Chapter Thirteen
Paige
“One away,” Eli grumbles from the couch. Lying on his back, his legs dangle over the armrest, phone held above his face. “Always one away, and then boom…no more mistakes remaining.”
“What game are you playing now?” I ask from the floor. Legs crossed, my tablet perches on my knee, my latest video halfway through editing as I unwrap a sugary rope of candy that somehow makes the process more exciting.
“Connections,” he replies, jabbing at his screen. “The one that makes you question your intelligence every damn day.”
“I thought you did that without the help of a game?” Beau teases, threading a new string through the bridge, the thin wire catching the light as he snakes it up the body of his guitar to the headstock.
“Ha-ha,” Eli grumbles. Sitting up, he tosses his phone down next to him. “Let me wallow in my self-pity for a second, okay?”
Hiding a smile, I keep my head lowered, chewing slowly as I cut unnecessary footage from the recording, my tone playful as I ask, “So, you’re mad at a game for being too smart?”
“I’m mad at it for trying to fool me,” Eli says with a dramatic groan. “It pretends it’s just about word matching, but suddenly I’m questioning if ‘willow’ is a tree, a color, or a Taylor Swift song.”
“Willow’s a color?” Beau asks, twisting the tuning peg until the new string’s taut on the fretboard.
“It’s a shade of green,” Maddox says as he steps into the room, lips in a tight line, a laptop and notebook held under his arm.
My finger freezes over the screen, eyes bugging out as my head jerks up, nearly choking on the end of the Nerd Rope.
“What?” He catches my reaction before setting his things on a table and pulling out a seat.
Shaking my head, I hold up a hand defensively, unable to mask my surprise. “Nothing. Just didn’t think you’d know that.”
It’s been a few days since the blow-up—at least, that’s what I’ve started calling it—and since then, things have been…weird. Not icy or openly tense, just…different. Like he’s trying to reset everything without actually owning what happened and apologizing.
No, Maddox has his own brand of damage control.
My gear is always set up the way I like when I arrive. He offers feedback in a generous, albeit neutral tone. And he doesn’t argue over fill structure or tempo when I throw in something new.
It messes with me, the way he doesn’t say much but still somehow pays attention.
Like yesterday, he swapped out my busted bass pedal before I even got here.
Didn’t mention it, didn’t ask, just…fixed it.
That’s not the Maddox I met on day one and every day since.
And it’s not the kind of thing you do unless you care, at least a little bit.
Which makes no sense.
It’s like he thinks if he’s helpful enough—hands me a cable without grunting, drops a random fact like it’s no big deal—that it’ll somehow even the scales.
And maybe it could. Maybe if he just said the damn word sorry, this tension between us would finally crack and bleed out and we could move on. But he hasn’t, so instead, we tiptoe around it, pretending everything’s fine.
The staring still happens, except instead of the calculated gaze I’d gotten used to, I see what was hiding behind it; heat, smoldering in the depths of his dark eyes, and I don’t miss the way I like having them on me.
That I like when I catch him looking, only to glance away, thinking he hasn’t been caught.
The too-long pause that makes my skin break out in goosebumps. The quiet tension he thinks he hides when I pass by closely and he stiffens, not from discomfort, but like he’s holding himself still on purpose.
It shouldn’t affect me like this. I’m a grown-ass woman who can keep it under control, especially when I’m around egotistical musicians like Maddox Knox. But it does, and it sparks that part inside me where nothing good could come from it.
Nearly three weeks of working beside him, and I still can’t figure him out. I’ve spent every day learning his rhythms, watching his moods shift like the weather; stormy, brooding, never still. He’s not exactly an open book. Hell, I’m not sure he’s a book at all.
“Helped paint my grandma’s kitchen that color before she passed,” Maddox answers the question I forgot Eli asked, flipping open his laptop and turning to a fresh page in his notebook. “Then her front door; she loved it that much.”
He says it like it doesn’t matter, like the memory doesn’t still sit in the back of his mind. But something in his voice, off beat and hollow, makes my smile falter. I expected sarcasm, an eye roll, not…that.
A heaviness settles in as I look at him, really look at him, and for a split second, he’s not Maddox the control freak, the sharp-tongued frontman. He’s just Maddox, a boy who once did something kind for someone he loved.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I whisper.
His eyes flick up, dark and unreadable, stirring emotions within me that sit just beneath the surface. For a moment, we stare at each other, and it almost looks like he’s going to say something, but just like that, his walls snap back into place.
“Thanks,” he mutters, attention returning to his screen.
“Fuck’s sake, Mad,” Eli groans. “Trust you to bring down the vibe.”
