the mystery of who she is isn’t solved; it’s detonated. Paige Erikson is behind one of the hottest musician accounts I’ve seen.
My thumb still hovers over the screen, ready to refresh in an instant, hoping for something new.
The worst part? It consumed my entire weekend, pulling it up at midnight like a guy with no self-control when all I had to do was wait till morning. Wait to walk inside and see her live—sticks in her hand, fire in her blood, getting lost in the rhythm.
And yet, even knowing who she is now, it still doesn’t explain that flicker of recognition I feel every time she plays with her necklace, or when she hums to herself when she thinks no one’s listening, or the light and effortless way she laughs.
I’ve heard it so many times now, especially when she’s with Eli, but it lands like a punch I wasn’t prepared for every time. It clings, wedges into my mind, gnaws at the raw edges I haven’t been able to smooth since she first walked in.
Ten days. Ten fucking days, and it’s all I can think about, all on repeat, like a track I can’t kill.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breathing out through my nose, but it’s useless. Everything about her scratches at something half-buried regardless of knowing the link between her and @BehindTheSnare. And the harder I try to uncover it, the deeper it burrows.
It’s the way she moves, how gravity shifts around her, especially when she plays. Body rolling with the beat, eyes closing, lips parting…
Always a performance, and it’s not even for me. But I watch anyway. And I hate that I notice, hate how she’s in my head, under my skin, and just when I think I’m done obsessing, it starts again.
The door bangs against the wall as I storm into the studio, shoulders tense, already annoyed with something I’m not ready to name.
“Are we doing this or not?” I grunt, not even acknowledging the others as I swing my case strap over my head. My fingers move on instinct, unzipping and pulling out my guitar, tuning without thought, the muscle memory action layered over frustration.
“Did we forget to mention, when Maddox wakes up on the wrong side of the bed, he’s a grumpy bastard,” Eli jokes as he jumps up from the couch and plugs in.
“That might’ve slipped your mind.” Paige laughs, moving behind the kit, quiet focus lining her forehead, like this is just another set to nail.
“You’ll get used to it.”
A pressure builds behind my teeth, a dull ache setting in as they murmur around me, getting into position.
Beau gives Eli a look before kicking us off, his fingers dancing over the strings, a smooth melody spilling from his guitar.
Eli follows, the bassline low and thick, easing into the spaces between.
Normally, this would settle the noise inside my head, bring a reprieve from the whispers, the worries, the constant stress just long enough to let the music take over and allow me to breathe.
But not today. Not when I can finally hear what my bandmates are doing.
Picking a track where the drums don’t hit until halfway through the intro. A soft launch, a warm welcome, a silent fucking handhold.
Behind the fucking snare shouldn’t need this.
Annoyance spikes in my blood, a continuous reaction I can’t seem to shake when it comes to her. It’s not an ego thing; it’s not that I feel threatened by her talent.
It’s something I loathe to admit and know doesn’t make sense, but it exists all the same.
I’m a guitarist. She’s a drummer. We aren’t even competing, yet the more I think about her, observe her every move, it’s turning me into a guy I don’t recognize. One I’m slowly starting to despise.
And all because I’m jealous.
I’ve poured everything into this band. Every verse, every riff, every late night spent writing.
Built it with Beau, piece by piece, from nothing but bloody hands and fucked-up chords.
Faced the label rejections, the empty gigs, the goddamn cracks in the road, clawing through every inch of this industry just to be taken seriously.
But then Paige showed up, stepping into the gap like Austin left it purposely just for her.
Her timing is perfect, and I can see the girl now, the girl I’ve been watching on my screen at one a.m., careful not to give myself away. Her sticks glide over the kit like it’s an extension of her body, the way she plays…it’s reminiscent of the way I play guitar.
My fingers dig into the strings as I come in last, dragging the chord raw and gritting. I barely register the melody, just the burn in my gut as we play a track we haven’t touched in years.
Not since…
I shove the thought away, easily replacing it with the acrid ones that circle my stomach like vultures. It’s pathetic, the way I’m acting, but like a scab you never let heal, I keep picking.
Singing, the words pour out of me like always, but they feel disconnected. The chills I usually get at the bridge don’t come. I barely even hear them.
Not when all I feel is contempt. For a girl who has more talent in her body than most musicians earn in their lifetime.
She’s syncing to me, reading me in a way she shouldn’t be able to. Not yet.
I glance at Beau as he joins in on the chorus, his voice slipping under mine. Normally, I’d feed off it, build the energy, ride that harmony like I do when we’re live, living in the moment our fans lose their shit over.
But I can’t. I’m stuck on the loop that is Paige Erikson.
Focus, Maddox.
My eyes find her again, waiting for—needing—a mistake, a stumble, something I know she won’t give me. But if she does, if she cracks just once, I’ll be right.
