Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sloane
If anyone ever writes a tell-all about this band, they should start here…
A cozy mountain cabin, three men with too much talent and too little supervision, and me, holding a camera like it’s a weapon.
Roman called it content creation.
Creed called it a waste of time.
Ezra called it mildly terrifying but potentially therapeutic.
I call it Tuesday.
By the time I’ve set up the tripod, Roman’s already shirtless. Naturally. Creed’s glaring at him as if he’s allergic to fun, and Ezra’s quietly untangling cables while humming under his breath.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Roman says, catching Creed’s expression. “People like authenticity.”
“Authenticity doesn’t mean nudity,” Creed fires back.
“Says you,” Roman grins. “The internet disagrees.”
I can’t help it. I laugh, which only eggs him on.
“See?” Roman says, pointing at me. “She gets it.”
“Yeah,” Creed mutters, “she also gets paid to feed us, not film a thirst trap.”
“Correction,” I say, raising the camera, “I’m now also your director. And your PR department. And possibly your babysitter.”
Roman gasps dramatically. “You wound me.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But keep talking.”
Ezra’s quiet laugh slips through the chaos, soft and warm. He’s got that faraway smile again, the one that sneaks up on you fast as sunlight through clouds.
“This is already better than therapy,” he murmurs. “There’s something about the noise, the way it fills the empty parts. Makes you forget where you end, and the music begins.”
“Don’t jinx it,” Creed grumbles, but even he’s fighting a smile now.
When they start to play, everything clicks. The room fills with sound. Loud, alive, and good.
Roman’s voice pours over the chords, all heat and hunger, moving like the stage is stitched into his veins.
Creed’s behind the kit, every hit precise and powerful, a heartbeat made of thunder.
And Ezra, steady at the bass, grounds it all, his rhythm dark and rich, threading through the space like smoke curling in candlelight.
I circle them with the camera, catching moments no one else ever sees. Roman winks mid-chorus. Creed pretends to ignore it but smirks anyway. Ezra gives me this quiet, curious glance, and I swear I forget to breathe for a second.
By the second song, they’re showing off. Roman starts a ridiculous spin and nearly wipes out the mic stand; Creed shouts, “Unbelievable!” while laughing for once in his life.
Ezra keeps playing, deadpan, and says, “Graceful. Truly.”
“I meant to do that,” Roman insists.
“Sure you did,” I tease. “Real avant-garde performance art.”
Ezra’s smile turns mischievous. “I’d give it a seven for style, two for stability.”
Creed huffs. “Generous.”
They keep going, loose and laughing now, every bit of tension from before melting into the rhythm.
Roman hams it up for the camera, Creed actually joins in when I cheer him on, and Ezra… well, he gets caught in the music, eyes closed, voice rough and beautiful.
I film all of it. The smiles. The banter. The part where Roman tries to get Creed to harmonize and gets told to “harmonize with a wall instead.”
When the song ends, they’re still laughing, out of breath and flushed.
Roman throws an arm around Creed, who looks two seconds from shoving him off.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to my camera, “the comeback of the century.”
Ezra leans in from the other side, murmuring, “Assuming we survive Roman’s choreography.”
I’m laughing too hard to keep the camera still. “Okay, that’s enough. You’re going to break something.”
“Hopefully hearts,” Roman says with a grin.
Creed groans. “Please stop talking.”
But even he’s smiling.
When the laughter finally dies down, I switch off the camera and take a few still shots.
Roman with his guitar slung low and a smirk that could sell sin, Creed leaning on his drumsticks like he’s about to quit and start a fight, and Ezra, quietly radiant, bass hanging from his shoulder, that poetic kind of stillness that makes you want to stare too long.
“Alright,” I say, lowering the camera, “let’s get a few promo shots.”
Creed groans. “Promo shots? What are we, a pop boy band?”
“Worse,” Roman says, grinning. “We’re a comeback boy band.”
“Exactly,” I say, ignoring their theatrics. “And comebacks need buzz. The media eats this stuff up. Behind the scenes, stripped back, a little messy but in a charming, relatable way. Think less corporate photo shoot, more we’re flawed and beautiful and human.”
Roman points at me as if I’ve just solved world peace. “See, she gets it. PR gold.”
Creed mutters something that sounds like “sellout” under his breath, but I catch the faintest smirk.
Ezra watches me thoughtfully, tilting his head. “You really know what they want, don’t you?”
