Chapter Eleven
Maddox
“What’s going on?” I ask as soon as I walk into the studio the next morning.
The guys are sitting at the table, to-go cups from Beau’s coffee shop in front of them. Beau nods toward an empty seat, silently pushing one of the drinks toward me. Setting my case aside, I join them.
“So is this some type of intervention or something?” I joke, lowering down, pausing halfway when I catch Eli’s grimace, unspoken words passing between them.
“Not exactly.” Picking at the cardboard sleeve, he avoids my eyes as I sit down fully.
“We just wanted to talk,” Beau says. “Before Paige gets here.”
“If she gets here,” I mutter, popping the lid and breathing in the nutty aroma infused in the steam.
“She’s coming back,” Eli says almost defensively. “She’ll just be a little later than normal.”
“And how do you know that?” I ask, trying to tame the agitation already wanting to come to the surface, because out of all of us, Paige is usually the first one in and the last one out. And walking in today, seeing them instead of her, my heart lurched.
Maybe her maybe was a no after all.
“Because I texted her last night, begging her not to quit.”
I straighten, my jaw tightening. “You did what?”
“That’s not important.” Beau holds up his hand and takes a deep breath. “Listen, yesterday was…a lot.”
“Not just yesterday,” Eli mumbles.
“For everyone.” Beau continues, ignoring him.
“She should’ve told us who she was,” I say, crossing my arms.
“Maybe. But when did you expect her to tell you, anyway?” he fires back, not angry, just honest. “When you were being so nice to her? Making her feel welcome?”
The dig hits, low and true and I drag a hand over my mouth, the stubble on my jaw prickling against my fingers. My chest’s too tight, lungs burning with all the things I don’t know how to voice.
I could pretend it’s about professionalism, or band dynamics.
But none of that explains why I can’t fucking stop goading her, that each time I watch her play, I’m drawn in by her.
And all I want to do is push her, see the challenge in her eyes that makes me feel alive for the first time in nearly two years.
“How am I supposed to trust someone who walked in hiding shit?”
“You’re acting like she’s some undercover spy trying to infiltrate the band to bring us down.
” Eli huffs, pushing his empty cup away.
“She didn’t want any special treatment because of who she is.
She wanted to prove she could make it on her own.
Surely, musician to musician, you can understand that? ”
“Of course I do, but she’s a Deveraux. What happens when people find out? Every win will look like a handout. Or… What if someone bigger gives her an offer and she takes it?”
Fear coats my questions, because there’s a very real chance that could happen. And if I keep treating her like I have? I don’t think I could blame her if she dropped us—me—on our asses.
Or worse, what if she said something? One word to her dad and we’re done.
Kit Deveraux makes careers, and he sure as hell can end them too. No record deals, no tour slots, no second chances.
“Then we let her go,” Beau says, shrugging. “But don’t drive her out just to prove something you’ve made up in your head.”
I don’t respond, because contrary to what the guys think, I actually do want her in our band.
Not that I’d ever admit it, but when she plays, something inside me starts to believe that we actually stand a chance at making it.
And that scares the fucking shit out of me.
Because if she quit, it might be worse than the day Austin left.
“And for the record,” Eli adds. “I don’t think she’d ever do that. Paige seems pretty adamant to keep the link to her dad a secret.”
Beau leans forward, fingers clasped together. “We’re not asking you to be best friends. We’re just asking you not to be the reason we lose her.”
“And the reason we lose this shot,” Eli says.
“We’ve got two weeks before we tour, Maddox. Two. If something explodes between you before then, we don’t have time to fix it.”
Beau pushes to his feet, scrunching up a paper bag with crumbs on it, taking it to the trash. I’m quiet, glancing between them, replaying everything they’ve just said. They’re not yelling, not shouting, just…disappointed. Tired.
“I didn’t mean to—” I cut off, heat crawling up my spine.
“Act like a child?” Eli asks as he gives me a pointed look.
Beau laughs humorlessly, gesturing toward him. “If he’s saying that, you know it must be true.”
“I would be offended, but…” He shrugs, half-laughing, half-huffing before taking on a rare, serious tone. “Dude, she actually wants to be here… And if you got to know her, you’d realize that she’s sweet and funny and really fucking talented…”
I bristle. Hearing the way he describes her makes this sort of…primalness peek its head up. How the hell does he even know this?
“Some of the artists Paige has worked with in the past…” He blows out a breath. “Talk about impressive. Aiden Fitzgerald… Mia Wood… The motherfucking Nobel.”
The names rattle off like they’re nobodies, as if he’s listing indie singers still trying to make it from the bedrooms. But they’re not, far from it. If anything, it’s like she was ghostwriting for Harry Styles or sitting in the recording booth with Taylor Swift.
“Stop glaring. I’m not fucking her or anything. I just went down a rabbit hole after she said the whole thing about being in the charts yesterday,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Although she is the hottest one in the band by far.”
My spine snaps straight. “What?”
“Calm down, caveman.”
Beau cuts a look between us, his lip curling like the answer’s already written on my face. “Wait, is that what this has all been about? You’re into her?”
“I’m not—” I grind the words out, low and clipped, but my fists curl, giving me away.
“Right,” Eli mutters under his breath. “Because throwing curveballs during sets, staring at her like she’s both a threat and a meal, and looking like you’re about to lunge over this table to kill me is totally normal bandmate behavior.”
I move without thinking, pushing my chair back hard enough that it topples over, crashing to the floor. “Watch it.”
Eli doesn’t flinch, just grins at me like this is one big joke as Beau throws an arm out, slamming his palm into my chest. “Okay, enough. Eli, stop being a dick and winding him up, and Maddox, sit the fuck down and work out what’s going on in that thick head of yours before you screw us all over.”
“Look, I’m not trying to stir shit.” Eli exhales, dragging a hand through his hair and lifting both palms. “And for the record? I’d never go there. Not with her.” Shaking his head, he mutters, “I’m not suicidal.”
“And we both know you’re not stupid to mess around with Kit Deveraux’s daughter.” Beau stares me down, voice like steel. “Not after what happened to—”
“I’m not,” I snap, but the long silence follows as I look at my bandmates screams they don’t believe me.
And I don’t either, because I don’t fucking know what I’m doing.
My stomach twists, nausea edging behind my ribs, because they don’t know. They don’t know that I’ve woken up thinking about her every day since we met. That every rehearsal I feel her behind me in a way I never did with Austin. That she’s somehow fucking rewiring me from the inside out.
“All we’re asking is that you fix this,” Beau says as he turns and walks to his guitar. “Figure your shit out before it’s too late.”
They’re right. I’ve been a complete asshole, and not because she deserves it, but because I saw something in her that terrified me.
And now that I know who she really is, if she saw the whole picture, if she knew the one thing I’ve buried so deep it now claws at me worse than before, she wouldn’t just walk. She’d fucking run.
So yeah, maybe I was being a dick, for reasons other than her last name. Maybe, subconsciously, I was trying to push her away, make her hate me.
Because it’s inevitable anyway.
Because it’s better that she hate the version of me I choose to show.
And not the one I actually am.