Tone Deaf (The Road to Rocktoberfest 2025 #8)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Callum

The moment I step into the house on my three-acre mountain retreat, I’m able to breathe a sigh of relief.

I bought this property with money from my cut of the first royalty check the band received.

It was the second best damn decision I’ve made so far in my career—the first was agreeing to form Warrior Black with my best mates, Danny, Connor, Raef and Bobby.

They were the first kids to befriend me when my mum and I moved from Australia to the United States, and to this day we’re still tight.

I love this time of the year in Colorado.

The chilly March air, the thin layer of snow glistens in the bright sunshine.

The mountains—with the still-green needles of their Colorado blue spruce, Douglas fir, and Ponderosa pine making it obvious why this town was named Evergreen. It can’t be any more perfect.

The air is clean and woodsy smelling. My breathing is easy, even though the town is about seven thousand feet above sea level.

As I stand in my own private space, the tension headache I’ve been battling for the past few days begins to ease into nothing.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being around my friends—being on the road—touring. But in the last two years, after Ron Darling became our manager, we’ve gone from a band playing local gigs to one that goes on tour, and have screaming fans at every stop.

And let’s not forget the invites to music festivals like Rocktoberfest. We are going again in October—for the third time. Talk about a mind fuck. It hasn’t been all rosy, though.

Our frontman, Danny Raven Wells, had a stalker right before our first trip to Rocktoberfest. Not only was that scary as fuck, but the band ended up with twenty-four hour security—and what an adjustment that was for five kids from the Chicago ‘burbs. Then, as we were getting ready for our second year at Rocktoberfest, we had to deal with Connor’s pedo-uncle’s bullshit.

Between the two dramas and touring, lately there has been more chaos than my anxiety can handle.

At least my mates don’t give me any flak when I need to escape into solitude—they’ve known about my anxiety since we were kids. So, the guys are used to me disappearing from time to time.

However, the current upheaval in my life stems from my father—okay, maybe not just him.

But Callum Brian Fitz, Senior—Brian to most, has been the bane of my existence as far back as I can remember.

He’s been even worse the last three months.

His calls and texts have been a constant buzzing, like an annoying fly.

No matter how often I tell Brian to fuck off, the man doesn’t want to listen.

And yes, I call him by his middle name because he doesn’t deserve my respect or the honor of being called Dad, or even Father.

The call I got from him two nights ago was the breaking point for me.

In the past, when Brian poured his negativity like molten metal, trying to scar me all the way down to my soul, I was able to ignore him and move on. For some reason, this last call hit me differently, even though the deep-rooted barbs he spewed weren’t anything new.

According to Brian, I don’t associate with the right people. My friends are degenerates. I won’t go anywhere with my playing. My band’s so-called music is loud and senseless. My appearance is far from presentable. And I’m gay.

Well, sorry to disappoint you, Brian. You can go fuck right off.

I’m proud of all those attributes—from my friends to the people I associate with.

And the music? It’s what saves my sanity from imploding.

My life wouldn’t be the same without the music that flows through my head and out my fingertips.

The bright melodies bring color to the darker corners of my life.

I guess a part of me—the ten-year-old kid I used to be—is still chasing Brian’s approval.

But the adult in me says I don’t give a fuck what he says… Much.

My father is tone deaf to who I am as a person, as a gay man and as a rocker.

Brian might have donated the sperm, but he certainly isn’t my dad.

Not like Connor’s dad, Markus Wild—our drummer’s father was kind, respectful, supportive and just an all-around good human.

He treated me as if I were his son, too.

It was a dark day for our Wildman—for all of us, when Mr. Wild died four months ago.

I still feel the sting of the loss, almost like I’m the one who lost a father.

It’s as though one of the strings on my Fender Stratocaster snapped and the steel wire cut sharply across my heart.

I’m not alone in this—we all loved Markus and his death created a seismic tremor whose aftershocks are still rippling through the band.

It’s taking us a bit to recapture our energy.

Brian’s call wasn’t the only reason why I left. The band decided to take a break after our eight-week U.S. tour, and we’ve each gone our separate ways, as we try to heal.

Danny is with Tobias and his dog, Scout, at the lake house.

Connor and John are spending quality time with the Connor’s mother.

Bobby and Raef said they were headed to Vegas, where our lead guitarist has a condo, along with their security, Fig and Jordan.

We were all glad when Jordan rejoined our security team after a short sabbatical from the tour.

Though, he’s disposition has changed some.

He’s quieter—more reserved than before. But that’s okay by me.

So here I am, slowly breathing in and out, as I gaze out the floor-to-ceiling window at the mountains.

