Chapter 2
Oh, he should have known better, but the hunger made him blind…
Kieran
Two hundred dollars felt like play money in Kieran’s trembling fingers, crisp bills that belonged in someone else’s wallet.
Or in a movie where the street kid gets a lucky break right before getting hit by a bus.
He found them wrapped around a business card so clean it looked freshly printed on cardstock that probably cost more than his monthly phone bill.
Which wasn’t saying much, considering he bought the cheapest prepaid plan that still technically qualified as having a phone.
Vale Rose. Producer.
The guy was actually real, not some elaborate prank or social experiment where they filmed homeless musicians’ reactions to fake opportunities.
Kieran Googled the name twelve times in the past hour, scrolling through Grammy nominations and platinum certifications that seemed endless.
The Wikipedia article alone had more words than Kieran had spoken aloud in the past month.
Rolling Stone interviews. Billboard features.
A discography longer than Kieran’s entire music library.
This doesn’t happen to people like me.
People like him got evicted, not discovered, and got their guitars stolen, not invited to fancy dinners. Or got their medical alert bracelets yanked off by group home bullies who thought seizures were funny, not... whatever this was.
He tried calling twice, hanging up before it connected.
He practiced conversations in the mirror of his tiny bathroom—the only mirror in the apartment that didn’t have a crack running through it, though that might have been an improvement.
At least a cracked mirror would give him an excuse for looking broken.
On the third attempt, he forced himself to stay on the line.
Vale’s voice had been warm on the phone. Interested. Like Kieran was somebody worth talking to instead of just another street performer cluttering up the sidewalk.
Now, three hours later, Kieran stood in his closet-sized bedroom—more closet than bedroom, really, which at least made the name accurate—staring at clothes spread across his unmade bed.
One decent shirt—navy blue cotton from Goodwill that looked almost new if he ignored the loose threads at the cuffs.
Jeans without holes. His only pair of shoes that weren’t falling apart.
He considered drawing on the scuff marks with a Sharpie, but that seemed like the kind of thing that would be immediately obvious to someone who probably had a separate closet just for shoes.
What do you wear to dinner with a Grammy-nominated producer?
His phone buzzed.
Vale Rose – Producer
Car will be there at 7. Looking forward to hearing more about your music.
6:45 PM.
Kieran pulled on the shirt and fumbled with buttons that suddenly felt too small. He already showered twice, brushed his teeth until his gums bled, and had taken his evening seizure medication early because stress was a trigger, and his skull felt like it was buzzing with electricity.
His bracelet caught on his sleeve. He almost took it off. It looked cheap next to the business card, the red text screaming ‘damaged goods’ in a way he’d spent years trying to downplay. But seizures didn’t care about dinner meetings with important people.
Don’t have an episode. Not tonight. Not when something good might actually happen for once.
The car was everything he expected and nothing he was prepared for—a sleek black sedan that made his neighbors peek through curtains and whisper behind cracked doors. The driver got out to open his door like Kieran was somebody worth the effort.
“Good evening, Mr. Thorne.”
Nobody had ever called him Mr. Thorne. Throughout his entire life, he’d been Kieran, or kid, or hey you, or—in the memorably shitty placements—much worse. Mr. Thorne sounded like someone with a bank account and a future. Someone whose hands didn’t shake when strangers used his last name.
The restaurant itself was one he would have walked by without daring to read the menu posted behind glass.
Aesthetic exposed brick and Edison bulbs, servers who moved like dancers between tables draped in white cloth.
It was the kind of place where everyone else seemed to understand unspoken rules about which fork to use and how to pronounce French words without sounding like an idiot.
Where Kieran’s entire existence felt like a neon sign blinking ‘FRAUD’ above his head.
Vale Rose sat at a corner table, and Kieran’s first thought was fuck, he’s handsome.
Not obviously so. Clean-cut features that belonged on a college professor, wire-rim glasses that made him look intellectual rather than intimidating.
But there was something magnetic about the way he held himself, controlled and confident, like he owned the space around him without needing to prove it.
