Chapter 29 Like I Might Throw Up
LIKE I MIGHT THROW UP
DYLAN
Superposition By Young The Giant
I find Morgan in a quiet alcove near the side of the stage, taking a moment away from the crowd after Jack’s set. She’s staring at her phone, a wistful expression on her face when I approach. She quickly tucks it away when she notices me.
“You okay?” I ask, leaning against the wall beside her.
She offers a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Taking a breather. It’s a lot.”
“Everything’s going perfectly,” I say. I study her face, noting the tension around her eyes. “That’s not it, is it?”
She hesitates, shows me her phone screen—a photo of Hazel in a blue butterfly costume, wings glittering under stage lights. “Hazel’s ballet recital is tonight.”
“Ah,” I say softly, understanding dawning. “Rough timing.”
“It’s always rough timing,” she sighs. “There’s always something—a crisis at the label, an artist needing attention, a showcase to plan. I’m always splitting myself in half.”
“After tonight, the SoundStream distribution deal is practically guaranteed,” I remind her gently. “You’ll be able to breathe a little easier.”
She shakes her head, a rueful smile playing at her lips. “Will I? There will just be another crisis, another deadline. That’s the business.”
I take her hand, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. The simple touch feels intimate in the dimly lit alcove. “Maybe. But you’re handling it better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Her eyes meet mine, gratitude and something deeper reflected there. “Thank you for saying that.”
We stand in comfortable silence for a moment, our fingers entwined. The sounds of the showcase—the murmur of the crowd, techs calling to each other, the distant thump of bass—create a cocoon around our private moment.
“You know,” she says finally, “I’ve been thinking about fashion lately.”
“Yeah?”
“Working with Cirque Noire on the artist fittings… I miss it. The creativity, the vision…” She trails off, looking almost guilty at the admission. “Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed in New York.”
I might never have seen her again, never known what it was like to kiss her, to hold her. The idea of a world where our paths never intertwined makes something in my chest constrict painfully. I push the selfish thought away.
“You shouldn’t have had to give that up,” I say softly. “You’re too talented to just walk away from it.”
She offers me a small, sad smile. “Maybe in another life. One where I’m not constantly choosing between being there for Hazel and saving my father’s company.”
The moment stretches between us, comfortable despite the wistfulness. I take a breath, ready to tell her what’s coming next.
A stagehand appears suddenly at the entrance to our alcove. “Mr. Kernish-Grant? Your fathers are looking for you. And Hollow Reign is about to go on.”
The moment shatters. Morgan straightens, professional mode switching back on instantly. “You should go,” she says, squeezing my hand once before letting go. “We’ll talk later.”
I start to leave, then stop, toward her. Something pulls me in like gravity, impossible to resist. In two steps, I’m close enough to cup her cheek as I press my lips to hers.
The kiss is brief but intense, my thumb brushing her cheek as I pull away. Her eyes remain closed for a heartbeat longer, lips still parted, a flush spreading across her cheeks.
She blinks up at me, momentarily speechless, her fingers touching her lips. “I…”
I smile, enjoying the rare sight of Morgan Clemson at a loss for words. “Find me after?” I ask, already backing away.
She nods. “I will.”
As I follow the stagehand toward where my fathers are waiting, I glance back to see Morgan still standing where I left her, looking slightly dazed.
The mix of vulnerability and strength in her posture makes my chest ache.
I hope more than ever my surprise goes as planned—that seeing her design on Ivy will remind her she doesn’t have to choose between her father’s legacy and her own dreams.
The Avalon thrums with electric anticipation as Hollow Reign prepares to take the stage.
I stand near the side entrance, each bass note resonating through the soles of my Converse, the air charged with a mixture of industry expectations and expensive perfume.
The vintage chandeliers fade to a whisper, transforming the art deco moldings into living sculptures of shadow and light.
Industry executives, music journalists, and passionate fans crowd the floor—the perfect blend we’d envisioned when Morgan and I finalized the showcase lineup, each person representing a different piece of the industry puzzle we’re trying to solve together.
Wade and Adam are positioned near the front, standing shoulder to shoulder, as they have throughout my entire life.
Wade in his perfectly tailored navy suit with those meticulous folds and impeccable stitching, Adam in a burgundy blazer with subtle gold threading that gleams with his every movement—his idea of “toning it down” for a professional event.
They’re scanning the room, occasionally nodding to familiar faces, but I can tell by the way Wade keeps checking his watch and Adam keeps straightening his already-straight tie that they’re waiting for something more significant than another networking opportunity.
They’re waiting to meet Liam.
My stomach twists with a mixture of pride and nervousness I haven’t felt since my first day at Stonewall’s helm. This isn’t just another band taking the stage. This is my brother—a phrase that still feels foreign on my tongue but increasingly right in my heart.
I make my way toward them, navigating through the crowd that parts enough to let me through.
Whiskey and designer cologne linger in my wake, along with snippets of conversation.
A hand catches my arm—some A&R guy from Apex with questions about Collins.
I offer something non-committal before extracting myself.
Tonight isn’t just about business deals.
