Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Theo Sinclair’s flat looked more like a showroom than a home. There wasn’t a speck out of place, his books were alphabetised, mugs were lined up by size, and even the spice rack was labelled in neat black font. It was safety disguised as order, but he didn’t question it anymore.
Control was survival.
His dual-monitor setup glowed in the half-light, one screen filled with system logs for a frantic client, the other flashing open spreadsheets: audition notes, rehearsal slots, vocal warm-ups.
A notification pinged—Dropbox link delivered.
Another ping: Max had updated the rehearsal schedule. Theo clicked on it, his jaw tightening. Max had doodled a stick figure in a leather harness into the margins.
“Christ, Max.” Theo erased it with two keystrokes, restoring his columns and colour codes. “If I don’t run this like a system update, it’ll fall apart like every other mess in my life.”
The thought snapped sharper than he meant it to, but then again, the truth always did.
He tried to focus on the client email. Firewall breach, patch required, passwords compromised. Easy. Safe. Predictable. But his mind betrayed him, peeling back to Luka.
Wild Luka, with hands that clutched and pushed away in the same breath. Luka, who argued with kisses as if they were weapons.
Luka who’d once whispered during sex, “Honestly, Theo. You really can’t control yourself, can you?”
“Slow down. You’re always rushing. It’s like you’re embarrassed to want anything.”
“You’re better when you’re quiet.”
Years might have passed, but the words had stayed, rusting into him.
The lesson had been burned into him.
Being out of control isn’t sexy. It’s dangerous.
The phone buzzed again, but this time it was Max. Theo hit Answer, then the speaker.
“Am I interrupting you?”
Theo snorted. “You know the answer is always going to be yes. What’s up?”
“I’ve had an idea for this weekend,” Max said in a rough, low voice. Theo could hear the grin all the way from London.
“Your ideas are dangerous. ‘Hey, what about starting an a cappella group?’” he said, mimicking Max’s deep voice.
“Wow. You’re good. You should be on the stage. Who else can you do? Because that was an amazing impression of Darth Vader.”
“Fuck you.”
“Nope. You’re not my type. Can we get back to my idea now? I think we should get together with the six guys we’ve found so far. That’s assuming you haven’t changed your mind about any of them.”
That earned him another snort. “Well, I know you haven’t. In fact, I’d swear your dirty mind is already working on how to get some of them into that club you love so much.” He paused. “I think we need a No Fraternisation rule.”
“Does that mean I don’t get to fuck any of them, or they don’t get to fuck each other?
Because I don’t disagree with either of those options, but you know how people are.
Rules are made to be broken.” Max chuckled.
“Leave it alone, Theo. Let them focus on singing. And back to my idea—again. I thought we could meet up in a bar, you know, see how we all fit together before we throw everyone into a studio.”
Theo’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. “What kind of bar?”
“A leather bar.” Max’s cheerful tone rang out. “Low lights, cheap beer, bad decisions. Perfect testing ground.”
Theo hesitated. He wasn’t closeted, but he’d built his walls high for a reason.
I don’t do messy anymore.
Not since Luka.
Yet part of him wanted to see the outcome of such a gathering, to hear their voices together, to listen as rough edges smoothed into harmony.
Eight men working out if they belonged together.
“Yeah, let’s do it.”
“Great. I’ll start a WhatsApp group and invite them all. Just the six possibles, right? Liam, Sebastian, Oliver, Julian, Milo, and Elliott.”
Theo grinned. “You haven’t included Phillip Warburton or Wayne Abbott.” He waited for the explosion. Those two applicants had been consigned to the No Fucking Way list. Someone had apparently told them both at some point that they could sing.
Someone had lied.
Max growled. “Funny man.”
“I’ll book a train ticket for Saturday, and a room,” Theo said finally. “There’s a Premier Inn nearby, and a Travelodge.”
“You don’t need to,” Max countered. “I’m staying in a mate’s flat. The couch is free if you want it. And before you ask, it’s a comfy couch.”
Theo closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. One night.”
Max chuckled. “That’s all it ever takes.”
Theo hung up before Max could push the innuendo further.
The client’s email was still sitting there.
Focus, Theo. Focus.
The warm bar was thick with the tang of beer, leather polish, and a low thrum of bass rattling through mismatched speakers. Voices battled with each other, bodies swathed in the dim lighting.
Sebastian was perched on a barstool, half-hidden in shadow, his latte-boy posture at odds with the smoky eyeliner around his eyes.