Stop thinking about how good-looking he is. This is business. Professional. A potential career opportunity you’re absolutely going to ruin by being weird and anxious and possibly having a seizure into the expensive pasta.
“Kieran.” Vale stood to shake his hand. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
“Thank you f-f-f—” Kieran’s mouth caught on the consonant, and he bit the inside of his lower lip to stop the sound. “For asking me.”
After sitting, Kieran’s eyes went straight to the right prices on the menu before him, hunting for numbers under twenty dollars while trying not to look like that’s what he was doing.
House salad. Twelve dollars for lettuce.
Pasta arrabbiata. Sixteen dollars.
His stomach cramped with hunger and anxiety. Twelve dollars could buy groceries for three days if he was careful. Sixteen dollars was his medication copay. But sure, spend it on fancy lettuce and noodles with a name he couldn’t pronounce without his stutter turning it into a three-act play.
“Order whatever looks good,” Vale said, like he could read minds. “The lamb is exceptional here. So is the duck.”
Thirty-eight dollars for lamb. Forty-two for duck. Kieran’s rent money sitting on a plate.
“I’m not that h-hungry. Maybe just the salad?”
“Nonsense. You’re performing on the street, you need proper nutrition.” Vale’s smile was kind. “The pasta, then. And we’ll start with appetizers.”
He ordered wine—something Italian with a name Kieran couldn’t pronounce—while Kieran sipped water and tried not to fidget with his sleeves.
“So,” Vale said, settling back in his chair. “I’ve been thinking about your sound all day. That original piece you played—it reminded me of early Nick Drake. Intimate, confessional. But darker, and you mixed singing with spoken word, or was it rap? It’s quite different.”
Kieran’s pulse quickened. A real producer was comparing his music to Nick Drake? “I gr-grew up listening to him. And Elliott Sm-Smith, Sufjan Stevens...”
“I can hear those influences, but you’re doing something very unique when you play. Where did you learn to play like that?”
“Self-t-taught, mostly. YouTube videos when I h-h-have the data.” The words tumbled out easier than usual, excitement overriding the anxiety of his stutter. “I couldn’t afford lessons.”
“Impressive.” Vale leaned forward. “How long have you been performing on the street?”
“About t-t-two years. Since I aged out of foster care.” The admission slipped out before he could stop it. Too personal, too much information. But Vale’s expression didn’t change.
“And before that?”
Kieran found himself talking about Mrs. Ambrose, who’d let him practice in her basement for three months until the state moved him again, and about writing songs in group home bathrooms because they were the only places with decent acoustics.
Vale listened like everything Kieran said mattered, and asked questions about his current favorites, what instruments he played, the technical aspects of his guitar work.
It made him feel like a real musician instead of a charity case busking for change.
The wine arrived. Vale poured him a glass without asking his age or if he even wanted any, but Kieran wasn’t about to complain. “To new beginnings.”
He drank more than he should have, nerves loosening with each sip as Vale asked about his recording experience (none), his long-term goals (survival), and his dreams beyond street performance.
“I’d love to play real venues somed-day,” Kieran said. “C-coffee shops, open mic nights. Maybe record an EP if I ever save enough money.”
“Money shouldn’t be the barrier to good music,” Vale said.
“Yeah, but I don’t exactly have c-connections.”
“You have one now.”
The words hit like a punch to the chest. Kieran stared across the table at this man who could change everything with a phone call and make dreams real that had lived only in his head for years.
This is actually happening.
Their food arrived, but he barely tasted the pasta.
He was too focused on Vale’s questions about his creative process, his musical inspirations, his thoughts on the current state of indie folk.
Kieran always imagined a big name producer would be loud, boisterous and more than willing to talk over him.
But Vale was quiet, and he always waited a few seconds in silence before saying anything, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“Tell me about yourself,” Vale said, refilling Kieran’s wine glass. “Beyond the music. Are you seeing anyone?”
The question was personal in a way that made his shoulders tense. Industry people were weird, though. Everyone knew that.
