Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Finnley Pierce’s bedroom looked as if a drag dressing room had exploded inside a disco ball. Sequins glittered from every hanger, leather skirts and jackets dangled like trophies, and more than one pair of platform boots stared him down with silent judgment.
He stood in front of the mirror, an eyeliner wand trembling slightly in his grip.
“Okay,” he muttered to his reflection. “Audition chic, not Pride parade chic. There’s a difference.”
He tried on a sequined bomber but dismissed it as too Vegas.
A floral mesh shirt? Too sweet.
A shredded tank? Too desperate.
Each outfit lasted sixty seconds before being flung onto the ever-growing mountain at the foot of his bed.
“Too femme? Too loud? Too… me?” His laugh came out brittle.
He snapped a mirror selfie, posing with a wink, then immediately deleted it. If they saw that before he even sang a note, would they roll their eyes?
Would they decide I’m a joke?
He pressed glitter along his eyelids anyway, the familiar burn grounding him. Then he pulled on a cropped vinyl jacket, tight black jeans, and the highest platform boots he could walk in without breaking an ankle.
I’ve chosen a shield. So what if it was shiny, dangerous, and unapologetic?
“Distract, don’t unravel,” he told the boy in the mirror. He pasted on his brightest grin. It looked convincing enough.
But behind the glitter, a memory surged.
He was eleven again, standing in a drafty school hall, his hands clasped tight as he tried to keep his voice from shaking. He’d practiced for weeks, humming falsetto under his breath while his mum worked double shifts.
One verse in, Mr. Harrington had stopped him. “Too strange,” he’d said, his eyebrows knitted. “Too high. It doesn’t sound natural. You’d be better on percussion.” He cocked his head to one side. “Have you thought about playing the triangle?”
The boys behind him had snickered, one of them letting out a falsetto shriek so exaggerated it bounced off the walls. Laughter ricocheted through the hall. Finnley had stood there, small and burning, swallowing his tears because he refused to give them the satisfaction.
“Your voice is unnatural,” the teacher said again.
Funny. It was the only part of him that had ever felt real.
He shook himself free of the memory, grabbing his bag. His train left in precisely one hour, and the buses to the station were unreliable.
Time to put the armour to work.
Finnley snagged a window seat on the York-to-London train, clutching his overnight bag as though it might explode if he let go. His boots were too tall for comfort, but that was the point.
Comfort was dangerous.
Comfort made him think too much.
He pulled out his phone, angling the camera just right. A duck-lipped pout, chin tilt, glitter catching in the light. He uploaded it to his story with a caption:
“Off to steal hearts and maybe a spotlight #AuditionDay”
The likes and fire emojis started rolling in before he’d even locked the screen. He grinned.
Performance successful.
But when he set the phone down, silence pressed in. His reflection in the window didn’t look like the boy who joked his way out of every bruise, who lit up every room.
It looked more like the boy who’d once been told his voice was unnatural.
His chest tightened in panic, sharp and familiar. He breathed in for four counts, out for six, like his therapist had drilled into him.
Don’t crack, Pierce. Not today.
He hummed softly, letting falsetto notes float like bubbles in his throat. The passengers nearby glanced his way, some smiling, some frowning. Finnley lifted his chin, sparkling grin locked in place.
He texted his mum:
On the train. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. x
He deleted it. He didn’t want her worrying. He didn’t want anyone to know he was scared.
Instead, he whispered the line he’d been workshopping for weeks:
“If I shine hard enough, maybe no one will see me shake.”
The train rumbled on toward London.
Toward possibility.
The studio smelled faintly of polish and dust, the kind of room where a thousand hopefuls had sung their guts out before him. Finnley pushed the door open with a hand that only trembled a little.
Two men waited inside.
The first guy introduced himself as Theo. He sat upright, his pen poised over a notebook, his eyes sharp as if he was noting every tiny detail. His shirt was crisp, his hair neat. His body language screamed precision and control, and Finnley felt seen and measured in a single glance.
The second guy, Max, was leather and heat in human form. He leaned forward on his elbows, his gaze alive with mischief.
The kind of man who could turn a question into a dare.
Finnley pasted on his brightest grin. “So, boys, ready for a little falsetto magic?”
Theo’s expression didn’t flicker. “What part do you normally sing?”
“Depends,” Finnley shot back. “Usually on how tight the trousers are.” His laugh was too loud, and he hated that it shook at the edges.
Max’s lips curved. “You’ve got five seconds to tell me you’re not bluffing.”
“Not bluffing.” Finnley squared his shoulders. “I’m a tenor. Falsetto’s my secret weapon.”
Theo gave a small nod. “What will you sing?”
Finnley licked his gloss-slick lips. He’d debated for days, but in the end, there was only one choice. He closed his eyes, pulled in a breath, and let it out in the opening line of “Chandelier.”
Not the party-girl anthem everyone knew, but slowed down, stripped bare. Each note floated high, aching, fragile but unbroken. His falsetto shimmered, cracked once on purpose, then soared again, brighter.
