Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The office smelled like toner, stale coffee, and resignation, hemmed in by beige walls and beige carpet, populated by people living beige lives.
Or maybe that’s just my mood this morning.
Yeah, he knew better.
Zane Gallagher tapped invoice codes into a spreadsheet, the rhythm broken by the melody humming at the back of his throat.
Not quite a song yet, but the bones of one, something he wanted to give wings.
His monitor glowed blue, his designer boots scuffed against the carpet, and the button-down shirt his dad insisted on stretched tight across his shoulders, a torture in fabric.
“Morning, sunshine,” Carol from Accounts chirped as she passed his desk.
He flashed her the grin, the one that made people forgive mistakes, open doors, and assume he was exactly what they needed him to be: safe, pleasant, and uncomplicated.
“You always make this place brighter,” Carol added, smiling.
He winked, because that was also what they expected. “That’s my job, right?”
It wasn’t. His job was to cross-reference order numbers for bulk purchases of staplers and highlighters.
His father had called it a “temporary” position.
Two years in, Zane was fluent in the language of corporate stationery.
He could tell someone the difference between ink densities without blinking.
He could also tell someone how it felt to die slowly while smiling, so nobody noticed.
His coworkers adored him. Zane brought in cupcakes for birthdays, stuck banners up in the break room, and remembered anniversaries.
He kept the whole place running on good coffee and good manners.
And in return? They never asked about him, only about who he was dating, whether he’d auditioned for some talent show, asking if he’d considered modelling, if he was still “doing the singing thing, for fun.”
Always for fun.
He smiled at every question, because that was what he did. He smiled, and he sparkled.
If you sparkle hard enough, no one notices you’re fading.
“Zane.”
The single word landed like a paperweight. His father, Malcolm Gallagher, stood in the doorway of the open-plan office, his pinstripe suit immaculate, not a steel-grey hair out of place. A man who’d never once second-guessed himself.
Zane sat up straighter. “Morning, Dad.”
“Can you come to my office for a minute?”
No. “Of course.”
In there, everything was sharper, colder. No banners, no cupcakes, just a wall of binders and a desk so polished it threw his reflection back at him.
“I need you to take on the Henderson account,” Dad said briskly. “It means bigger orders, more responsibility. Stephen’s already handling his own load at the fire station, so this is yours.”
Zane’s throat tightened. “Right. Of course.”
Dad studied him for a long moment. “You’re good with people. That’s useful here. But you need to remember something. Charm doesn’t build a business—discipline does. Don’t let yourself get distracted.”
The dismissal was smooth, casual.
Zane smiled. “Got it.” He headed back to his own desk, and as he reached it, his phone buzzed. A text from Stephen.
Did you hear about the fire last night? Long shift. I won’t be in today. Don’t let anyone walk over you.
That was Stephen all over, protective, but never seeing what was going on with Zane. Stephen had saved strangers from burning buildings.
Zane just had to make sure nobody saw he was already singed at the edges.
He flipped his phone face-down, humming that melody under his breath again, only it was stronger this time. Sharper. It felt like a lifeline he was daring himself to grab.
He knew why. He’d seen the poster yesterday. Hot Leather Guys. Gay Male A Cappella. Lust. Lungs. Leather. He hadn’t told a soul about his plan, but the idea thrummed in him louder than any spreadsheet.
Invoice codes won’t save me. But maybe music will.
Zane let himself into the terraced house his parents still called “ours,” though it felt more like a showroom than a home. They’d gutted the original space to create something more open. Neutral walls, cream carpet, framed prints of sunsets ordered from some catalogue. Nothing messy.
Nothing personal.
He kicked off his boots by the door and padded upstairs, loosening his tie. In the bathroom mirror, his reflection smiled back at him, the reflex so automatic it startled him.
Even alone, I’m still performing.
Letting the smile fall was like dropping a dumbbell. His face looked younger, more tired. Too much eyeliner from Friday night still smudged faintly at the corners of his lashes.
I’m surprised Dad didn’t mention that.
In his room—the same one he’d grown up in, though he’d tried to adultify it with a better duvet cover and some plants—he sprawled on the bed, scrolling aimlessly through his phone.
His friends’ lives gleamed back at him in filtered fragments: gigs, exhibitions, partners who called them “home” in captions.