“No. No, I’m n-not dating anyone.”
“Good. Relationships can be... distracting when you’re building a career.” Vale’s fingers drummed once against the tablecloth. “You mentioned you were in foster care…does that mean your parents are no longer with us?”
Kieran’s chest went tight. Parents. Right.
“They’re not—they died when I was sixteen. C-car accident.” The words came out flat, the way he practiced over and over so he could say it without feeling the loss again. He took a big gulp of wine, letting the slight burn warm his stomach.
Vale’s expression shifted to something that might have been sympathy. “I’m sorry. That must have been difficult.”
“It was a long t-time ago.”
Change the subject. Please.
But Vale didn’t change the subject.. “No other family? Siblings? Anyone looking out for you?”
“J-j-just me. I do okay on…on…on my own.”
This feels too personal.
Vale reached across the table then, fingers brushing against Kieran’s wrist. “What’s this?”
The medical alert bracelet felt heavy against Kieran’s skin. Vale’s touch lingered, his thumb tracing the metal band in a way that made Kieran want to pull away. But pulling away would be rude, and this man held his entire future in his hands.
“I have epilepsy.” His voice came out smaller than intended.
“Ah.” Vale’s fingers didn’t move. “Do you have tonic-clonic seizures?”
“Um, y-yes. Wow. Most people call them gr-gr-gra—” Kieran’s mouth felt mushy and stuck and he bit his lower lip. “I don’t g-get them as often as f-f-focal seizures, but I can play through focals. How d-do you know about seizures?”
“Believe it or not, I briefly attempted to major in music while attending medical school. Music won, obviously.” Vale’s grip shifted, his thumb finding Kieran’s pulse on his wrist. “Triggers?”
“Stress. Sleep deprivation. Not fl-flashing lights, or anything l-like that. Th-that's n-not as common as people think.” The words felt pulled out of him. “Look, it’s not a big d-deal. I take medication, I m-manage it fine.”
Let go of my wrist.
But he didn’t pull away. Something about Vale’s attention felt hypnotic, like being studied by something predatory that had decided not to pounce yet.
“The song you performed this morning,” Vale said, finally releasing his hold. “It was about seizures, wasn’t it? About the fear of dying in your sleep.”
Kieran’s mouth went dry. “You remember the lyrics?”
“I remember everything that matters.” Vale signaled the waiter. “You’re getting tense. Let’s fix that.”
The drinks that arrived weren’t more wine, they were something clear and fruity in martini glasses that tasted like candy. Kieran took a sip and felt warmth spread through his chest, the alcohol smoothing the edges his anxiety had sharpened.
“Better?” Vale asked, watching Kieran drain half the cocktail.
“Yeah. Thanks.” His words flowed with a belly full of liquor. “Sorry, I’m n-not used to... this. Any of this.”
“You will be.” Vale smiled. “I want to record that song. The one about seizures. Tonight, if you’re willing.”
Kieran’s pulse quickened. “Tonight?”
“I know a private studio not far from here. We could walk, get some air.” Vale finished his own drink and stood, pulling out his wallet. “What do you say?”
Recording a song. With a real producer. In a real studio.
Kieran nodded before he could second-guess himself, alcohol and hope making him bold. “Yes. Absolutely.”
Vale left cash on the table—more than enough to cover their bill—and gestured toward the door.
Outside, the evening air was cool against Kieran’s flushed skin. Vale walked beside him with confident strides, leading them away from the main street into quieter blocks lined with warehouses and converted lofts.
“The studio’s in one of these buildings,” Vale explained. “It’s very private, with excellent acoustics. Perfect for intimate recordings.”
Where exactly are we going?
But Kieran didn’t ask. The drinks had made everything in his head loose and warm, and Vale’s presence beside him felt grounding. A producer wanted to record his music. His weird, personal, vulnerable music that nobody else ever understood.
Don’t let anxiety ruin this. Not when you’re this close.
Vale’s hand touched the small of his back, guiding him around a corner into a narrow alley between brick buildings.
This could change everything.