Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Oliver Bennett caught sight of his reflection in the locker room mirror and almost didn’t recognise the man staring back.
Soot smeared across his cheeks, black streaks carved into his skin like war paint. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw clenched tight. He looked as if the fire was still burning inside him.
The blaze had taken seven hours to die, a Soho bar, gutted to its bones.
Twenty dead. Thirty more clinging to life in hospital beds.
The investigators were already muttering arson, but Oliver didn’t need the word—he could still smell the smoke clawing his throat, hear the roof screaming as it collapsed.
This was supposed to be the job. You ran into the inferno, you pulled people out, you carried the weight of other people’s worst nights. But tonight had carved something out of him he wasn’t sure he could get back.
“Bennett.” Ray Gorton, the station chief, clapped a heavy hand to his shoulder as he stripped off his gear. “You did good.”
Oliver nodded. “Thanks, sir.” The praise slid over him, hollow. He’d planned on a workout after shift. Now all he wanted was oblivion.
The showers hissed, steam rising off exhausted bodies. “Beer later?” Pasha called from the farthest cubicle, too casual, too loud.
Oliver let the hot spray pound into his muscles and said nothing. The water did its best to wash away the smell of charred wood, of death, and at least it gave him an excuse not to answer.
By the time he stepped into the changing room, a towel low on his hips, the place was deserted. His phone blinked in his locker, one link waiting like a dare. He’d opened it before, late at night, his thumb hovering over the screen, his heart hammering.
Hot Leather Guys. Leather. Lust. Lungs.
Ridiculous name for a group, but it definitely conjured up images. A friend from uni had sent it, obviously recalling their days in the college choir.
Leather.
Oliver’s throat tightened, his heart thudding. He closed his eyes against the rush of memory.
The sight of Dean’s leather gear hanging in his wardrobe, illicit and somehow dangerous.
Dean’s hand firm on his shoulder, grounding him.
Dean’s voice, dark velvet.
Dean’s eyes on him, steady, unflinching.
The feeling that had been too big, too adult—and all wrong.
Seven years gone, and the ghost of it still burned hotter than any fire.
Oliver shoved the thought down, dragged his clothes on, and left before the locker room walls could hear him breathing too hard.
Home was chaos. His flatmates were arguing over pizza boxes in the kitchen, and the place was a mess.
Oliver threw food together and hastened to the sanctuary of his room, with its neat lines, clean surfaces, and a lock on the door.
He made quick work of pasta and tea before sinking onto his bed, his phone in one hand, a leather cuff in the other.
He pressed the cuff to his face, inhaled the faint ghost of a scent that wasn’t there anymore. He’d stolen it, years ago, like a talisman. A promise. The leather had outlasted the boy he’d been, the man he’d lost.
Dean had never asked where it went.
Oliver swallowed hard, set the cuff aside, and opened the link again.
Experience: baritone.
A short, safe response.
No one needed to know. Not yet.
If nothing came of it, at least he wouldn’t have to explain why he’d thought he belonged.
Oliver shifted on the chair in the audition room, willing his pulse to even out. Brewer Street had felt easier with its jumble of guitar shops and neon doorways, the scent of smoke and sweat in the air. Inside, away from the noise and bustle, his nerves were suddenly alight.
Then the door opened, and two men entered. Opposites, and yet not.
The first, dark, sprawling, his leather creaking as he dropped into a seat, looked like trouble disguised as invitation. His gaze slid over Oliver, as if he was deciding what he might do with him.
The second sat straighter, pen in hand, precise in every movement. There was no softness, but there was safety in the discipline, the measured way his eyes lingered just long enough without trespassing.
After a brief introduction, Oliver had names to put to the faces.
Max and Theo.
Between them, Oliver felt caught in a current he hadn’t chosen, one that tugged him, its clutch rough yet exacting. Both sensations left his skin buzzing, although he wasn’t sure which unsettled him more.
“You’ve sung before?” Theo asked, his tone brisk.
Oliver nodded, his throat tight. “Choir. A cappella. Some barbershop.” He kept it neat, safe.
Max tilted his head, his lips curling. “What about leather? You think you could wear it onstage?”
“Probably.” The word came out steady, but his pulse hammered like a drumline.
Theo adjusted his notes. “What are you going to sing for us?”
Oliver didn’t answer. He simply opened his mouth and let the first notes of The Parting Glass spill out.
His voice was deep, resonant, every phrase weighted with the heaviness he carried but never showed.
Each line felt like a farewell, not just to the song but to the parts of himself he kept locked away.
Theo’s pen stilled mid-scratch. Max leaned forward, his boots hitting the floor, his eyes locked onto him as though Oliver had bared his soul.
Which was probably an apt description.
By the final syllable, Oliver’s hands were clammy, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced himself to hold their stares.
Theo’s voice was almost reverent. “That’s the most emotionally disciplined thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Relief flickered through Oliver’s chest.
“I liked it,” Max said, his voice low and dangerous. “Although I felt as if you were holding something back. As though someone’s got you on a leash.”
The words landed like a punch. Heat climbed Oliver’s neck. He waited—God, he waited—for the rejection.
Theo rose instead, offering a card. “If you’re in, rehearsals will be twice a week. Leather’s optional—until it’s not.” His mouth quirked into what felt like a rare smile, even based on such a short acquaintance.
That sounded as if he’d made it.
“And because Theo was being unusually hazy in his choice of words,” Max said with a smirk, “that means we want you. If you still want to be a part of this, and we haven’t put you off.” His eyes sparkled with humour.
Oh my God.
Oliver’s voice scraped out, quiet but steady. “Thanks for seeing me. And yeah, I still want to join.”
Max’s gaze didn’t let him go. “You’ve got something. You’re going to shake people up.”
Oliver met those eyes. “Maybe I need someone to shake me up.” Spoken without a single flinch.
Max’s grin was all teeth. “Okay. That’s hot.”
Oliver didn’t smile back. He couldn’t, not with the need to flee crawling under his skin. He pushed himself out the door, his heart pounding, adrenaline surging.
This is it. This is the fire I’ve been missing. The one I won’t put out.
Oliver had left a few minutes ago, and Max was still replaying the performance. Not just the voice—rich, guttural, velvet laced with smoke—but the way Oliver carried himself, like a man braced against a storm only he could see.
“This one intrigues the hell out of me,” Max said finally.
Theo snapped his notebook shut. “Technically flawless. But there’s armour. Thick armour. I want to see what happens when it cracks.” He shook his head. “Is everyone we see going to be hiding something?”
Max was silent.
Theo arched a brow. “Nothing to say about the voice?”
Max’s laugh was sharp. “The voice? Perfect. No argument. But everything else? He’s submissive.
Couldn’t hide it if he tried. The way he deferred, the way he swallowed words instead of speaking them.
He holds and holds until he breaks. And when he breaks?
” His grin sharpened. “He’ll soar, and it’ll be beautiful. ”
And I want to be there when he does. Not sexually—Oliver wasn’t the kind of guy Max played with—but musically.
Theo’s eyes narrowed. “This isn’t about what you’d do to him. It’s about the group.”
Max rolled his eyes. “Who says I want to do anything to him? But those aren’t mutually exclusive. A man like that on stage? That’s fire waiting to explode. That’s unforgettable.”
Theo exhaled, his lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
Max stretched, unapologetic. “Maybe. But Oliver Bennett? He’s ours. And when that armour slips, when it breaks, he’ll stop being merely good—he’ll be devastating.”
Theo scribbled a final note. “Then we take him. But we tread carefully.”
Max’s smile returned, sly and certain. “Careful’s overrated.”