Zane’s phone buzzed with a family group chat notification. His mother had sent a photo of his dad’s latest office award: Supplier Excellence 2025. The chat exploded with congratulations. Zane typed a quick string of clapping emojis, then tossed the phone onto the duvet.
The silence in his room was deafening.
He sat up abruptly, pulling open his desk drawer. Under a pile of catalogues and half-scribbled lyrics lay the flyer he’d torn down yesterday. He read the words again.
Hot Leather Guys: Gay Male A Cappella. Leather. Lust. Lungs.
He traced the words with his thumb, feeling ridiculous and hopeful all at once.
They’ll probably think I’m just a pretty falsetto. Another sparkly, disposable boy.
His chest ached with the memory of the melody he’d been humming at work. He imagined it not alone, but in harmony, interlocking voices, sharp edges smoothed into something bigger.
He grabbed his phone again, typed in the audition link, and stared at the glowing screen.
Then, almost angrily, he filled in his details.
When the confirmation email pinged into his inbox, Zane lay back down, staring at the ceiling. His heart was pounding, but for once it wasn’t from pretending to be fine.
This time, maybe someone will actually hear me.
The Soho studio smelled faintly of polish and stale coffee. Zane adjusted the cuff of his shirt as he stepped into the upstairs room, light bouncing off the mirrored wall. His boots clicked against the floorboards, the sound too sharp, too loud, but he forced the smile anyway.
Always the smile.
“I’m Theo, and this is Max.”
Theo was neat and focused, professional. Max leaned forward in his chair, his leather jacket slung open, his dark eyes glittering with blatant curiosity that made Zane’s pulse stutter.
“Name?” Theo asked, his voice crisp as a metronome.
“Zane Gallagher.”
“Voice part?”
“Falsetto. Tenor, if you need it.”
Max smirked. “We’ll see what you’ve got.”
Zane’s throat tightened. He’d picked this song carefully, knowing it would either crash or catch fire: ‘Stay’ by Rihanna, stripped bare, falsetto stretched like glass. He closed his eyes and began, his voice trembling at first, then opening, climbing, daring them to follow.
The first chorus poured out of him like something raw. No sunshine, no sparkle, just ache. The smile slipped, but the sound grew stronger.
When he finished, silence pressed against him like a second skin.
Theo tapped his pen against the notebook balanced on his knee. “Your pitch is flawless. The control you have at that range is… unusual. Exceptional, even.”
Max tilted his head, studying him. “You sing as if you’re daring someone to believe you’re more than a pretty face.”
Zane forced a laugh, even as heat pricked behind his eyes. “Maybe I am.”
Theo glanced at Max, who nodded. Theo set down his pen with a smile, and Zane got the feeling they were done.
“If you’re accepted, we rehearse twice a week in central London. Max will add you to the WhatsApp group with the others.”
Zane nodded, his easy smile in place. “No problem. I’m local.”
Theo’s eyes narrowed, sharp as ever. “And you can commit? No obligations that will get in the way?”
Zane’s grin didn’t falter, though his chest ached with the effort. “If you say the word, I’ll be there. Every time. You can count on me.”
Max leaned in, his gaze glinting with something way too close to perception. “You sound like a man promising more than just music.”
Zane laughed, a little too brightly. “I guess we’ll find out.”
They shook hands, and then he was out of there, stepping into the hum of the street filled with the sound of car horns and chatter, the smell of fried onions drifting from a nearby food van. He kept the smile plastered on his face until he was two streets away.
Then it broke.
He ducked into a narrow alley and leaned against the brick wall, his chest heaving. His hands trembled, not from the singing—that had been the easy part—but from the weight of keeping his voice steady when Theo asked about commitment.
Of course he’d said yes. He always said yes. The golden boy never faltered.
But inside, the old script repeated:
You’ll let them down. You’re not serious. You’ll go running back to your father’s office and stay there forever.
No.
No way.
No fucking way.
Back at the family house, the mask snapped back into place. His mum kissed his cheek, asked if he’d eaten. His dad shouted something about balance sheets from the kitchen. Zane answered in all the right ways, his tone light and sunny.
Only when the door to his bedroom clicked shut did the mask slip again. He tugged off his shirt, collapsed onto the unmade bed, and pressed his phone against his chest.
He opened the notes app where he’d typed If I sparkle hard enough, no one notices I’m fading. His thumbs slid over the screen as he added another line.
If I sparkle too bright, someone’s bound to see the burn.
He stared at it, his finger hovering over delete. Instead, he saved it.
