Chapter 9
9
LOGAN
“O h, boy, folks!” Jonny Red crows into his mic, his grin wide and wolfish. “Looks like we might get that interview after all, as Knox Benton has reentered the studio—and he doesn’t look happy!”
Through the glass walls of the studio, I watch Knox barrel toward me, his fury a living thing. His band calls after him, but he doesn’t slow. He throws open the door so hard it smacks the wall behind him.
“Knox!” Jonny Red says. “Welcome back. Please, have a seat.”
He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t look at Jonny. His gaze is locked on me. On either side of me, Tesla and Goldie snicker, but I don’t take my eyes off Knox. I smirk instead, just to see if his scowl deepens. It does.
He yanks the nearest microphone toward himself.
“The fuck is your problem, man?” he growls into it.
“Whoa!” Jonny Red chimes in. “Careful with the language, Knox. We’re a family show.”
“Then you should think twice about the kind of gentleman you invite.” Knox doesn’t look away. “Because the man you have in your studio today is a lying opportunist.”
“Am—” The words halt in my throat, a flicker of movement pulling at the edge of my vision. I glance past Knox to the outside of the booth, where a crowd has gathered. Harmony the popstar. Jonah the billionaire. Bronson. Addison. And?—
Katrina.
She stands just behind them, untouched by the rising tension in the room. She doesn’t look at her brother, doesn’t look at the spectacle unfolding around us.
She looks at me.
And everything else blurs.
“Uh, Logan?” Jonny’s voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Were you saying something?”
“Harmony wanted nothing to do with you,” Knox continues, the memory trying to right itself, to play out the way it should. “You approached her, and from the way she told it, you begged her ? —”
His words turn weightless, lost beneath the way Katrina is watching me. Her eyes soften, the noise around me dulls, and for a second, the whole world holds its breath.
“A man doesn’t choose his muse,” Knox rages on. “But once he finds her, he chooses her. Always.”
Katrina raises her hand to the glass.
“Logan?” she whispers.
Something shifts. A ripple. The edges of the dream flicker like a dying bulb.
“Won’t that be something?” I say, knowing I’m supposed to say it now. Or was it earlier? Did I miss my cue?
“Logan?”
“Katrina?” I ask.
She taps against the glass.
Once.
Twice.
The sound magnifies, echoing, pressing against my skull.
Tap.
“Hello?”
Tap.
Louder now.
Tap.
So loud it drills into my forehead?—
“Hey! Boss!”
I jolt awake with a sharp flick to my forehead.
Tesla looms over me, her blue hair a messy halo. “Wakey, wakey!” she sings, hand poised to flick me again.
I swat it away before she can. “Please stop that.”
“There he is!” She grins, rocking back on her heels. “What were you dreaming about? Seemed nice.”
“Nothing.” My voice comes out rough. I sit up with a groan, shaking off the sluggish weight of sleep. Late nights are nothing new—staring at song lyrics, shifting notes around, waiting for everything to click into place. And they always do.
I’m just that good.
“What time is it?” I ask, reaching blindly for the nearest drink to wash away the stale taste in my mouth.
“Twelve-ish.” Tesla shrugs. “Still got an hour before practice.”
I grunt, tipping an empty water bottle toward my mouth before sighing and tossing it aside.
“Damn, boss.” Goldie surveys the chaos of sticky notes scattered across the table. She plucks one up, grinning. “You were a busy little boy last night.”
I rub my eyes and push to my feet as she reads aloud:
“You don’t have to say it, I already know. Running like a fever with nowhere to go.” She lets out an appreciative hum. “Catchy. Whatever got into you last night, keep it up.”
“More like whoever he got into last night,” Tesla teases. “And the night before.”
Goldie whips her head toward me, yellow curls bouncing, eyes alight with gossip. “What’s this now?”
I say nothing, choosing instead to splash cold water on my face. I know that once the giggle train leaves the station, there’s no stopping it anyway.
“Somebody spent the night with a little… creative inspiration,” Tesla drawls. “Again.”
“Again?” Goldie gasps.
“Again.”
“No!” Goldie clutches her chest. “Two nights in a row with the same girl? That’s gotta be a new record, boss.”
I dab my face dry and turn to find them both watching me like a pair of hungry wolves.
Rather than reply, I take my time. Flip open my suitcase. Dig around for jeans. Maybe a T-shirt?—
“Logan!” Tesla breaks first. “Come on! Don’t leave us hanging. We’re dying here.”
I glance at them. “Nothing happened.”
They groan in unison, collapsing onto the bed.
“Bullshit,” Tesla says.
“It’s true,” I say.
“Then what happened after I left?”
“She came?—”
“Bet she did,” Goldie mutters.
I ignore her. “She returned my robe. And she left.”
They wait for more. I give them nothing.
“That’s it?” Tesla asks, disappointed.
I nod.
Still unsatisfied, she exhales sharply and drops it. “Well, either way, don’t let Priscilla catch on.”
We all nod in silent agreement. Records deals and contracts come with all sorts of perks. A full-time manager was one of them in our case. Before this summer’s tour, we managed ourselves just fine. But Sugar Sound prefers their talent focus on talent, not logistics.
