Chapter 7 – Rafael
RAFAEL
Phoenix read the email out loud twice.
I made him stop when he started on a third pass, snatching the phone away and scrolling through it myself. The words blur together—management oversight, non-negotiable terms, tour preparation—but the message is clear enough.
Meridian doesn't trust us to handle this ourselves.
Now we're all arranged in the living room like some kind of dysfunctional family portrait.
Bells is cross-legged on her floor pillow, that spot she's claimed as her own.
Phoenix sprawls across the sectional, carefully positioned at the opposite end from where I've perched on the arm.
Close enough to seem normal, far enough that our knees won't accidentally brush.
I thought things would get less awkward after our grocery store outing. They haven’t. But I guess that would require an actual conversation, not… whatever the fuck this is.
Now there's this thing between us.
This awareness.
Every time our eyes meet, I feel it.
And Rex is watching.
I catch him doing it again, that single visible eye flicking between Phoenix and me. He's stationed himself by the window, backlit by Seattle's gray morning light, and he hasn't moved in what feels like an eternity. Just stands there like a gargoyle, observing.
He knows something's off.
Rex always knows.
"A manager," I say finally, breaking the silence because someone has to. "They're giving us a babysitter."
"Assigning," Phoenix corrects. His voice is neutral. Professional. "Like we're children who can't be trusted with scissors."
I don't look at him. Can't. Because if I do, Rex will see whatever's written on my face, and I'm not ready for that conversation.
"Non-negotiable," Rex says flatly, still not turning around. "That's what it says. Non-negotiable."
"I can read, Rex."
"Then you understand we don't have a choice."
The tension ratchets up another notch. I feel Phoenix shift on the sectional, and my whole body goes alert in a way that's deeply inconvenient.
Get it together. Focus.
"Carmine Caruso, huh?" Bells pulls her laptop onto her knees, blessedly oblivious to the undercurrents in the room. Or maybe not oblivious, and just choosing not to acknowledge them. "Anyone know anything about him?"
Silence.
"Helpful. Thanks."
She starts typing while I pretend to study a very interesting spot on the wall. In my peripheral vision, I see Rex's head turn slightly. His gaze lands on me, heavy and assessing, before sliding to Phoenix.
He definitely knows.
"He managed Neon Veil for their last two albums," Bells reports. "And before that, some indie band called The Architects that had a decent run in the mid-2010s."
"Neon Veil's last two albums were their worst," I mutter, grateful for something to focus on that isn't our awkward pack dynamics.
"Correlation isn't causation," Phoenix counters.
"He's also credited with..." Bells pauses, eyebrows climbing. "Huh. Turning around Blackwater's PR disaster after their drummer got arrested."
That cuts through the awkwardness.
"The heroin thing?" I sit up straighter. "That was a fucking nightmare. They were basically blacklisted for a year."
"And then they came back with their highest-charting album," Bells says. "Carmine handled the whole media rehabilitation. Controlled the narrative, rebuilt their image, got them back on tour within eighteen months."
Rex finally turns from the window. His eye finds Bells.
"So he knows how to handle damage control," Rex says slowly.
"Looks like."
"That's... actually useful."
From Rex, that’s high praise.
"When's he supposed to show up?" Phoenix asks, oblivious or pretending to be. "The email said something about an initial meeting."
"Today," Rex says. "Two o'clock."
"Today?" I nearly fall off the couch arm in my haste to stand, putting blessed distance between myself and Phoenix. "You didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention this earlier?”
"I'm telling you now."
"Rex, it's eleven-thirty!"
"Then you have two and a half hours to prepare."
I want to strangle him. The urge is familiar, comfortable even—much easier to navigate than whatever the hell is happening with Phoenix.
"Prepare how?" I demand. "What does preparing even mean in this context? Should we rehearse? Put on suits? Bake cookies?"
"Don't bake anything," Phoenix says quickly. "Remember last time."
I turn to glare at him. "That was one kitchen fire—"
"The fire department came, Raf."
Bells stands, cutting through our bickering with the kind of authority she's been wielding more and more lately. "Okay. Here's what we do. We shower. We put on clothes that don't look like we slept in them."
She doesn't look at me, but she doesn't have to. I'm acutely aware that I'm wearing yesterday's polo, rumpled and probably smelling like the cigarette I snuck on the fire escape at 3 AM.
"And we act like professionals who have their shit together," she finishes.
"Bold of you to assume we have our shit together," Phoenix mumbles.
"We're going to fake it." She plants her hands on her hips, and for a moment I see it.
The frontman she's becoming, the leader we didn't know we needed.
"This guy's job is to help us tour. That's it.
He's not here to judge us or spy on us or sabotage anything.
He wants the tour to succeed because his success depends on it. "
Rex's eye narrows again, but this time it's not directed at Phoenix and me. He's reassessing her.
"She's right," he says after a moment. "Carmine needs us to perform well. That aligns his interests with ours."
"For now," I add, because someone has to be the voice of cynicism around here.
"For now is all that matters."
The room settles into something that's not quite agreement but isn't active resistance either.
"Two o'clock," Bells repeats. "Everyone get really normal, really fast.”
She heads for her room. Rex disappears toward the studio without another word.
Which leaves Phoenix and me.
Alone.
The silence stretches between us, thick and charged. I should go. Should shower, find a clean shirt, do literally anything other than stand here marinating in awkwardness.
"I need to find a shirt," I say quickly, already moving.
"Raf, can we just talk about…"
"Two o'clock, man. We only have two hours."
I'm halfway down the hall before he can respond, heart pounding against my ribs.
Coward, I think.
But I keep walking anyway.