It’s about family—the one I was born into and the one I’m building, brick by careful brick.
“There he is,” Adam says when I reach them, pulling me into a quick embrace that smells like his signature cologne. “The boy wonder himself.”
Wade’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing firmly.
I can feel the nervous energy radiating off both of them, though they’re trying to hide it.
“How are you feeling?” Adam asks quietly, his usual perceptiveness cutting through the noise.
“Like I might throw up,” I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. “But in a good way?”
The house lights dim completely, and the crowd’s energy shifts from social buzz to focused anticipation.
The room goes black for three heartbeats, then a single spotlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating Phoenix’s distinctive silhouette.
The crowd surges forward slightly, a collective intake of breath.
More lights rise slowly—Casey and Theo appear, then finally Liam at the back, settling behind the drum kit.
Even in the half-light, I can see the concentration on his face.
The lights explode in synchronized blues and purples, and the band launches into their opening number—hard, fast, and tight.
Liam’s rhythm work creates a crisp foundation while his bass drum drives the beat forward with relentless precision.
The crowd responds immediately, bodies moving in unison, the floor beneath us vibrating with collective energy.
I catch sight of her across the room, clipboard in hand, directing staff with calm efficiency. Even amid the chaos, she radiates control, her green eyes sharp as they track a thousand details at once. Our eyes meet briefly, and she offers a small, private smile before turning to her clipboard.
My fathers watch intently, pride and curiosity evident in their expressions as the music swells around us.
“Holy shit,” I hear Wade mutter as Liam executes a particularly complex rhythm pattern, his hands a blur over the kit. “That’s impressive control.”
The set builds, each song stronger than the last, until they hit their newest single—the one I’d heard them working on during those late-night studio sessions after Liam returned from Arizona.
Liam switches to brushes for the bridge, creating a textured rhythm that ripples across my skin.
The crowd responds immediately, heads nodding in approval.
Even the bartenders have stopped pouring to watch.
As the final notes fade, the audience erupts.
Phoenix takes a theatrical bow, then gestures toward his bandmates.
When he points to Liam, the crowd’s cheers intensify, and I’m struck by a similarity I hadn’t noticed before—the shape of his eyes when he smiles, the same as my own, though his are darker.
Wade turns to me, eyes bright with unmistakable pride. “He’s exceptional. That subtle shift in rhythm during the bridge was flawless.”
“Told you,” I say, unable to keep the smile from my face.
“He reminds me of when you used to play with Jesse,” Wade adds. “Same intensity, same feel for the rhythm.”
The observation hits me unexpectedly. I’d noticed similar mannerisms, the way we both talk with our hands, the shared expressions—but I hadn’t considered how our musical instincts might connect us too.
As the band exits the stage, I motion to my fathers. “Come on. Time for introductions.”
Backstage is controlled chaos, the air heavy with sweat and adrenaline.
The band rides the high of a successful performance, their voices overlapping as they relive favorite moments.
Phoenix is already surrounded by admirers, and Casey and Theo are accepting congratulations from friends.
Liam stands slightly apart, wiping sweat from his face with a towel.
He sees me first, then notices Wade and Adam behind me. He squares his shoulders.
“Liam,” I say, moving toward him. “That was fucking incredible.”
His eyes stay on my fathers. A muscle in his jaw tightens—another trait we apparently share.
“Liam, these are my parents—Wade Kernish and Adam Grant.” I turn to them. “Wade, Adam, this is Liam. My brother.”
Wade steps forward first, hand extended. “Your technique is remarkable.” His voice is carefully controlled, professional. “Self-taught?”
Liam blinks, clearly surprised by the technical assessment rather than an emotional greeting. “Mostly, yes. Some lessons in high school when I could afford them.” He takes Wade’s hand.
Adam steps forward next, extending his hand as well. “Nice to meet you, Liam,” he says with genuine warmth. “That was quite a performance.”
Liam’s shoulders lower, his breathing steadier.
Wade’s expression softens slightly—which is equivalent to a bear hug from anyone else. “I’d love to hear about your influences sometime,” he says, his businesslike tone softened by genuine interest. “Your style is distinctive. Precise yet intuitive.”
Liam’s face lights up with appreciation. “Dylan said you used to play.”
Wade smiles. “I played professionally before starting the label. Taught Dylan everything he knows.”
Adam laughs. “Don’t get him started. He still has his drum kit in storage.” He glances around the backstage area, his eyes lighting up at the various Cirque Noire pieces on the performers. “This whole production is fantastic. The visual elements complement the music.”
A photographer approaches, asking for a picture of the band. Liam glances at me, a silent question in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” I say. “We’ve got plenty of time to talk.”
I watch as Liam rejoins his bandmates, accepting congratulations. Something settles in my chest—a piece I hadn’t known was missing, now finding its place.
“You did good,” Wade says simply.
I scan the room for Morgan, eager to position myself where I can see her reaction. We’re only halfway through, but the next act is the one I’ve been waiting for all night.
And in a few minutes, if everything goes according to plan, Morgan will see her designs—those sketches she created in the margins of the showcase folder—come to life on Ivy Nova.