Chapter 20 Roman
CHAPTER TWENTY
Roman
Bad news always seems to find me when I least expect it.
This time, it’s Creed’s fault. He’s standing in the middle of the lounge, arms crossed, phone in hand, looking close to punching the internet itself.
“Roman,” he says.
Just my name, flat. Never a good sign.
“What’s up?” I ask, half-distracted, still tuning the guitar slung across my lap.
He tosses his phone onto the table as if it’s contaminated. “You need to see this.”
I glance down, and there it is. A headline that makes my stomach twist.
Wild Reverie on the Rocks: Inside the Implosion of Rock’s Favorite Fallen Angels.
“Oh, for f…” I don’t finish it. I just scroll. And it’s bad. Real bad.
They’ve got pictures. Not promo shots. Not from a show. From here. At the retreat. Creed pacing near the lake. Ezra sitting alone by the fire, looking haunted. And me, of course. There’s one of me, shirtless, walking out of the cabin as if I’m auditioning for a cologne ad.
The caption?
“Roman West appears to be retreating from more than just fame.”
Cute. Real cute.
“Who the hell took these?” I mutter, flicking through the article. “Someone hiding in the trees? Bigfoot with a press pass?”
Ezra’s on his phone now too, brow furrowed. “They’re quoting private stuff. Things no one outside of us should know.”
He’s right. Whoever wrote this knows too much. Mentions of “internal conflict,” “creative collapse,” even stuff about the tour fallout. That was supposed to be locked down tighter than Creed’s emotions.
My phone buzzes. Then again. And again.
I don’t even have to look to know it’s bad. But I look anyway.
Jeena.
Jeena: Saw the article. You okay?
Jeena: Do you want me to handle it?
Jeena: Please don’t do anything stupid.
I snort. “Too late for that.”
Creed’s still pacing fast as a caged animal. “This is bullshit. Total fabrication.”
“Not total,” Ezra says quietly, which earns him a death glare from Creed.
I lean back on the couch, running a hand through my hair. “You know who did this.”
Creed doesn’t answer, but I see the muscle in his jaw twitch.
“Our old manager,” I say. “Has to be. Guy’s been waiting for revenge since the day we fired him.”
“Figures,” Creed growls. “We take back our lives and he sells them to the tabloids.”
Ezra exhales shakily. “So what now? Do we make a statement?”
“About what?” I shoot back. “To say we’re not imploding. That we’re actually just doing some light emotional bleeding in the woods for fun?”
He doesn’t answer, and the silence in the room thickens.
I recheck my phone, because apparently, I enjoy pain, and there’s another text.
Not from Jeena this time.
From Sloane.
I saw. You okay?
Four words, but they hit harder than all the rest.
I should respond with something cool. Casual.
Yeah, fine. No big deal.
But the truth? My hands are shaking.
So instead, I do what I always do: I ignore it. Shove the phone in my pocket and pretend I don’t care.
Creed’s muttering under his breath about control and PR fallout. Ezra’s staring at nothing, lost somewhere in his own head. And I’m standing there in the middle, wondering when the hell we turned into a soap opera.
“This is a nightmare,” Ezra says softly.
“Welcome back to fame, brother,” I mutter.
Creed turns on me. “You think this is funny?”
“No. I think it’s inevitable.” I grab my coffee, take a sip, and grimace. Cold. Figures. “We live and die by headlines, Creed. This week, we’re the train wreck. Next week, someone else will be.”
“That’s your solution? Wait it out?”
“What do you want me to do? Storm TMZ with a baseball bat?”
He doesn’t answer, but judging by his face, he’s thinking about it.
“Look,” I say finally, setting the mug down. “We’ll ride it out. We’ve done it before.”
The door opens before Creed can come up with another threat for the media.
Sloane steps in, her cheeks flushed from the cold, hair messy as if she’s been walking off steam. She’s holding a grocery bag, probably from town. For half a second, the room is still. The three of us must look like we’ve been caught plotting a murder.
She stops halfway in. “Okay. So, you did see it?”
Creed makes a sound that’s half a growl, half a sigh. “We sure did.”
“I was at the market,” she continues, carefully. “It’s already spreading. People are talking.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Maybe they’ll sell popcorn next.”
She doesn’t smile. She just looks at us, really looks, cataloguing the damage. Ezra’s withdrawn. Creed’s vibrating with fury. And me? I’m hiding behind sarcasm, as usual.
Then she exhales, slow, measured. “Look, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but maybe it’s time to stop hiding.”
Creed turns to her. “Hiding?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You’ve been off the grid for what, two years? No posts, no interviews, no updates. The fans don’t know what’s real anymore. And when people don’t know, they fill in the blanks themselves.”
Ezra frowns. “So, what, let them in? Show them everything?”
“Not everything,” she says. “Just enough. You can control the narrative if you start telling it yourselves.”
I tilt my head, watching her. “You mean social media.”
She nods. “Exactly. Use it. Give people a reason to stop listening to gossip and start listening to you. Post about rehearsals, new material, snippets of songs, even just behind-the-scenes stuff. Make them feel like they’re part of it again.”
Creed shakes his head. “That’s not our job. That’s—”
“—your manager’s,” she finishes. “Right. The one you fired. Which means it’s no one’s job now. You’ve let that part slide, and this is the result.”
Her words hang in the air as smoke. Harsh. True.
Ezra rubs at the back of his neck.
“I don’t hate it,” he admits quietly. “It’s… proactive.”
“Proactive,” Creed echoes, as if it’s a foreign word.
I lean back on the couch, smirking. “She’s got a point, though. If they’re gonna stare, might as well give them a show worth watching.”
Sloane arches a brow. “Exactly. Own it. Give them something real, before someone else writes your story for you.”
Creed looks skeptical, Ezra thoughtful. I can feel the idea catching fire in my head already. I clap my hands together. “Alright, then. Let’s make it official.”
Ezra blinks. “Official?”
“Yeah.” I’m grinning now. “We record the next practice. Photos, clips, whatever. Post it. Let the world see we’re not dead yet.”
Creed groans. “Roman—”
“Come on, man. You wanted a comeback story? This is how it starts. Give them something raw. Something they can’t twist.”
Sloane crosses her arms, but there’s the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes. “You really think that’ll fix it?”
“No,” I admit, grabbing my guitar again. “But it’ll piss off our ex-manager. And honestly? That’s enough motivation for me.”
Ezra snickers, the tension cracking just a little. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Damn right.”
I turn back to Sloane. “You in? You’ve got the eye for it. You shoot the footage. Keep it real, keep it ours.”
Her brows lift. “You want me to run your PR campaign now?”
“Think of it as creative direction.”
She hesitates, then sighs. “Fine. But I’m not doing filters or fake smiles.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, grinning. “Authenticity looks good on us.”
Creed mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “This is a terrible idea,” but he’s already heading for the basement.
Ezra trails after him, still scrolling on his phone. “If we’re doing this, we’ll need to plan what to show. No more shirtless wanderings outside, Roman.”
“No promises,” I call after him.
When they’re gone, it’s just me and Sloane again. She’s half smiling now, shaking her head.
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Sure am,” I say. “Nothing like turning a scandal into a setlist.”
Her laugh is soft, reluctant. “You’re crazy.”
“Maybe,” I say, grabbing my jacket. “But at least now, the world’s gonna see it for themselves.”