Chapter 4
SALEM
Houston has her laughing when I come out. Not loud, not wild—just that soft sound people make when they remember their throat isn’t only for holding back. He’s got a coupe in front of her and water next to it, because he’s Houston, always thinking about other people.
“Somebody’s ahead of me,” I say, sliding to the bar.
Lou looks over. The dress Knox had sent up fits like it was waiting in a box with her name on it. Stone-cold killer. Simple lines, smart neckline, black and clingy in a way that says yes to walking and whatever comes after.
“I need a cocktail if I’m going to catch up to your blood alcohol level,” I tell her. “Houston’s a bad influence.”
“He’s a good influence,” she says, smiling into the rim.
“Same thing if you do it right.” I open the bar. Tequila’s already out. I reach for mezcal instead, a squeeze of lime, a touch of agave, a fat cube in a rocks glass. Stir, strain. I lift it. “To better nights.”
“And clean exits,” Houston adds.
Lou clinks the edge of her glass to mine. “To fries.”
I like her immediately.
I take a sip. Smoke, citrus, that burn I know on a first-name basis. I lean on the bar, hip to the wood, and aim my attention where it belongs.
“So, Lou. Tell me something I don’t know yet.”
She eyes me carefully. “You don’t know anything yet.”
“Not true. I know you like clean drinks and dirty fries. I know you don’t like to owe anybody. I know you ride well.”
A small laugh. “You watched me ride?”
“I see everything.” I tip my head toward Houston. “He does too, but he pretends he’s not taking notes.”
Houston just sips his drink and looks bemused. Or annoyed that I gave away his secret.
Lou bites the inside of her cheek. “You like pissing off your brothers, don’t you?”
“I like honesty.” I take another sip. “Speaking of honesty, you look like trouble in that dress.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is when I say it.”
She looks at my hands. People always do.
Unlike most of my body, they’re bare, unless it’s a jewelry night.
Tattoos climb my legs under the black pants, but my hands are clean tonight.
No rings or bracelets. The piercings under the shirt and underwear are mine and nobody’s business unless I make it theirs.
Not tonight. Maybe later. Or not.
“How many drinks before you start trouble?” she asks.
“I don’t need drinks to start trouble, but they make me find it faster.”
She laughs. Houston smiles into his glass. Good. We’re warmed up. I point at the couch. “Sit. Tell us what you actually like, not the polite answer.”
She moves, perches, then settles. “Fonts,” she says, deadpan.
I love her for it. “Serifs or no?”
“Depends on the job.”
“You have a favorite?”
She considers. “The one everyone thinks is boring until it’s on a billboard.”
“Classic,” Houston says. “That’s how I feel about four-on-the-floor.”
I whistle. “She had you at kerning.”
Lou glances at him. “He had me at the cocktail.”
We’re all smiling now. That’s the point. I make messes. I also make this—rooms where people can breathe. People forget those are related.
“Vegas looks different,” she says, face to the window. “I was gone seven years, staying in San Francisco. I feel like I missed a rebuilding montage.”
“You did,” I say.
“What stayed the same?” Houston asks.
“Heat. Palms. Men trying to sell me party buses on the sidewalk.”
“You want a party bus?” I ask.
“No.”
I prop my ankle on my knee and balance the glass on my thigh. “What’d you like about San Francisco?”
“Fog. The way it shuts people up. Rent wasn’t cute, but my loft was quiet. The quiet worked for me.”
“You’ll get it back,” Houston says.
“Maybe.” She takes a small sip like she’s rationing good things. “Maybe I’ll just get different.”
I nod. “Different can work.”
Knox walks out then. Dark jeans, black shirt, jacket that fits like he stood still a long time while someone pinned it to his bones.
Responsible, clean, hair shaggy and glinting silver in a way that suits him.
He clocks the room in a second—our glasses, her seat, my posture, the way Houston’s at ease—and finally lets himself unclench.
“You need a drink,” I say, already reaching.
He lifts his chin. That’s a yes.
I build fast. Mezcal for me, bourbon for Knox, another light pour for Lou if she wants it, soda for Houston because he plays the long game. He always does. I line them up. Knox takes his and stays standing, like he trusts the night more if he has a view of every door.