I shrug, a little proud despite myself. “I used to write the headlines, remember? The trick is making people feel like they’ve stumbled into something real. Like they’re getting a glimpse of the truth no one else sees.”
Roman dramatically tousles his hair. “Then you’re in luck. I’m basically truth in human form.”
Creed snorts. “You’re basically a walking PR disaster.”
“Disasters trend,” Roman says cheerfully.
I laugh and raise my camera again. “Alright, disaster boy, give me brooding but hopeful.”
Roman leans against a speaker, trying for serious, but the second I click the shutter, Creed mutters, “Looks constipated,” and Roman cracks up.
“Fine,” I say through my own laughter, “give me effortlessly cool.”
He slicks his hair back, posing like a bad 80s album cover.
“Perfect,” I tease. “Now, Creed, your turn. ‘Mysterious and misunderstood.’”
He glares at me, deadpan. “That’s literally my resting face.”
“Exactly,” I say, clicking a few shots. “The fans will love the tortured artist vibe.”
Roman’s already doubled over laughing. “Oh, he’s going to kill you when these go up.”
“Worth it!” I grin.
Ezra’s still quiet, but I can feel him watching me, that calm gaze that somehow feels hot as a pulse under my skin. When I turn the lens on him, he blinks, caught.
“Your turn, Vaughn.”
He hesitates, hand half covering a smile. “And what’s my vibe?”
I lower the camera slightly, pretending to think. “Hmm. Soulful. A little dangerous. Secretly, the fan favorite who writes lyrics that ruin everyone emotionally.”
He huffs a soft laugh. “That’s… oddly specific.”
“Occupational hazard,” I say, clicking as he adjusts his grip on the bass. “Hold still… perfect. Give me that faraway poet thing you do.”
He rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curves. “You make it sound like a strategy.”
“It is a strategy,” I say, lowering the camera. “Everything is. The media loves a narrative, brooding drummer. Charismatic frontman. Quiet genius in the corner. I … package it better.”
Roman claps his hands once. “And this, gentlemen, is why we keep her.”
Creed smirks. “I thought we kept her because she feeds us.”
“That too,” I say. “But if you want your fans to remember you for more than a messy breakup and a cancelled tour, you need to start owning the story before someone else does.”
Ezra looks at me like I’ve just rewritten something in his head. “You really believe that.”
I meet his eyes. “I know it.”
A beat passes, long enough to feel charged, and Roman breaks it with a loud clap. “Alright, Professor Katz, what’s next? Shirtless jam session? Creed in soft lighting?”
“Keep dreaming,” Creed says, with an eye roll.
“Now, you do this.” I hand a box of Christmas decorations. “This place needs some festive vibes anyway, and I can get some good shots.”
Creed looks at the box like I just handed him a live snake. “You want me to… what, put up a tree or something?”
“Exactly,” I say, grinning. “But with style, Creed. You’re going to make this cabin look like Christmas exploded in the best way.”
“Exploded?” He raises an eyebrow, skeptical but not entirely unwilling. “You sure about this?”
“Of course. We’ve got tinsel, garland, a few million ornaments, and a very questionable-looking plastic reindeer. What could go wrong?”
Roman’s eyes light up. “Is there glitter involved? Because I’m in. If we’re going full Christmas, we might as well get messy.”
I roll my eyes but hand him a handful of twinkling lights. “You’re on lights duty, Mister ‘I’m all about authenticity.’”
He grins and drapes the lights over his arm like he’s some Christmas angel. “This is real holiday spirit right here.”
Meanwhile, Ezra’s standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching us like we’re about to pull some prank. “Is this really going to work online?”
I laugh, handing him a box of ornaments. “Of course. Just do your quiet genius thing. Put a star on the top or something. You’ve got this.”
He hesitates, then crouches beside the boxed-up tree, unfolding its branches with an air of mock seriousness, like he’s about to solve world hunger one section at a time. “If you say so.”
“Okay, good,” I say, already snapping a few photos as Roman winds the lights around a chair, getting more tangled in the process. “Everyone look festive. It’s for the vibes.”
Creed groans dramatically as he untangles a string of tinsel. “I don’t know what I’m doing. This isn’t my scene.”
“Oh, it’s your scene,” I tease, capturing him struggling to untwist the mess. “Just think of it as your artistic interpretation of the holidays.”