She doesn’t belong here; she’s the outsider, not me.
But she just keeps going, nailing every transition. My pulse hammers behind my ribs, my brain scrambles to make it fit. People like her don’t end up in bands like ours by chance. They’re headhunted, signed, molded by the industry before their first gig.
And yet she’s here.
So why the fuck does it feel like a setup?
The thought wedges into my chest, fusing with the dark and ugly parts that only came alive the more I saw her on screen. Performing like she had the world at her feet. And I snap, doing something only an asshole would do.
I change the structure mid-loop.
Not the tempo, not the groove, just…the math.
Four bars become five. A small shift, subtle really, barely noticeable unless you’re counting. Unless you’re paying attention. The kind of thing that exposes who’s riding on instinct and who’s just guessing.
This is sabotage, a test she didn’t ask for, a way to see her finally break.
Paige’s head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. There’s a flicker, confusion, maybe panic, and her sticks stutter for half a beat. It’s almost nothing. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mistake.
But I don’t blink.
I catch her face when realization hits, slamming straight across her expression. Her brows draw in, her jaw firms, and then she… adjusts. Like it never happened, like she’d been ready for it all along.
Out of the corner of my eye, Beau’s head tilts slightly, his hand faltering on a chord for a split second. Eli glances at me, then at Paige, a frown forming at the corners of his mouth. But we keep playing.
Paige keeps her eyes on me now, fierce and unyielding, a challenge in her stare. Come on, it says. Do it again. I fucking dare you.
Beau’s gaze jumps between us, not missing the silent battle taking place across the room. Eli mutters something too low to hear over the music, matching the shift in rhythm like I knew he would.
My grip tightens around the neck of my guitar as Beau slides into his solo, the song fading beneath the pounding in my ears. My mouth dries out, vision narrows, and still, I can’t stop watching her.
She plays through the off-kilter structure like it’s natural.
Each hit of the toms a thud through my chest, through my ribs, through everything I’m failing to keep under control.
It’s not the music, or adrenaline or tempo.
It’s her, reading me without permission and with a defiance in her eyes like she knows I want to knock her off balance and she’s begging me to try.
My cock twitches, heat pulsing low and powerfully under my skin. And before I can stop it, I picture her again, bent over the kit, breathless and furious, mouth sharp with threats. That stare, that challenge. Me fucking that defiance out of her until her legs shake and her pride breaks.
It barrels through me like a drug, filthy and vivid, and I grit my teeth, shoving it down, trying to convince myself it’s not what it looks like.
This isn’t attraction. Isn’t lust or obsession.
Just…adrenaline.
A power thing. A dominance thing.
It has to be.
The song hits its final coda, lopsided and odd, and Paige is on her feet before the last note fades. Her stool crashes behind her as she storms around the kit, chest heaving, radiating heat like a threat as she stops right in front of me.
“What the hell was that?” she snarls, sticks clenched in one hand, prodding the tip against my chest. “Next time you pull that shit, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I cut in, stepping closer, letting the wood dig in deep. I want the fight. I don’t know why, but I fucking need it.
“We’re supposed to be a band, asshole. That means no surprises mid-song, no curveballs, no bullshit.
Don’t set people up to fail.” Her eyes blaze, fire dancing around her blue irises.
“The first few times I let it slide. Clearly you wanted to prove your dick is bigger and needed the win, so I let it go. Haven’t I passed your goddamn initiation tests already? ”
Yes.
And that’s what’s messing me up the most.
“Why? Not up for the challenge?” I taunt, leaning enough to get into her face.
A vein ticks in her temple, her jaw flexes once, twice, before she shifts her hand and shoves me. Harder than I expect. I stumble back a step, nostrils flaring, teeth bared, her touch fire, her rage pure gasoline.
“Fuck you,” she spits, spinning around. Her hair whips across my chest, leaving behind a trace of something sweet and maddening that I can’t un-smell. “I didn’t sign up for this. If this is what you do during practice, what the hell are you going to do when we’re live?”
She storms out, throwing her sticks aside, the pair bouncing off the couch, then clattering onto the floor. The door slams hard enough to shake the amps, and all I can do is stand there, heart jackhammering.
“Maddox? What the hell?” Eli yells, already chasing after her, Beau close behind.
I don’t follow, rooted to the spot with my jaw clenched, haunted by the anger in her eyes, the fury in her voice like it’s branded into me.
And worse?
I want more.
So much more.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I growl, kicking out, my foot connecting with one of the drumsticks, sending them skittering across the studio. They hit the far wall with a thud that echoes, the sound making my stomach clench, the regret instant.
If someone did that to my guitar, treated it like it was disposable, like it was nothing, I’d lose my shit.
Fuck.