I’m gonna swing from the chandelier…
When he reached the chorus, he stepped back from the mic, singing into the open air, as if the whole room was his lungs.
This was him, glitter eyeliner, trembling hands, a voice raw with too much history.
The last note hung there, ringing, before dissolving into silence.
Finnley’s chest heaved. He wanted to laugh, to wink, to make some glittery quip, but for once, he didn’t. He just stood there, shaking, the song still burning through him.
Theo’s pen was motionless above the page. His gaze was unreadable, but not cold, more like someone who’d heard something he couldn’t easily file away.
Max exhaled, slow and deliberate. His eyes sparkled with delight. “Okay. Damn.”
Finnley finally let his grin loose, though it felt thin. “Told you. Falsetto magic.” But inside, he was already spiralling.
Do they think I’m too much? Not enough? Both?
Theo cleared his throat, setting the pen down with deliberate care. “You’ve got range, control, and a falsetto that cuts straight through. Honestly… that’s exactly what we need.”
Finnley blinked. Wait—did he just—
Max leaned back, his eyes gleaming as if he’d discovered a favourite new toy. “What he’s trying to say is—welcome to the madhouse. You’re in.”
Finnley’s knees nearly buckled with relief. He pasted on a cocky grin to hide it. “I mean, obviously. Who else can hit notes that high in boots this tall?”
Theo almost smiled. “Rehearsals are twice a week, usually evenings. We’ll send you the schedule. There’s a WhatsApp group. So far, it’s mostly logistics, banter, and Max being inappropriate. He’ll add you to it.”
“Rude,” Max muttered, but he didn’t deny it.
Theo’s gaze sharpened again, assessing. “Let’s get practical for a sec. Where are you based, Finnley?”
“York.” A pause. “I live with my mum.”
“Do you have a job?”
Finnley pulled a face. “I have a few, all part-time, and all less than minimum wage. And if I told them I was quitting, not one of them would even blink while they looked for someone to replace me.”
“And how would you feel about leaving home?” Max asked.
I got this far. No going back now.
He pushed out a sigh. “Look, I know I’m young, but I’m more than ready to move out into the big bad world. Sure, London is huge, but I’m assuming there are others in the group who are doing the same thing.”
Max smiled. “And you’d be right. Some of them are already talking about sharing accommodation, so that’s definitely a possibility. I think I’ll add you to the WhatsApp group so you can work something out.”
Theo nodded. “Because the only way you get to join us is if this gets sorted. It’s important you feel safe and supported here.”
The kindness in his tone was somehow worse than criticism. Finnley’s chest squeezed, his throat prickling. He couldn’t remember the last time someone apart from his mum had sounded that practical, that steady about him.
“Yeah,” Finnley said quickly, pitching his voice too high. “Totally fine. I’ll figure it out. And I’ll take any help I can get to make it work.” He set his jaw. “I have to, because I need this.”
Theo’s expression softened slightly, as if he saw right through the gloss and glitter.
“See you at rehearsal,” he said.
Finnley nodded, forcing his glittery smile back in place until he stepped into the corridor, the door shutting behind him. Then he sagged against the wall, his phone clutched tight.
Added to a group. Invited in. Wanted.
The relief was sharp enough to hurt, but underneath it, anxiety purred.
What if they regret it? What if I can’t keep up?
He pressed a hand to his chest, whispering to himself: “Shine hard enough, no one sees you shake.”
He prayed it would be true this time.
The door clicked shut, leaving a faint shimmer of glitter in the air. Max leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Well. That one’s a firework.”
Theo couldn’t shake off Finnley’s performance. That voice. That attitude.
He picked up his notes, scanning them with his usual precision. “Strong falsetto. Impressive control, considering the nerves. His upper register could carry a whole arrangement if we wanted.”
“Could carry a crowd too,” Max said. His grin was quick, wolfish. “Did you see the way he walked in here? The whole room tilted, and he knew it. Sure, he was hiding under a layer of vinyl and glitter, but underneath…” He let out a soft sigh. “That kid was shaking.”
Theo frowned slightly, tapping his pen against the margin. “He’s twenty-one. That’s the youngest we’ve taken so far. He’s never been away from home, by the sound of it. I’m not sure how he’ll handle the move. We’re talking a lot of pressure, not to mention expectations.”
Max tilted his head, studying Theo. “You heard it, same as me. He needs this. That voice? That sparkle? He’s been waiting for a stage that won’t laugh him off it.”
Theo’s lips pressed into a line. “Need doesn’t always translate to reliability.”
“Sometimes it does,” Max countered, his voice sharp but not unkind. “Sometimes it’s the difference between a singer who shows up and one who sets the room on fire.” He leaned forward, voice lowering. “And Finnley? He’s combustible, in the best way.”
Theo’s gaze lingered on his notes, but his voice softened. “Okay, he has potential. I’ll go so far as tremendous potential. But he’ll need structure, not to mention support.”
Max’s smirk returned. “Lucky for him, he’s got you for the spreadsheets and me for the chaos.”
Theo sighed, exasperated. “God help him.”
Max chuckled. “Nah. God help the audience.”