25. Road Session
Chapter twenty-five
Road Session
Cameron
Dex has talked almost continuously since we left Denver. He’s basically been casting Bardic Inspiration on himself since DIA.
Not normal Dex talking, either.
Normal Dex is jokes and tangents and random questions like whether vampires would technically show up on thermal imaging. He has also spent fifteen minutes debating whether a ghost legally counts toward a hotel’s maximum occupancy.
This is different.
This is talking because if he stops, he might have to acknowledge he's nervous.
“I still think I should've made him clarify what he meant by suite.”
Micah adjusts the strap of his duffel as we cross the hotel lobby. “He did.”
“No. He asked how many rooms I wanted.”
“Which is clarification.”
“And I said one.”
“Yes.”
“Then he asked if we wanted a king or two queens.”
I look at Dex.
He looks at me.
I raise an eyebrow. “You told Austin Fletcher we needed one room with one king bed.”
“Yes.”
Micah's mouth curves. “So we're not being subtle about who we are to each other.”
Dex gestures between the three of us. “Why the fuck would I start now?”
Fair.
The hotel itself is ridiculous.
Not gaudy-rich ridiculous. No gold cherubs. No velvet furniture shaped like swans.
Just money.
Marble floors. Huge windows. Fresh flowers that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill. People moving quietly through the lobby with the kind of confidence that says they have never once worried about whether parking costs extra.
Austin lives here.
Not just in Chicago.
In this hotel.
In the penthouse.
Because apparently rock stars are not required to participate in housing and real estate like the rest of us.
The woman behind it smiles. “Good afternoon. Checking in?”
“Yeah. Dexter—” He pauses. “Actually, Dex is fine. Reservation should be under Dexter Morgan.”
I choke.
The woman types.
Micah closes his eyes.
Dex looks at us innocently. “What?”
“You did not.”
“My parents made choices.”
The woman is professional enough not to react, although I swear there's a flicker around her mouth.
Then she looks back at the screen.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan. Mr. Fletcher's office has already taken care of everything.”
She pulls out three key cards.
“You're in a one-bedroom executive suite. Separate living room, dining area, and wet bar.”
Dex looks at me.
I look at Micah.
Micah looks at Dex.
Dex lifts both hands. “I said one king. He asked.”
I laugh. “You realize Austin now knows exactly how we're sleeping.”
“He saw us in Denver.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It is spiritually an answer.”
The woman slides the cards across the desk.
Dex takes them. “Thank you.”
Then, once we're safely walking away, he mutters, “He's lucky I'm secure in my lifestyle choices.”
Dex hits the elevator button.
The elevator requires our key before it lets us select the floor.
Naturally.
I lean against the wall beside him. “You’re not very subtle.”
“I have never once claimed to be subtle, Dollface.”
The doors close.
Dex immediately starts pacing the six square feet available. “I just think there's a lot of pressure when the guy who invited you into a studio also technically controls where you sleep.”
Micah looks at him. “No, there isn't.”
“You're ruining my narrative.”
“You've been listening to the song for nine days.”
“Seven.”
“It's been nine.”
Dex frowns.
“I started obsessively listening seven days ago. There is a distinction.”
I laugh.
He's not exaggerating.
The song has been playing everywhere.
In the kitchen.
In his bedroom.
He has also complained about the bridge approximately forty-seven times.
Sometimes out loud.
Sometimes through aggressive facial expressions.
Once by walking into the living room and announcing, “It emotionally plateaus and I hate that for everyone involved.”
So yes.
He's nervous—but he's not unprepared.
The suite is enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame downtown Chicago. The living room could comfortably fit our entire household. There's a wet bar, dining table, two bathrooms, and a bedroom with a king bed big enough to host a small congressional hearing.
Dex walks straight to the windows. “Oh, fuck me.”
Micah drops his bag beside the couch. “Later.”
Dex turns.
I start laughing.
Micah's expression remains perfectly straight.
“I love Chicago,” Dex says.
We've been here eleven minutes.
My phone buzzes.
Griffin
You there?
I take a picture of the view.
Cami
Unfortunately we have been kidnapped by luxury.
Griffin
Seems tragic
Ronan
Did you put your insulin in the fridge?
I stare at the message.
Cami
Hello to you too
Ronan
That was not an answer.
Cami
Yes dad
Ronan
Do not call me that.
Dex peers over my shoulder. “Coward.”
Another message arrives.
Griffin
Have fun and tell Dex good luck
Ronan
Agreed.
And remember hearing protection.
I laugh. “Ronan says earplugs.”
Dex throws himself backward onto the couch. “I left the state to escape this oppression.”
Micah pulls a small plastic case from his backpack and tosses it toward him.
Dex catches it.
Earplugs.
His face falls. “This relationship is abusive.”
