Rough Harmony

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Theo Sinclair paused outside Northern Pour, glaring through the glass. No sign of Max Rivers.

Of course there isn’t. When is he ever on time?

He pushed open the door, greeted by the rush of roasted beans, sugar, and cinnamon.

The place buzzed with students hunched over laptops and couples laughing too loud.

A few men in suits scrolled on their phones.

Theo scanned for an empty corner and claimed it.

Coffee could wait until Max deigned to arrive.

This had better be worth it.

He’d stayed up way too late working—another spreadsheet to fix, another server hiccup to patch—but Max’s text had come through like a lifeline.

Need a drink. Got news. Meet me at the usual place. Yeah, I’m coming to Manchester. [eye roll emoji]

Theo hadn’t realised how badly he’d wanted an excuse to leave the sterile glow of his monitor until he was already on the tram.

It has to be music related. Only that would drag Max all the way from London. Only that would be important enough to part him from his precious club. And the fact he wants to have this conversation face to face, rather than over the phone or via email, speaks volumes.

God, Theo hoped it was to do with music.

That was what he missed. The ache in his chest was worse lately.

IT paid the bills, but it didn’t make him feel alive.

Four years at the Royal Northern College of Music and all he had to show for it were dusty scores in a box under his bed and one very expensive “mistake degree,” according to his father.

Theo rubbed the tension from his neck. Mistake or not, it was the only time I knew who I was.

“You could’ve had the coffees waiting.”

Theo looked up. Max Rivers loomed over him, all black leather and cocky grin, jeans tight enough to make the barista blush across the room.

“You’re not exactly a model of punctuality,” Theo said dryly. “I figured I’d wait until you decided to grace us with your presence.”

“Or figured I’d buy.” Max slid into the chair opposite, his eyes glinting. “Rumour confirmed—Scots are tightfisted.”

Theo looked hm up and down. “You could always pawn one of your leather jackets. Just think how many coffees that would buy.”

Max gaped in mock horror. “The only way someone else gets their grubby mitts on one of my jackets is if they’re stealing it from my lifeless corpse that they just found in an alley.” He batted his lashes. “Aw, buy a coffee for one of your bestest friends.”

Theo laughed. “Fine, I’ll get them. You’re still between jobs, aren’t you? Unless you’ve started moonlighting as a stripper without telling me.”

Max’s grin flickered, a shadow crossing his features, then it snapped back into place. “Americano. And if a croissant leaps into the bag, I’ll let fate decide.”

Theo went to order, shaking his head as Max unleashed a slow wink at the poor barista. Typical. Max didn’t flirt; he detonated. Clubs, bars, even coffee shops—he collected admirers like moths. That dark beard, the tattoos, the low-burning dominance in his posture… He was chaos personified.

And Theo’s rock.

Max had been there when Luka had wrecked more than his heart. For better or worse, Max had always been the anchor—and the match.

When Theo returned with their drinks, Max was scowling at his phone that was propped up against the small pot filled with sachets of sugar and sweetener.

“What’s crawled up your arse?”

“Grayson Bishop,” Max muttered. “Which, by the way, is the reason we’re meeting.”

Theo groaned. “Christ, that tosser? Why would you say his name out loud?” Not that Theo had even thought once about Grayson since they’d all graduated from the Royal Northern College.

The smarmy bastard. Now and then his name popped up in the WhatsApp group for his ex-classmates, but Theo made it a point not to read those messages.

Reading them was as bad as hearing Grayson, and why would he want to torture himself like that?

“Because the bastard’s gone and got himself a group. A cappella. And apparently they’re the next big thing,” Max air-quoted.

Theo froze. “You’re joking.”

Grayson? He couldn’t produce a decent chord to save his life. He couldn’t even find one without a high-powered torch.

Max shoved the screen across the table, and Theo saw photos. Grayson and his shiny new band, all tailored blazers and styled hair, mid-pose under stage lights. A review snippet: ‘…polished, inventive, and set to storm the UK circuit.’

Theo scowled. He could practically hear Grayson’s nasal drawl bragging about it. “I hate how smug he looks.”

“I hate that he’s good,” Max growled.

“Since when? Has he had vocal chord implants in the last four years?”

“Okay, maybe he’s the weakest link, but as for the rest of them? I went to one of their shows last week. They were playing in a theatre in Holborn.”