Julian was already in the middle of a dramatic story, leaning in close to Oliver, his fingers glittering with rings as he gestured.
Liam nursed a pint, watching the chaos around him.
Max, of course, looked like he owned the place.
He’d claimed a booth in the corner, sitting there in his worn leather, a dark beer in hand, his posture loose and predatory, as though he could melt into the crowd or command it with one word.
He radiated satisfaction, an easy confidence that only made Theo’s spine lock tighter.
The bar was alive with heat, bass, and bodies. A haze of beer and leather clung to the air, and the booth was already spilling over with laughter.
Sebastian twirled the straw in his glass, his eyes gleaming. “So—how long before Max insists on choreographed thrusting in every number?”
Julian was sprawled across his seat like a cat. He smirked. “Depends how many numbers I get front and centre. Thrusting’s an art form.”
Liam coughed into his pint. “Christ, is this what I signed up for? I thought it was a singing group, not a pelvic workout.”
Milo, half-shadowed at the corner of the booth, murmured without looking up from his glass of water: “Same thing, if you do it right.”
That earned him a stunned beat of silence, followed by a roar of laughter.
Elliott arched one sharp brow. “Well. Looks like our quiet one bites.”
Milo only shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Oliver, his cheeks already a little pink, tried to redirect. “I’m just hoping the costumes aren’t, you know, excessive. I can handle a jacket, but—”
Julian cut him off. “Oh, sweetheart, you’d look divine in leather pants. Trust me.”
Oliver raised his eyes heavenward. “This is why I didn’t tell anyone I was auditioning.”
Julian leaned in, his grin feral. “You didn’t tell anyone? Oh, you delicious little secret-keeper. What else are you hiding?”
Max finally intervened with a lazy drawl. “Settle down, children. You’ll scare off the baritone before he’s even had a chance to sweat on stage.”
Theo sipped his gin and tonic. “For the record, this isn’t about costumes or thrusting. It’s about blend. Balance. Control.”
Julian slung an arm around Sebastian’s shoulders. “God, you sound like my dad. Max, back me up here. Leather’s half the blend, right?”
Max grinned. “A quarter, at least.”
Theo groaned.
Liam raised his glass. “Here’s to lust, lungs, and apparently… leather trousers.”
The others clinked their glasses against his, Theo included. “I can see we’re going to regret this,” he muttered.
Julian caught it and smirked. “Speak for yourself. I’ve never looked bad in leather.”
Laughter burst around the table, jagged and warm. For a moment, they weren’t strangers anymore—they were already a group, rough and ridiculous, sparks flying in every direction.
Theo sat back, watching them all with a practiced detachment he knew was already fraying. Each man was a variable: Sebastian’s fragility, Julian’s bravado, Oliver’s restraint, Milo’s shadows, Elliott’s shield, Liam’s steady spark.
He should have been cataloguing strengths and weaknesses, thinking blend, balance, stagecraft. Instead, he was listening to the heat of their laughter, watching how they leaned toward each other, how their raw edges were already sparking into something alive.
A system he couldn’t control.
Theo lifted his glass but didn’t drink. Max caught his eye across the table, gave a slow grin that said he saw it too—and that he wasn’t going to stop it.
Theo’s chest tightened. These men weren’t just singers. They were friction. They were heat.
And God help him, he wanted more.
From behind him came laughter, low, warm, unmistakable laughter that made Theo’s stomach clench. Conversation followed, audible above the noise of the bar, and Theo froze.
It can’t be.
He twisted in his chair, and saw—
Cameron Walters.
Theo hadn’t seen him in four years, and most of that had been through choice.
He recalled Cameron at fourteen and fifteen, all elbows and enthusiasm. At sixteen, visiting his older brother Gary, tagging along in their wake. His best friend’s baby brother.
The last time he’d seen Cameron, he’d been eighteen, and the memory of that hot afternoon still lingered in Theo’s mind, bursting free now and then, only for Theo to push it back into the drawer where he kept it.
Something had shifted, however, enough for Theo to force himself not to think about Cameron.
The man standing in front of him now was not that kid.
Cameron was broad-shouldered, his longish wavy hair pushed back carelessly, his jawline so sharp Theo felt a ridiculous urge to tune a string against it.
His eyes were that same shade of piercing blue Theo remembered so well.
And his voice—low, playful, carrying a flirt he probably didn’t even mean—slid under Theo’s skin like a bow across a cello.
What is he now? Twenty-two?
Cameron was all grown up and set to break hearts.