6
Kage
The restaurant was loud, buzzing with the kind of energy you only got after a good show. The band was riding high, the crew loose after a few drinks, and me? I was bored.
I swirled my drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, my eyes drifting to Phoenix. She sat a few seats down, her shoulders tense, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her napkin. Always so proper.
Pathetic, really.
She played the part of a rule follower, the dependable one, but I knew better. I’d caught her sneaking out of the venue more than once this past week, slipping away right after making sure the band and I were wrangled into interviews. She thought she was clever, disappearing through the side door like no one would notice. But I noticed.
I leaned back in my chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. Tonight felt like the perfect night to shake things up.
“So, Phoenix,”
I said, raising my voice just enough to cut through the chatter. Her head snapped up, and those wary eyes of hers locked onto me. God, I lived for that look. Like a rabbit caught in a snare.
“You’ve been keeping busy lately, haven’t you?”
I drawled, taking a lazy sip of my drink.
She blinked, clearly trying to decide if she wanted to engage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The corner of my mouth twitched. Perfect. “Nothing,”
I said lightly. “Just that we appreciate how intimately invested you are with our band. Your approach to work is very hands-on.”
The table quieted, just like I knew it would. All eyes turned to her, curiosity sparking.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,”
she said, her voice tight.
I set my glass down and leaned forward, letting my smirk widen. “Oh, come on, Princess. Don’t be so modest. You and I both know how dedicated you are to keeping my packmates and I happy.”
A couple of crew members chuckled, the kind of awkward, uncertain laughter that told me they weren’t sure if this was a joke or something more.
“Dedicated?”
one of them repeated, grinning.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
another added, and this time, the laughter was louder, more confident.
Her cheeks turned red, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I could practically feel the heat rolling off her, the embarrassment clawing up her throat as the implications of my words sank in.
“That’s not—”
she started, but her voice cracked, and the sound was so pitiful I almost felt bad for her. Almost.
“Relax, Phoenix,”
I said, leaning back in my chair and throwing an arm over the backrest. “We’re all friends here. No need to deny it.”
She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists on the table. “If you’re done making your little jokes, maybe we can actually enjoy dinner?”
“Oh, I’m not joking,”
I said, my tone casual. “I’m just saying it’s admirable, the lengths you go to for us. Really, it’s touching.”
Zephyr choked on his drink, and a few more laughs rippled around the room.
Her nails dug into the wood of the table so hard I thought she might leave marks. “You’re unbelievable.”
“What was that?”
I asked, feigning innocence. “Speak up, Priss. Don’t be shy.”
Her eyes snapped to mine, and for a moment, I saw something raw there. Anger, sure. Embarrassment, definitely. But there was something else—something fragile and broken that made my chest tighten for half a second before I shoved the feeling aside.
She stood suddenly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room went silent, everyone’s attention locked on her.
“Excuse me, I suddenly lost my appetite.”
She walked away, her back stiff and her head high. I watched her go, my smirk fading as the door swung shut behind her.
For a moment, I just sat there, the laughter around the table fading into background noise. I wasn’t sure why I pushed her so hard. Maybe it was the way she carried herself, like she was better than all of us. Or maybe it was the way her walls cracked when I prodded.
Whatever it was, it pissed me off.
One of the roadies leaned over, his voice low. “Man, you’re brutal.”
I shrugged, grabbing my drink and taking another sip. “She can handle it,”
I said, even though I wasn’t sure if that was true.
But the thing about Phoenix? She didn’t belong here. And I was going to remind her of that every chance I got.
◆◆◆
Wednesday. Like clockwork.
Phoenix was always so predictable, her little routines etched into the fabric of our days on tour. She had just finished going over her usual spiel—what topics to avoid, how to redirect certain questions, and her incessant reminders to “stay professional.”
She always said that last part with a tight smile, as if she were talking to a pack of unruly children.
I played along, of course, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, nodding as if I were paying attention. Meanwhile, my focus was on her. I studied the way her brow furrowed when one of us wasn’t taking her seriously or how she clutched her clipboard like it was her lifeline. She loved rules. Clung to them like they were the only thing keeping her upright.
But I knew better.
As soon as she ushered us into the interview room and made sure the cameras were set to roll, her expression shifted. She lingered in the doorway for a moment, checking to make sure we were occupied before slipping out.
I knew where she was going. Or rather, I didn’t know exactly, but I’d seen this same routine enough times to piece it together. Every Wednesday, she found an excuse to vanish for an hour or two, always around this time, always with the same nervous energy. It was a little too convenient, and I couldn’t resist the itch to find out why she was leaving us to our own devices.
“Mind if I step out for a second?”
I asked the interviewer, flashing my most disarming grin.
The guy barely looked up from his notes as he waved me off, muttering something about the others being enough for now. Perfect.
I slipped out of the room, closing the door silently behind me, and made my way down the hall. Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of Phoenix at the far end. Her head swiveled like she was making sure no one was following her. Subtle, but not subtle enough.
I kept my distance, moving quietly as I followed her through the winding backstage corridors of the venue. She stopped near a side exit, glancing around one last time before pushing the door open and stepping out into the alley.
I quickened my pace, catching the door just before it closed, and slipped outside after her. She was already halfway down the alley, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she hurried toward the street.
I pulled out my phone, my lips curling into a smirk. Whatever she was up to, it had to be good.
Phoenix stopped at the curb, glancing around nervously before flagging down a cab. The bright yellow car pulled up and she climbed in quickly with her head ducked low. I snapped a few pictures as the cab pulled away.
“What are you up to, Phoenix?”
I murmured, tucking my phone back into my pocket.
The whole thing was too good.
Miss Perfect, sneaking out during work hours like a rebellious teenager.
And she thought she was so above it all, didn’t she? Always trying to act like she was the responsible one, the rule follower, the professional one.
But here she was, proving that even she wasn’t as flawless as she wanted everyone to believe.
I lingered in the alley for a moment, replaying the scene in my head.
The nervous way she glanced over her shoulder, the way she practically bolted into the cab—it all screamed guilty.
And I couldn’t wait to use it against her.