We fall into talk. Fries vs. onion rings. Worst hotel carpet we’ve ever seen. Best bathroom tile we’ve ever stolen. Random, silly shit.
I pour another round.
Lou smiles. “Okay, dumb things I do every day, let’s see… I judge restaurants by the design of the menu. The font, the logo, anything they use for branding. If it sucks, I’m not going.”
Houston huffs a laugh. “I judge our venues by the backstage smell. If that’s rank, I’m not using their bathroom.”
“I do my best not to judge anyone,” I begin.
But then Knox boos me. “Bullshit.”
“You remember that promoter in Tampa? The guy who wore two watches so he could be late in two time zones at once? Didn’t judge him.”
Lou laughs hard enough that she has to put the glass down. “I kind of think you’re judging him right now.”
I lift my brows to tease. “Nah.”
Her giggle is music.
Rochester flashes through my head. One girl, one night, shared because she asked for it, and it made sense, and we had a fucking blast. Tampa was different—two best friends who turned the hotel room into a dare and left the next morning, having covered our room service bill. That was one hell of a surprise perk.
There were others. There always are. We’re on the road more nights than off it, so meeting random women comes with the territory. We don’t do it because we’re bored. We do it because sometimes a night works better if nobody has to pretend they’re someone else.
When a woman hooks up with the Turner Brothers, she knows it’s a fling. We’re not serious guys. Even the women who tried to make things last with us gave up after a while. That’s just the nature of the beast.
If Lou wanted that kind of night, I’d be down. If my brothers were down, I’d be more down. If Knox raised a hand, I’d back off. There’s a rhythm to it. He has a good head for these things, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve followed his lead.
Lou tips her head. “Do you always dress like a vampire?”
I look down at the black. “Daywalker edition.”
Houston snorts. Knox hides a smile in his glass.
“You look good,” she says, straightforward. “All of you do.”
“And you look like you eat hearts,” I tell her.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It is when I say it.”
Houston shakes out his shoulders. Knox checks the time. We are one drink from leaving. I feel the street pulling on the seams of the night.
Knox leans his hip into the bar, eyes on Lou, tone easy. “You worried Troy brought home more than photos from Ibiza?”
The air tightens one notch. Responsible. Necessary. I appreciate him for it, even when it cuts the mood.
Lou blinks, doesn’t look away. “You mean an STI.”
He nods once. No flinch.
She takes a breath and sets the glass down like it’s a piece of evidence, and she’s done with it. “We haven’t…since Tokyo.” She stares at a spot on the table. “Fake Tokyo. He’s been pulling away for months. The more the songs died, the more he did.”
My jaw wants to click. I swallow it. Houston doesn’t move, but a line draws straight down his back. Knox’s mouth goes thin and kind at the same time.
“Troy was bad at a lot of things. Honesty. Being a boyfriend. Kissing…” She huffs a breath that might be a laugh.
“He wasn’t great at songwriting either,” I say, because if we’re going to say it, let’s say it. “Houston writes most of our songs. Always has. Troy never got the hang of grinding a hook until it stops squeaking. He wanted the chorus to show up already dressed.”
Houston tries to wave it off. It’s true. No point pretending otherwise.
“I write sometimes,” I add, because modesty isn’t in my kit. “Knox does, when he thinks we aren’t looking. Troy was good at being loud. That’s about it.”
Lou looks at Houston like she’s suddenly hearing harmony lines she didn’t know to listen for. “You write them.”
He nods. That’s all. He never sells himself hard. It’s why I do it for him when I feel like it.
“I could write one about you,” I say to her. “Tonight.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “About what?”
“Your mouth.” I let it hang there, clean, no smile to ruin it. “If I knew what you tasted like.”
Houston’s mouth curves. Knox pretends to examine the bottle for flaws it doesn’t have. Lou cuts her eyes at me and then at Houston, testing for static or sparks. He’s amused. I’m wired. We’re fine.
“You’d write a song about me if I kissed you?” she asks, a little tipsy, a little giddy, the good kind that makes brave decisions feel like choices, not dares.
I nod.
She stands, closes the space, and kisses me.