Then he lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a quiet hum slipping from his throat that wasn’t meant for anyone else, only for him.
“So what did we think of our last guy?” Max wanted to hear Theo’s thoughts, although he could lay money on the words he knew would come from Theo’s lips. “How old is he again?”
Theo flipped a page in his notebook, the margin already filled with neat bullet points.
“Twenty-four.” He read aloud from his notes.
“Flawless control. Strong falsetto, clean diction, natural stage presence. He projects polish—maybe too much. I’d like to hear him break pattern, to see what’s under the shine. ”
Max grinned. “How many times have you said that after an audition? You want to hear them all break.” He leaned back, his arms crossed.
“It’s not just shine with him. That boy’s walking around with cracks under the gloss.
You could hear it if you knew where to listen.
Every time he smiled, it sounded as if he was swallowing something sharp. ”
Theo gave him a pointed look. “Performance polish isn’t a crime. Discipline is necessary.”
“Sure it is,” Max replied, his voice smooth. “But discipline can become a mask. He’s gorgeous, he’s charming—and you know the crowd’s going to love him—but the hook is when the smile slips. That falsetto? It wasn’t just pretty. It was aching.”
Theo hesitated, then conceded with a slight nod. “I did hear it. A tension he didn’t resolve.”
“Exactly.” Max leaned forward, tapping the table with one finger. “You wanna know what I think? He’s the golden boy who doesn’t want anyone to see him tarnish. You let that unravel onstage, and he’ll break hearts in the first verse.”
Theo’s lips tightened. “We’re not running a therapy group, Max.”
He smirked. “No. We’re running a leather a cappella group. Heat, risk, edge… and that’s the point. He’s got all that. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
Theo jotted another note, but his gaze flicked up. “He’ll need structure. Direction. Otherwise, he’ll drown in expectations.”
Max raised his glass of water like a toast. “Then let him drown a little. The audience will love watching him fight for air.”
Theo sighed, although there was the ghost of a smile. “So you think we’re right to keep him?”
“Of course we are.” Max smiled. “Sunshine boys with shadows? Irresistible.”
Zane’s phone buzzed. He opened the incoming mail, and the subject line blinked at him like a dare:
Hot Leather Guys Auditions – Next Steps
Theo’s written tone was as brisk and professional as his voice and manner, but the words punched through Zane’s chest all the same.
Zane,
Thank you for auditioning. We’d like to invite you to join the group. Rehearsals begin next Thursday in London. Details attached. Welcome to Hot Leather Guys. (Except that won’t be our name. We just haven’t found the right one yet)
Zane read it twice, three times, before the words actually sank in. He pressed his hand against his mouth, stifling the laugh that wanted to break loose. For a second, the magnolia wallpaper of his bedroom blurred, and he had to blink hard to keep from crying.
He whispered, “I’m in,” as if it was a spell that might break if he said it too loud.
His phone buzzed with a new notification. A group icon—black leather jacket emoji, microphone emoji—and the name: Hot Leather Guys (working title).
Max had added him.
Zane added a waving emoji and a single line. Zane here. Scrolling back, he caught glimpses of the others: Julian firing off flirty one-liners, Sebastian replying with dry humour, Liam dropping the occasional thoughtful check-in, and Finnley spamming glitter GIFs.
Then a new message popped up:
Finnley: serious question how is the hunt going for cheap-ish places in London? My bank account is crying at the thought.
Oliver: Depends on what you mean by cheap. (Spoiler: nothing is cheap.) But maybe we could team up? I looked at a new place last night. Big enough for three or four of us. I was mentally dividing the rent the whole time I was there. It was about an hour out of London by train, but that’s doable.
Zane’s heart gave a jolt. He stared at the chat, thumb hovering. This was it, his exit route.
Zane: wait. are we talking flat-hunting? because I’m in. seriously. I need out.
Finnley: omg more roomies?? leather house???
Oliver: Please, not that name.
Zane: Hot Leather Guys HQ?
Finnley: better
Within minutes, the three of them were trading Rightmove links, half-joking about what kind of chaos they’d cause as flatmates.
He dropped the phone onto his duvet, lying back, breathless. For the first time in years, there was movement. Possibility. A door opening.
No more beige offices. No more smiling until his cheeks ached.
He closed his eyes and whispered it again, this time with a grin he didn’t bother to hide.
“I’m in.”