Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Liam Brooks scrubbed a hand down his face, and it came away gritty with sweat and the faint tang of antiseptic. He wasn’t just tired—he was hollowed out, every nerve threadbare.
Twelve hours in the major trauma centre at Manchester Royal Infirmary would do that to a man.
Bar fights, broken glass, fists that didn’t know when to stop.
The city had bled itself dry after the match last night, and he and the other trauma nurses had been catching the fallout until sunrise: concussions, shattered jaws, fractured ribs, one kid barely clinging to life after a boot to the skull.
What the hell is wrong with people?
The locker room was too bright, too clean after the carnage. Liam sat on the bench, his head in his hands. He wanted to peel his skin off, crawl into darkness, and sleep until someone dragged him out.
Only twelve hours until I get to do it all over again.
Mike Grant’s voice broke through. “You should do that, you know.”
Liam cracked one eye open. “Do what?”
Mike looked as wrecked as Liam felt. He pointed toward the noticeboard. “They’re putting a choir together.”
Liam snorted. “And why would that interest me?”
“Because I’ve heard you in the shower. You’ve got a voice. And a body.” Mike’s grin was shameless.
“Subtle,” Liam muttered. “Your husband would be proud.”
“The joys of an open relationship.” Mike winked. “Joel would probably thank me for recruiting you.”
The old, familiar banter. Liam deflected it like he always did, because what was the alternative? Sarcasm kept things smooth, kept him safe. But when Mike finally left, Liam’s gaze settled on the board.
That was when he saw it.
Not the bright poster for the hospital choir. Not the rainbow flag thumbtacked in the corner. What filled his vision was the scrap of paper tucked beneath it. Handwritten. Bold.
Hot Leather Guys. Gay Male A Cappella. Leather. Lust. Lungs.
His pulse raced. He didn’t even think before tearing it down and cramming it into his pocket.
I’ll look at this later.
Liam collapsed into his battered armchair and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He should have gone straight to bed, but he needed coffee in the worst way.
Then he remembered. Hot Leather Guys. That brought a smile he didn’t think he had in him after the shift he’d just survived.
He fished out the crumpled paper and typed the URL into his phone.
It took him to a stark page: a microphone laid across a leather jacket, nothing more.
Contact details, an email, an audition link.
That’s it? That’s all they’re giving me?
He hadn’t sung in four years. Not since—
The voice came back, rough and smoky. The reek of cigarettes. Fingers gripping too tight. Promises whispered, then broken.
Liam shoved the memory down hard. He’d built walls for a reason.
And yet…
Maybe it was time to see if his voice could carry more than grief.
He clicked the link before he could talk himself out of it. Manchester auditions, next week, Velvet, Canal Street. Confirmed.
Only then did he collapse into bed, pillow over his head as if it could block out the ghosts.
It didn’t.
But for the first time in years, his chest burned with something other than fatigue.
Canal Street was its usual throng of drinkers and hen parties.
Patrons ignored the threat of rain and sat outside at tables, lights strung up along the street, glinting off the cobbles.
In the background was the constant hum of traffic, heavily laden buses trundling along London Road, in and out of Piccadilly.
Liam paused at the door to Velvet. A chalkboard outside proclaimed the bar to be closed until five, for a private function.
This is crazy.
That wasn’t about to stop him.
The bartender pointed him toward the back, and Liam’s pulse drummed faster than it should for a man who stitched arteries for a living. Velvet’s reception had been transformed into a small stage space, stripped down but humming with potential.
Two men waited at the table.
The one on the left raised his chin. “Liam? I’m Theo Sinclair, and this is Max Rivers.” Theo’s posture was tight, his eyes sharp, a pen already in his hand, a notebook balanced on his knee.
Liam felt the weight of assessment before he’d even uttered a single word.
Max Rivers on the other hand, sprawled in his chair, radiating lazy dominance. The leather jacket and dark grin added to the impression. His gaze swept Liam’s frame, not lecherous, but knowing, as if he’d already heard the audition in his head and was waiting for confirmation.
“What part?” Theo asked.