Roman pauses mid-light throw to glance at me. “Artistic interpretation? You’ve been reading too many magazines, haven’t you?”
“Guilty,” I say, snapping another picture. “But hey, it’s working. You guys look very festive.”
I circle the cabin, capturing it all. The accidental disarray of mismatched decorations, the moment where Roman tries to turn his shirtless state into some festive performance art, and the way Ezra looks like he’s genuinely trying to make the tree look good.
In between, I catch Creed rolling his eyes and swiping at Roman’s attempt to drape lights over him.
And through it all, there’s this sense of warmth, of something coming together in the strangest, most imperfect way.
When it’s all said and done, the cabin is a complete mess, but it’s beautiful in its own way.
Twinkling lights cast a soft glow, the mismatched ornaments on the tree sparkle like a kaleidoscope of holiday spirit, and the plastic reindeer is sitting proudly on the couch, looking entirely out of place but essential.
I lower the camera, satisfied with the shots. “Alright, that’s the vibe I wanted. Christmas craziness at its finest.”
Roman turns around with a grin, holding up a half-empty bottle of beer. “So, when do we put this online?”.
I roll my eyes. “First, I edit, post a sneak peek, and watch your followers lose their collective minds.”
Roman grins, all teeth and trouble. “And maybe people will stop calling us a train wreck.”
I smirk at him. “Oh no, they’ll still call you a train wreck. You’ll just be a sexy one.”
Roman laughs. Creed nearly spits out his water.
And Ezra? He shakes his head, that quiet smile tugging at his lips again, the one that sneaks up on me, warm and dangerous.
And for the first time in a long time, the story I’m telling isn’t just about them.
It’s about me, too. Getting to use everything I know from the career I thought was lost.
Afterwards, the cabin smells of beer and burnt popcorn, which, honestly, reminds me of a fair trade for art.
Creed insists on supervising me while I upload the videos, which really means standing over my shoulder, like a suspicious parent, while he nurses his drink.
Roman sprawled across the couch, shirt still missing, and Ezra perched on the armrest beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him even through my sweater.
“Okay,” I murmur, tapping the final upload button. “There. It’s live.”
Roman raises his beer like a toast. “To viral fame and poor life choices.”
“Cheers to both,” I say, clinking bottles with him.
The first notifications come in fast. Likes. Comments. Shares. Within minutes, the numbers are climbing, the little red hearts multiplying like caffeine-fueled rabbits.
“Holy crap,” Creed mutters, leaning closer. “People are actually into this?”
I grin, scrolling through the feed. “Not just into it, they’re obsessed. Listen to this: ‘They look happier than ever.’ ‘Creed smiling? Is this an alternate universe?’ ‘Ezra Vaughn, sir, you are not allowed to look at a camera like that without warning.’”
Ezra flushes, which only makes Roman choke on his drink, laughing. “Called out by the internet! Beautiful.”
“I hate this,” Creed says, but he’s smiling, faintly, because he doesn’t.
I nudge him with my elbow. “You love it a little.”
“Maybe a microscopic amount,” he admits.
I turn to Roman, who’s scrolling through comments on his own phone, grinning like a kid.
“People are saying they missed us,” he says, softer now, almost disbelieving. “That we look… happy.”
“Imagine that,” I tease. “You do something fun, and the world doesn’t end.”
Ezra’s hand brushes mine as he leans in to read a comment. “This one says, ‘The world feels right again.’” He exhales, a quiet laugh escaping him. “I forgot what that sounded like.”
Something tugs in my chest. That mix of pride and tenderness that keeps sneaking up on me around him.
Roman lifts his beer again. “Alright, to Sloane, our PR wizard slash genius slash miracle worker.”
“Seconded,” Ezra says, tapping his bottle gently against mine. His voice is low, and there’s something about the way he looks at me, that warm, unguarded kind of gaze, that makes my pulse skip.
Creed rolls his eyes, but even he clinks his bottle too. “Fine. To Sloane. And to not totally tanking our comeback.”
I laugh, pretending to bow. “I’ll take that as the highest form of flattery.”
The room feels lighter. Music hums from someone’s speaker, half-finished beers litter the table, and for once, no one’s bracing for bad news.
Roman’s already plotting new ideas. “Tomorrow, we do acoustic by the lake!” Creed’s actually laughing, and Ezra’s watching me, memorizing the moment.
And maybe I am, too.
Because finally, this doesn’t feel like damage control.
It feels like a beginning.