Chapter 21 Bastian
BASTIAN
It’s funny how a place that used to bring excitement now just makes me feel suffocated.
The record label’s conference room is all glass and chrome and filled with expectations.
Here, from this fortieth-floor Manhattan view, Vermont seems impossibly far, like some dream I had about simple things like dairy cows and farm work.
Beside me, Stone’s jaw works like he’s chewing on words he can’t quite swallow. His fingers tap nervous rhythms against his thigh. On my other side, Mik maintains his professional mask, but I can see tension in how straight he’s holding himself.
“Q3 is our optimal release window,” the exec—Bradley or Braden—leans forward with practiced aggression. “The market analysis supports—”
“We need time to get the songs right,” I interrupt, keeping my voice level despite the frustration building in my chest.
Bradley-or-Braden’s face reddens slightly, but before he can respond, his colleague, a younger, hungrier version of him, jumps in. “The numbers don’t lie, Mr. Hall. Summer touring season is crucial for maximizing—”
“We understand that. But as we discussed at length, the band is on hiatus.” Maybe I need to pull out the definition of the word for him.
“We’re still writing songs, but we reserve the right to decide when we’re ready to release.
” After twenty-five years of loyalty to the label, we’ve earned every second of time off.
The air feels thick with unspoken tension as Bradley-or-Braden leans back, his chair creaking slightly. Behind him, Manhattan’s skyline stretches endlessly, glass and steel monuments to commerce that make me ache for Vermont’s gentle hills.
“Perhaps,” Daisy interjects smoothly, “we should take a brief break. Give everyone a chance to review the proposals more thoroughly.”
The executives file out with poorly concealed irritation. As soon as the door closes behind them, the tension breaks like a summer storm.
“Corporate vultures,” Stone mutters. “Did you see them? Like sharks circling bloody water.” His hands spread wide, mimicking the exec’s aggressive posture. “Fuck the market analysis. We’ve earned a fucking break.”
I move to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. Forty stories below, people move like insects, oblivious to the deals being brokered in the buildings that surround them. “Remember when making music was about music?”
“Still is,” Fox says quietly. He’s been his usual quiet self, watching everything with that kind of focus that always makes me wonder what he’s really thinking. “At least, it should be.”
Stone leans back, running his hand through his long, wavy hair.
“As much as I hate to say it, a new album would help us with the winter coat drive, the music education initiative, and the food bank contributions we’ve always done.
Not to mention we’ve been looking at all those Vermont-based charities with Finn. ”
The mention of home sends a fresh ache through my chest. Three days in Manhattan, and I’m already desperate for Vermont air, for the smell of hay and earth instead of designer perfume and corporate ambition.
“Why are we still playing?” Fox’s question cuts through the growing discussion. We all turn to face him, surprised by the direct challenge from our quietest member.
Before anyone can respond, he adds an equally simple follow-up: “Who’s doing it for the money?”
I look around our small circle, seeing the same realization dawn on each face. No hands rise for the money question. There’s no hesitation in our unanimous response about why we play. Music runs in our blood.
“Well then,” Fox says softly, satisfaction clear in his slight smile. “Seems like we have our answer.”
The simplicity of it hits like truth usually does. We’re not here for market windows or profit margins. We’re here because music demands to be made.
Stone’s grin grows wider. “Fuck their timeline,” he announces with considerable satisfaction. “We do this right or not at all. Let’s push back.”
Nikko clears his throat and shifts in his chair like he’s about to deliver bad news. “You’re forgetting you’re under contract.”
“Actually.” Daisy’s grin transforms her entire face.
Ever the firecracker, her eyes spark with familiar mischief as she leans forward, voice dropping like she’s sharing a conspiracy theory instead of a business strategy.
“Your first agent was a shrewd man, and he must have loved you because there’s a clause in your contract that states that after twenty-five years or ten albums, whichever comes first, the band can break the contract without penalty.
The only caveat is that if you are in the middle of a tour, you must finish the tour. ”
“Not a tour in sight,” Nikko says, stating the obvious.
“Gentlemen,” she drawls, drawing out the word until Stone growls with impatience. “Have you considered the ‘Taylor Swift’ model?” Her fingers form air quotes around the name, but her expression remains deadly serious.
“You want us to date celebrities and write songs about them?” Stone asks, but his drumming fingers have slowed, interest replacing nervous energy. “Because I volunteer as tribute for that market research.”
Daisy’s eye roll could power small cities.
“Independence, you musical heathen. Complete creative control. No more suits telling you when to breathe.” Her grin turns sharper as understanding dawns across our faces.
“You’re Hall of Fame. In case you’ve forgotten while you’ve been playing Santa’s elves in Vermont. ”
We must look like those dolls that shake their heads as we look at each other, taking in the idea that, for the first time in our careers, we can do anything we want.
“You can cut out the fat cats,” Daisy continues, winking as she glances toward the door. “Though I suppose I am one of those fat cats.”
“As if we’d let you go,” Stone declares immediately. “You’re family.”
The simple statement draws nods from all of us, appreciation for how she’s guided us through the last decade of industry changes and ever-growing success.
Something softens in Daisy’s expression. “About that,” she says quietly, hands moving to rest against her stomach. “Family’s about to get a bit bigger.”
The room erupts in chaos, Stone actually jumping from his chair while Fox and Nikko roll theirs to squish the poor woman.
“I’m three months along,” Daisy admits as we crowd closer, her smile filled with so much joy it makes my chest tight. “Wasn’t exactly planned, but…” She trails off.
“The father?” Mik asks carefully, voicing a question we’re all considering. We’ve watched Daisy’s on-again-off-again relationship drama for years, seen her struggle to balance personal life with her professional demands.