No small talk. Professional, if a little brusque.
“Baritone. Mostly,” Liam answered, his voice steadier than he’d anticipated. Then, after a beat: “I dip lower when I’ve had whisky.”
That earned him a slow smile from Max. “Dangerous promise. What are you singing?”
“Mad World.” Liam adjusted the mic without hesitation. He didn’t want to ease into this.
He wanted to cut.
His voice came out like raw velvet, smooth, but frayed at the edges. The stripped-down version was bare and brutal, every note pulled from the pit of his exhaustion and grief. He didn’t push; he let silence breathe between the lines, let the ache sit on his tongue.
Theo’s pen stilled. Max’s grin vanished, replaced by something sharper, hungrier.
When the last note faded, Liam set the mic back on its stand. His arms hung loose at his sides, but inside he was wound tight.
Did I give them enough?
Not that it mattered. He’d given them everything he had. And if they wanted more, then tough shit. This wasn’t for him.
Except by now he was praying he ticked their boxes.
I think I need this.
“Do you own leather?” Max’s tone was teasing, but the question landed heavy.
“Yes.” No elaboration.
Let them wonder.
Theo tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t just about singing. It’s about truth. Standing there as yourself—no armour, no disguise. Can you do that?”
Those words—armour, truth, disguise—lanced through him.
They want all of me. Liam wasn’t sure if he could provide that, but if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to hear, there was always the chance they’d give him a polite Thanks but we’re not interested.
Liam met Theo’s gaze. “I think I can.”
I hope I can.
“One more thing,” Max added. “Once we start rehearsing, there’s a distinct possibility we’ll be based in London. Would that be a problem?”
He gave a tired smile. “I’m a trauma nurse. I imagine they need those in London just like they do in Manchester. I can always transfer to another hospital.” And nurses tended to share accommodation, so that wouldn’t be an issue.
“Solution-oriented.” Max smiled. “I like that.”
Theo rose and offered a hand. His grip was firm, his eyes focused on Liam’s. “We’ll be in touch.”
Not the answer Liam craved, but at least there was now warmth under the formality. Max shook his hand too, longer, rougher, like a silent dare.
Liam left Velvet and stepped onto Canal Street, the cool air hitting him like absolution.
I did it. It felt like the bravest thing he’d done since…
Nope. Not going there.
His heart was pounding harder than after a twelve-hour shift. He pulled out his phone, typed:
Just auditioned for a singing group. It’s… different. Talk soon?
Then he deleted it before it could be sent. His dad didn’t need to know. Not yet.
He shoved the phone away and smiled faintly to himself. This could be dangerous. But maybe danger’s what I need.
The door clicked shut behind Liam, and for a moment silence stretched between them.
Max let out a low whistle. “Wow. He gets my vote.” He glanced at Theo. “Well? What did you think?”
Theo tapped his pen against the page, where he’d scrawled only a few words: Discipline. Presence. Pain. He looked up. “He’s good. Too good, maybe. There’s a whole story under that control.”
And part of me wants to hear it.
Max leaned back, grinning. “But that voice, Theo. Rich, clean, but it hits like a confession. He wasn’t singing notes—he was bleeding them.”
Theo frowned, but he didn’t disagree. “That kind of honesty could destabilise things. If the others feel overshadowed—”
“Or,” Max cut in, “it lights a fuse. You need a little danger in a group like this.” He folded his arms. “He’s got stage pull, though, and that’s half the fight.”
Theo arched his brows. “And what’s the other half?”
“Finding where he bends.” Max’s voice was casual, but his eyes glinted. “He’ll follow, but he wants to be led. You heard it.”
Theo shot him a look. “This isn’t about collars and leashes.” Max’s lifestyle tended to seep into his everyday life.
Max chuckled, deep and amused. “Not officially. But don’t tell me you didn’t hear it too. He’s carrying weight, begging for someone to catch it.”
Theo exhaled through his nose, half-resigned, half-curious. “He intrigues me. But intrigue isn’t enough. We need balance.”
Max lifted his glass in a mock toast. “Then Liam’s our first balance point. One down—seven to go.”