So, we got Priscilla.
We were lucky they let Tesla keep designing our clothes—a passion of hers I wasn’t about to sacrifice. Asking for anything else would have been pushing it, so… we have Priscilla.
“What trouble did you two get into last night?” I ask, shifting the target off my back.
Goldie huffs. “Nothing. The hotel bar was closed for a private party, so we had to drink alone in our room.”
“Is that a complaint I’m hearing?” Tesla asks, her voice a dripping tease.
Goldie’s cheeks darken. “No.”
“You know, there are other bars,” I point out as they eye-fuck each other. “This is Vegas.”
“Yeah, but…” Goldie shrugs. “We wanted this one.”
“All those rich boys lying around,” Tesla muses.
“Willing to open their wallets,” Goldie finishes.
They dissolve into giggles as I grab my things and disappear into the bathroom.
After a quick shower—Tesla and Goldie’s chatter a near-constant hum in the other room—we pull ourselves together, gather my notes, and head to Priscilla’s rental house for practice.
She could’ve stayed at the Botsford Plaza with the rest of us. Every opportunity was there. But the thought of running into her twin? Yeah, that was a deal breaker.
“Don’t exactly feel like riding the awkward train of pain this week,” she’d said. “And we need a practice space.”
Hard to argue with that logic.
There are fourteen days left until Halloween. Until the Battle of the Bands against Criminal Records. Not “plenty of time.” Fourteen days, each one needing to count if we’re going to beat them.
No. Not if. There’s no if in this plan.
We’re going to win. Full stop.
“We have to win,” Priscilla says as Goldie and I shove the couch back against the living room wall, clearing space for Tesla to set up our gear.
“We’re going to win,” I say, eying the loveseat next. I nod at Goldie, and she grunts, already moving toward it.
“Good,” Priscilla mutters, chewing her bottom lip. Her wavy black hair is yanked up in a high ponytail, and her foot taps out her frustration against the hardwood floor. “I just wish we knew what songs they were debuting.”
“Well, we don’t,” I say, gripping one side of the seat and waiting for Goldie to get into position before we hoist it up.
“Maybe I could go undercover again and?—”
“No,” I say.
“Logan, we have no idea what’s going to happen!”
“Yes, Priscilla,” I grunt, dropping the loveseat into place with a hard exhale. “That’s exactly the point of a rock battle.”
“But we don’t know if our songs are better!”
“Our songs are better,” Tesla says, setting her guitar on its stand.
“Are they?” Priscilla demands, hands perched on her hips. “We don’t know that now. Before, with Monroe’s surveillance, we at least knew about Strawberry Daiquiris. They found out about that and released it early, so now we have nothing . We don’t even have the advantage since you insisted on having the battle here instead of in New York.”
I glance at Goldie, then Tesla. I see the slip in their expressions, doubt creeping in, laced through Priscilla’s words like poison.
“You’re wrong, Priscilla,” I say before it can seep too deep. “We have each other. We have our music—music that we love and believe in. That’s all the advantage we need. And we are going to win.”
Priscilla shakes her head. “Maybe I should stay here,” she says. “I’ll cancel my meetings in LA and just poke around here a bit and then?—”
“No.”
My voice cuts through the room like a blade. The air stills. Three pairs of eyes lock onto me.
“There will be no poking around,” I say, holding their attention. “No trips undercover. No more cheating of any kind. We are The Electrics. We’ll win this legitimately or not at all. And if you don’t like that, then you can go find another band to bother. You obviously care more about one-upping your twin sister than actually creating anything of value.”
Priscilla sneers, but when I glance at the others, I see them leering right back at her.
“Fine,” she mutters, sighing. “But our contract with Sugar Sound is riding on this. We don’t perform, they don’t renew.”
“They’ll renew.”
“How do you know?”
“We’re going to win,” I repeat, holding her stare.
“Yeah,” she murmurs, doubt still clinging to her voice.
“No.” I step forward until I’m towering over her, my presence alone pushing her back an inch. “Say it.”
She swallows hard. “We’re going to win.”
“Like you mean it.”
“We’re going to win!”
“All of you,” I command, turning to Tesla and Goldie. “Say it.”
“We’re going to win!” they all echo, voices electric, faces split with excited smiles.
“That’s my girls,” I say, grinning as the room shifts, crackling with a much better energy. “Now, we have a show at the Sin and Sand in three days. Let’s make sure we’re ready. Goldie, set up your kit. Tessie, tune your guitar—your E string was off yesterday. And you—” I boop Priscilla’s nose, earning a startled blink. “Watch and listen.”
I turn away to finish setting up my microphone, already in place thanks to Tesla.
Tesla meows. “Love it when he does that,” she says, prompting Goldie to purr right along with her.
Even Priscilla cracks a smile. She smothers it fast, but a little rouge lingers on her cheeks as she steps back, clipboard in hand, taking her seat at the kitchenette table. To watch. To listen.
We’re going to win, I tell myself.
I’ll keep saying it until I believe it, too.