Maddox flips him off with a smirk, grabbing his pen and jotting something down.
“Paige, that guy who was getting my dragon tattoo had his final sitting today. Wanna see?” Eli announces and jumps to his feet, coming to stand in front of me, holding out his phone.
“Oh, yeah, show me.” I take it, zooming in and out on the image of the dragon tattoo spanning someone’s back, wings stretched over his shoulder blades, the tail curling along his spine. “Eli, this is… Wow.”
“Thanks.” The tips of his ears tint pink as he pockets his phone, rocking on his heels as he looks around the room before walking behind Maddox and peering down at the page. “Whatcha doing?”
“Jesus, do you have to stand so close?” Maddox nudges him back, shielding the notebook with his forearm.
“Do you have to always be so sneaky?” Eli shoots back. “You’ve been tweaking that same verse for days. Just finish it, dude.”
“It’s not ready.”
“You say that with every song.” Eli groans, and I don’t miss the slight stiffening of Maddox’s shoulders. “You know you don’t have to do it all yourself, right?”
“Considering you and Beau can’t string a lyric together, I have no choice,” Maddox mutters, keeping his head down.
“No, I mean, now we have an actual lyricist in the room.” Eli winks at me before shaking Maddox’s shoulders playfully.
He doesn’t answer, just scrawls on the page with a little too much pressure.
“Or not,” Eli mumbles.
“Yeah, if you’re stuck, ask Paige for help,” Beau agrees as he stands by Eli. “We’re not even recording it yet. No one cares if your rhyme scheme is two syllables off.”
Beau eyes him, then glances at me as Maddox’s fingers whiten around his pen.
“I’m good,” he says, tone clipped.
Well, that doesn’t sting.
Beau sighs and sets his guitar to the side, pushing to his feet. “Alright. Coffee run to get me through the rest of the day. Who’s in?”
“Rise and Grind?” Eli asks, perking up.
“Obviously, gotta love that staff discount.” Beau grabs his hoodie, thumbing behind him. “You guys want anything?”
Chewing on my lower lip, I nod slowly. “Sure, only if you promise not to get me that hazelnut cold brew again. I couldn’t sleep. My hands were still shaking from it like twelve-hours later.”
Beau chuckles, grimacing. “Yeah, that’s basically rocket fuel in a cup. My bad.”
The guys laugh, and it sounds easy, my chest expanding with this quiet knowledge that while things might be rocky with Maddox, the three of us have gelled. We’ve become a unit, a team. We just need the final piece to slot in alongside us.
“Mad, what about you, dude?”
Glancing over at Maddox, I catch his eyes on our bandmates, at the way Eli brushes Beau’s arm as they jostle each other on the way to the door. He doesn’t speak, a muscle in his cheek pulsing.
“Maybe later.”
“C’mon,” Eli protests, then spins around and nearly crashes into Beau. “Take a break. Walk. Blink.” He sucks in a deliberate breath, sliding his hands up his chest as he fills his lungs. “Breathe in the fresh air.”
“I’ll do all those things after I’m done.”
“But I need you to be my wingman for the cute barista,” he whines, laughing as Beau grabs his shoulders and ushers him out.
“Beau can help,” Maddox fires back.
“No, he won’t. He said he won’t hook me up with his coworkers.”
“Sounds like a you problem, then,” Maddox says with a smirk.
The door closes behind them, and just like that, the energy in the room shifts, like the air changes pressure. I’m not looking at him, but I feel him all the same.
He’s still at the table, the light scratches of his pen replaced by a rhythmic tap as he knocks it against the wood.
Swallowing, I fiddle with my necklace, the small P pendant sliding back and forth, as I try not to look at him.
Instead, humming softly to myself, I finish up my next post for @BehindTheSnare.
It isn’t conscious, just a melody I’d caught coming from his guitar earlier, a note that didn’t quite resonate at the time. I’m barely aware I’m doing it until his voice cuts through the sound. “What were you humming?”
Startled, I glance up, his eyes narrowed as he watches me.
“I…uh…I didn’t realize I was doing anything.”
He studies me for a second before nodding, more to himself than to me. “Sounded better than what I’ve got.”
It’s not quite a compliment, but I’ll take it.
I’m about to ask if he needs any help—because the way he’s sitting makes it obvious he’s stuck—but he beats me to it, snapping his notebook shut with a sigh and digging his fingers into the bridge of his nose.
“I need to check in with Thea,” he mutters, lifting his phone.
I blink. “Oh, okay.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look at me, lingering at the table before adding, “I just need to check if everything’s sorted for the show on Friday.”