Chapter 2 #3
I looked at my men, my group. The name Rough Harmony suddenly felt less like a joke and more like a mission. I exhaled, and what came out was a laugh I hadn’t intended. “All right. Same time Saturday.”
A chorus of groans greeted my words.
“We don’t get the weekend off? Just one day between rehearsals?” Julian pouted. “Some of us have a life, you know. A job. Boring, necessary shit that pays the bills.”
“And what exactly pays your bills, honey?” Finnley’s eyes glittered.
Julian flushed.
“Can I have your attention for a second?” I raised my voice, cutting through the noise.
When I got silence, I took a breath. “I know I said we’d rehearse twice a week, and I did intend to give you the full weekend, but…
I think we have too much to do, so I’m slotting in one more session.
After that—and providing we make some substantial progress—we’ll go back to two days a week. ”
“It might be an idea to ask if those of us who work shifts can fit in another rehearsal slot,” Max remarked, his gaze locked on me.
I flushed. He had a point.
Liam consulted his phone. “I think I can do Saturday.”
Oliver looked up from his phone. “Same here.”
I swept my gaze over the rest of the group. “Okay? Does that work?”
I got a wave of sighs, followed by grudging nods.
“Right. Enjoy tomorrow. Hydrate. Sleep. Don’t blow your voices screaming at sports or—” I eyed Milo “—TikTok.”
Milo saluted. “No promises.”
“Also,” I added, my tone businesslike because it was safer, “If someone leaves a latte ring on my seating chart again, I will be taking fingerprints.”
Zane pointed at Milo. Milo pointed at Zane.
Julian pointed at both of them. Finnley looked guilty even though he hadn’t brought a latte; he just looked guilty on principle.
Liam handed me a napkin he’d somehow had ready.
Oliver offered to laminate the next chart.
Sebastian said nothing and radiated correctness.
They drifted out in clumps, still bickering, still laughing, their voices echoing down the staircase. Max lingered, packing away music stands with exaggerated slowness.
I crouched to pick up a fallen pencil and realised my hand was shaking. I made a fist. It stopped. I stayed there for a second, down at ground level, where gum was fossilised in the floor and someone had carved a heart into the paint on the skirting board.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Max said.
“That’s impossible. My thinking comes factory-installed at maximum.” I stood. “Did you hear it?”
“The part where Milo tripped over a metaphor and face-planted into a G?”
“The other part. The… click.”
Max’s smile softened. “Yeah. It came in like a tide and then slipped back out. But it’ll come back. We’ll bring it back.”
I nodded. “We will.”
That was the job, not to demand perfect from ten strangers or wrestle chaos into submission, but to hold the door open long enough for a sound to find them all again, and again, until it knew the way by heart.
Something he’d said had been niggling me, and I replayed our conversations, searching for the words.
Then I had it.
“You said ‘those of us who work shifts’ earlier…”
Max flushed. “And?”
“Were you including yourself in that? Because that was how it came across.” I blinked. “Did you get a job and not tell me?”
Max rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to tell you everything, do I? I mean, we’re not married or anything.” Then he snorted. “As if I’d marry you. You’d drive me nuts in less than a week.”
I laughed. “Did you ever wonder why I never asked to share a room with you in college? Maybe because I felt the same way about you?”
He chuckled. “Poor Gary. How did he ever survive sharing a flat with you?” His eyes gleamed. “But I suppose there were advantages to that arrangement. Well, one advantage comes to mind.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Nice deflection.”
It was plain he wasn’t going to tell me about any job he might or might not be doing.
I found my seating chart, latte ring and all, and smoothed it with my palm. It didn’t look like much, just paper and ink and a stain.
But it was a beginning.
“Come on.” Max slung an arm around my neck again and steering me towards the door. “If we feed you, you might stop trying to murder people with eye contact.”
“I don’t murder with eye contact.”
“Tell that to Milo. He flinched so hard I thought his soul left his body.”
“He deserved it.” My mouth was crooked with a smile I couldn’t quite straighten.
We stepped out into the early evening, the city loud and alive, the sky the colour of a bruise healing. There was the scent of rain in the air. The door thumped shut behind us, and I slipped the padlock into position, locking the studio.
Saturday. We come back Saturday, and we try again.
We headed for the Underground. I felt as if I was walking a little taller, my chest a shade wider.
If Max noticed, he didn’t say a thing.
I was ready for food, tea, and maybe a little work before bed.
With no distractions.
Even thinking it was a useless exercise. At some point my mind would abandon spreadsheets and toss me back into the middle of a leather bar, leaving me hot and aching.
For something I couldn’t have.