“No,” Micah says.
“You packed them?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“Yes.”
I lean against the bedroom doorway. “That's kind of hot.”
Micah looks at me.
My stomach does a small, inconvenient flip.
Dex points between us. “No. Absolutely not. We have somewhere to be in forty minutes.”
“Then stop pacing,” Micah tells him.
“I am metabolizing anxiety.”
“You're annoying the carpet.”
“I knew Chicago would change you.”
Some of the tension leaves Dex's shoulders.
Not all.
Enough.
The studio is nothing like Grave Intentions' rehearsal space.
I've been there.
It sits inside an industrial building outside Denver and smells faintly like dust, sweat, stale beer, and whatever died inside one of the vents in 2009.
This place smells like coffee and expensive wood.
There are guitars mounted along one wall, racks of equipment I don't recognize, a massive soundboard behind glass, and enough cables that Griffin would have a stroke over the trip hazards.
Austin is standing in the main room with a guitar when we walk in.
He looks up. “There he fucking is.”
Dex stops pretending to be nervous.
At least externally.
“Austin fucking Fletcher.”
Austin laughs and pulls him into a hug.
I can’t help but say, “He has you saved in his phone just like that.”
“Austin fucking Fletcher?”
“Obviously,” Dex answers.
“You're an asshole.”
“I've been told.”
Austin greets Micah, then me, easy and familiar enough that I remember immediately why meeting him in Denver felt strange.
He's famous.
Really famous.
But in person, he mostly feels like a human being who happens to have millions of people interested in what he does.
A woman is sitting on one of the couches with a laptop open across her thighs.
She looks up.
Austin's entire expression changes.
That must be his girlfriend.
“Guys, this is Megan.”
No last name.
No explanation.
Dex told us before we came that Austin and Megan are keeping their relationship quiet, and that whatever we see here stays here.
Megan closes her laptop and stands.
She's younger than I expected.
Pretty, but not in the glossy, professionally styled way my brain associates with famous men's girlfriends. Jeans. Boots. Messy ponytail. A reusable water bottle covered in environmental stickers.
She hugs me almost immediately. “Thank God.”
I laugh. “Why does everyone say that when they meet me lately?”
“Because I've been around musicians all day.”
Austin looks offended. “Cliodhna,” he breathes in fake warning.
Megan glances at him. “You know what you've done.”
His mouth curves.
Megan looks back at me. “Do you like trees?”
The question is so abrupt I laugh. “I mean… generally?”
“Excellent. We have enough to build on.”
Austin shakes his head. “She wants to become a professional tree hugger.”
“Environmental attorney,” Megan corrects.
“Professional tree hugger with a law degree.”
“Better.”
Okay.
I like her.
This may be dangerous.
Austin gestures toward the live room. “So. The bridge.”
Dex immediately points at him. “Yes.”
Austin laughs. “You haven't even heard it through the studio monitors.”
“I've heard it seventy-two fucking times.”
“Seventy-two?”
“Probably more. I stopped counting when I started questioning whether repetition qualifies as self-harm.”
Micah murmurs, “He's been unbearable.”
“I have… opinions,” Dex counters.
“I know,” Austin says. “That's why you're here.”
Dex's expression shifts.
The nervous energy doesn't disappear.
It condenses.
“What have you got?” Austin asks.
Dex moves toward the board. “The bridge is lying.”
Austin's eyebrows go up.
I look at Micah.
Micah smiles.
Of course Dex already came with a thesis.
Austin folds his arms. “Explain.”
“The verses are angry. The chorus gives that anger somewhere to go. It opens up.” Dex gestures vaguely, already hearing something the rest of us apparently can't. “Then the bridge drops right back into the same emotional space as verse two.”
“You think it kills momentum.”
“I think it emotionally plateaus.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Austin looks almost delighted. “Okay.”
“I also hate the last two lines.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“They're too neat.”
“That I disagree with.”
Dex shrugs. “Then you're wrong.”
The room goes quiet.
Austin stares at him.
Dex apparently realizes what he just said.
He does not take it back.
Austin starts laughing. “Come hear it.”
And just like that, Dex is gone.
Physically, yes. But also… the man who spent the entire flight talking because silence gave his nerves room disappears the second the track begins.
He listens.
Really listens.
Head tilted slightly.
Eyes narrowed.
Fingers tapping against his thigh.
When the bridge arrives, his mouth tightens like the song personally insulted him.
Micah notices me watching him.
“You knew,” I whisper.
“Yeah.”
“How have I never seen this?”
“You've seen pieces.”
Austin plays the bridge again.
Dex shakes his head. “It's not the chord progression by itself.”
“I know.”
“You resolve too early.”
Austin points at him. “That's what I keep saying.”
One of the Signal Saints' guitarists swivels in his chair. “So fix it.”