“Well, when a mommy and daddy love each other very much,” she starts, deflecting with humor that doesn’t quite hide vulnerability, then, softer, “Ryan. It’s Ryan.
Again. Still. Always. Probably.” Her laugh carries notes of wonder and resignation combined.
“Amazing how impending parenthood clarifies a relationship status.”
“Dibs on godfather and naming rights,” Stone announces immediately, setting off a chain reaction of competing claims that fills the room with familiar banter. “I’m clearly the most responsible choice.”
“You set your own drums on fire,” Nikko points out dryly. “Twice.”
“Artistic expression!”
The playful argument continues, but I notice how Daisy’s hands never leave her stomach. The timing feels significant. A new life, new direction, and new possibilities opening before us.
“I could expand the studio,” I say suddenly, drawing attention back to practical matters. “Start building toward independence now.”
Fox nods slowly. “The acoustics are already better than half the professional studios we’ve used,” he says. “With proper equipment upgrades…”
The conversation shifts to technical details until Daisy declares that she’s informed the execs waiting outside the room, like vultures, that we would like to postpone the meeting until the new year.
“How about a celebration dinner?” she asks, standing, which for her means she’s barely taller than us sitting down.
“To family,” Stone proposes, raising his water glass in a toast that feels more significant than any champagne celebration. “Both blood and chosen.”
“To independence,” Fox adds.
“To new beginnings,” Daisy finishes.
Outside the building, Manhattan continues its endless dance of commerce and ambition. But in here, we’ve found a different rhythm. One measured in heartbeats and hope rather than market projections and profit margins.
“Now,” Daisy says, reaching for her phone, “who’s ready to make dinner reservations that will give the label’s accounting department absolute fits?”
Stone grins. “I know just the place,” he announces, already dialing. “Time to remind them exactly who they’re dealing with.”
Hours later, after a celebratory dinner that will indeed give accounting heart problems, we find ourselves at Stone’s recommended nightclub, his idea of continuing the celebration into the early morning hours.
After the relative peace of dinner, this assault of sound and motion feels like a punishment.
Stone and Nikko disappear almost immediately, their practiced scanning of the crowd suggesting tonight won’t end in solitary hotel rooms. I follow Mik and Fox to a corner table, grateful for the relative shelter of the shadows and distance from the dancefloor’s chaotic energy.
I don’t miss the not-quite-hidden attempts at photos from strangers. The attention is different here than in Vermont, where people know us as neighbors first, musicians second. Here we’re commodities, content for social media feeds and gossip channels.
Thank fuck for VIP areas. If we can’t stop them from taking photos, at least we can have a conversation without being interrupted for multiple selfies. The server brings our drinks over, and as soon as he’s gone, Mik leans back in his chair and takes a swig of his beer.
“So,” he drawls, “how’s it going?”
I shake my head, unable to hide the frustration that’s been building since the first time we gave in and kissed. Every encounter follows a pattern of heat and retreat, Taylen’s body speaking truth while his words maintain a distance.
Fox leans forward slightly, his amber eyes sharp despite the club’s dim lighting. “I’m clearly missing something here,” he says
Mik glances between us, giving me an apologetic look. We don’t keep secrets between band brothers, but Taylen is close to all of us, and the last thing I want is for him to feel like he’s the focus of my brothers’ well-intentioned gossip and cupid-aspirations.
I run a hand through my hair, buying time to organize my thoughts. “It’s complicated,” I start, but Fox’s raised eyebrow tells me that won’t be enough. “Taylen and I…we keep…connecting. Physically. But every time we get close to something real, he pulls away.”
“And you let him,” Fox observes, not unkindly.
The truth of it stings. “Yeah,” I admit. “I do.”
The bass pounds through my chest while I consider how much to reveal. These men are my brothers in everything but blood. They know me better than family in some ways. But admitting the depth of what I feel for Taylen means acknowledging the complications I’ve been avoiding.
“I think I’m in love with him,” I say, finally uttering the words that have been playing in my head for weeks, maybe even years. Before they can respond, I add a quieter confession. “Not sure it can go anywhere. There are too many walls between us.”
“What’s the biggest obstacle?” Mik asks.
The truth rises like a tide I can’t fight anymore.
“Taylen is Jackson’s younger brother. Seven years ago, we kissed in a club.
I’m not sure either of us was in the right place then, emotionally.
It was the fifth anniversary of Jackson’s death, and I was a wreck.
After that, I started avoiding Taylen whenever I went home.
Jackson was very protective of his baby brother, and the last thing I want is to end up hurting him and feel like I’ve let my best friend down. ”
Mik’s face transforms with understanding, while Fox maintains his usual stillness when he’s taking in important information.
“Have you tried being in the same place at the same time?” Mik asks pointedly. “Actually talking instead of whatever dance you’ve been doing?”
My expression must answer for me because he continues without waiting for a response. “Physical connection is easy,” he says, gentler now. “Emotional honesty? That’s the hard part.”
Fox remains unusually quiet, his focus fixed on the drink he’s barely touched.
Something about his silence feels weighted, like he’s holding something back.
But before I can question it, Mik continues, “Love is worth fighting for,” he says simply, words carrying the authority of someone who’s fought his own battles and won. “Show him you’re ready for battle.”
“He’s definitely worth fighting for,” I say finally. “Worth whatever it takes to prove this isn’t just a convenient release or temporary comfort.”
It’s time to show Taylen exactly how important he is to me, what we could be if we both stop running.
In the city that never sleeps, Vermont feels a million years away, but for the first time since Burlington, since that first kiss that changed everything, I feel something like hope building beneath uncertainty. Because some things are worth fighting for, worth risking everything to prove possible.