Theo blinked. “You? Voluntarily?”

“Call it curiosity.” Max leaned in, his voice low. “And damn it, Theo, they were slick. Soulless, but slick. The crowd ate it up.” His face fell.

Theo’s chest pinched. He remembered that feeling: harmonies slotting into place, the audience holding its breath. “Okay, they’re slick, but we both know soulless doesn’t last.”

“Yeah, but it sells,” Max shot back. His jaw worked. “So I sat there thinking—why them? Why not us?”

What the hell?

Theo arched a brow. “Us?”

“You have more talent in your little finger than Grayson has in his whole preening body.” Max’s tone was fierce. “And I…” His eyes burned. “I know voices. I know presence. Together? We could build something real. Something raw.”

Theo folded his arms, his habitual wariness taking over. “That’s not enough. Talent and organisation? Sure. But you need a hook now. Something bigger.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, we’re just another choir.”

That dangerous glint lit Max’s eyes was all too familiar. “And I’ve thought of the perfect hook. Leather.”

Theo laughed. “Of course you’d say that.”

“Wait a sec. Picture it,” Max urged. “I’m not talking costumes. I’m talking a look. A statement.” He met Theo’s gaze. “Men in leather, standing bare under the lights, nothing between them and the audience but their voices.”

Theo nearly dismissed it. Nearly. But the image crawled through his head, sharp and visceral: leather catching the light, harmony cutting like a blade.

“Okay,” Theo admitted slowly. “That’s a hook, I’ll give you that.” Then he blinked. “Er…bare?”

Max grinned. “Gotta have a bit of bare flesh. You know, shirtless under an open leather jacket kinda thing.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking harnesses, for God’s sake.”

Theo gave a wry smile. “Just checking.” Then he paused. “But what if we push it further?”

Max stilled. “Go on.”

Theo leaned forward. “What if every member is gay? Not just leather. Not just edge. A group that says what it is, no apologies.” He smiled. “How does that saying go? ‘It does exactly what it says on the tin.’”

“Gay also includes bi, pan, etc, right?”

Theo shrugged. “If they’re queer, they’re eligible.”

Max broke into a grin so wide it was dangerous. “An all-queer, all-male a cappella group. Leather optional.” His eyes flashed. “Okay, maybe not optional.”

Theo’s chest thrummed with possibility. “Okay, that’s a hook.” He sat back. “Now all we have to do is find them.”

“Ads,” Max said instantly. “Attitude. Gay Times. QX. Boyz. Flyers in bars—Manchester, Soho, Brighton, Birmingham. Hell, even FetLife. Anywhere queer men look for their tribe.” He smirked. “If it’s still okay to use that word.”

“That’s casting the net pretty wide. Where do we hold auditions?”

Max leaned back. “Here or London.”

Theo stilled. “Why London? You need to take out a loan these days if you want to take the train.”

Max rolled his eyes again. “Then they take a coach. And there are cheaper options for getting around by train. I speak from experience. How’d you think I could afford to get here today? But I’m betting we’ll find most of the guys in London. It’s a way bigger pot to choose from. More talent.”

“And once we have our group? Where do you intend rehearsing? In London?” Theo smirked. “You’ve told me often enough how much it costs to live there.”

“Yeah, but it depends where you live. It doesn’t have to be central. Everywhere’s reachable by train or Tube. And sharing a place brings the costs down.”

Another shrug. “Maybe we need to talk about this some more.” He paused.

“How many men are we talking?”

“Two basses—us. Two baritones. Two tenors. A soprano or two, maybe falsetto. Ten men total. Ten voices.” Max grabbed a napkin, scrawled in bold strokes, then shoved it across the table.

Hot Leather Guys. Ten voices. One filthy harmony.

Theo barked a laugh, the fizz of adrenaline sparking in his chest. “Well, that’ll get attention.”

Max raised his mug. “We won’t know if we can do it until we try. But I’m telling you—we’re better than Grayson.” He set his jaw. “And we’ll prove it.”

Theo clinked his cup against Max’s. “Fine. But we need a better name than Hot Leather Guys.”

Max rolled his eyes, grinning. “Placeholder. The real name will come when the ten of us stand together.”

Theo smirked. “Then here’s to us—and to making a better noise.”