Blow out the bad. Inhale the good. I repeat that mantra over and over until my mind clears and my body settles. I’m ready to hunker down, absorb the quiet and solitude this place affords me. With the tranquility the house radiates, I hope to write a few songs and enjoy the solitude.

After stowing my clothes and guitar away, I check the fireplace, making sure the flue is clean. Nothing would shatter my visit more than having a chimney fire. I pay a property management company to check my place, but you can’t be too sure.

Seeing only unobstructed daylight in the flue, I light one of those artificial logs in the fireplace. Once done, I uncork a bottle of one of my favorite pinots and fill a glass.

Glancing down at the dark liquid I’m swirling in the glass, my mind shifts to the night before last. To Brian’s nasty call that drove me over the edge, which made me search for something harder than my usual pinot.

Remembering that Raef had a bottle of Macallan fifty-year old single malt, I stole it from cabinet he hides it in, and nearly down myself in a eighth of the bottle to drown out the memory of Brian’s words.

Once Raef finds out, I hope he won’t be mad at me.

It had worked, but it also numbed my resolve to stay distant from two of Warrior Black’s bodyguards—Pennington Gallagher and Dominic Rossetti.

Dom’s Italian descent is evident in his rich olive complexion. His sharp angular jawline, straight Roman nose, thick black hair and dark brown eyes make me melt every time he looks at me. He’s a really hard man for me to say No to.

And Pen? I love his gorgeous bright smile, not-so-perfect nose, and his blond hair that’s always pulled back into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, beautiful Pen is everyone’s vision of a surfer wet dream.

You see, Dom and Pen are a couple—discreet—but anyone who looks closely can see the pull between them. Even so, they are each attracted to me, and these men have no issues telling me so.

There’s a quiet tension whenever we’re together, and over in the last year, that energy has only grown. It was all innocent, and I didn’t think so much on where these moments would lead me.

However, all my ambiguity aside, seven months ago Pen planted a sweet kiss on me that knocked my socks off. The following week, during one of the intermissions, Dom pulled me into an empty room and captured my mouth with a hungry want. I was hooked.

From kissing, we went to getting each other off, which has made some fucking fantastic moments of frotting between the three of us. But not once did they ever pressure me into getting fucked by them.

Until two nights ago. Between a belly full of scotch, my head full of Brian’s foulness, I caved and we all gave in to our desires.

I slept with both men. My bodyguards—and don’t even ask me how I ended up with two instead of one bodyguard like the rest of my bandmates.

With the two of them focused on me—on my body, it was mere moments before there was nothing in my head but Pen and Dom. I shiver at the memory of how they made my body sing.

Now though? I can only imagine the confusion that must have been on their faces when they woke the next morning and discovered my absence from their bed.

Maybe I should have left a note for them, because I certainly don’t want them to worry.

But when Dom started talking about me joining them on their vacation to Cancun, and Pen used the word relationship, I panicked.

I’m not ready for a relationship with either of them, or both. I tried to refuse the trip, but Dom wouldn’t take no for an answer… I’m back to my first thought—it’s hard saying no to Dominic.

How do I explain to them that I made a mistake by sleeping with them?

That I wasn’t thinking clearly because I had used alcohol to exorcise Brian’s cruel words from my head.

Or how do I explain my insecurities about relationships?

My lack of knowledge about how to navigate this complicated connection I feel for two people I have come to care about?

That it doesn’t matter if I’ve fallen in love with both of them.

Because, in the end, all relationships go bad.

Look at my parents and what my mother still has to endure from my narcissistic father.

No matter how much I want to be with Pen and Dom—in and out of bed, they won’t ever find out about my true feelings for them both.

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Callum.”

“What the…” I swivel my head toward the front door, hearing my name in a man’s muffled voice as the knocking continues. I’m not expecting anyone… “No, it can’t be Dom and Pen,” I mutter to myself.

Dom knows where this house is—he came with me a few months ago when there’d been a break in.

But he wouldn’t have been sure I’m here unless, “Damn it, Danny,” I hiss as I stride to the door, gathering my resolve to tell my security team that I don’t need them.

I’m not ready to face them yet—they are a distraction I can’t have while I sort myself and this situation out.

Sure that it’s one or both of them standing on my stoop, I don’t bother to look through the side window to see who’s here.

I blindly whip open the door, and that’s my mistake.

One moment, I’m standing there, staring at the back of a stranger, their head covered by a hoodie, and the next thing I know, my face blooms with so much pain and I’m laid out on the floor.

“Tell Brian Fitz to keep his nose out of my fucking business or the next time you won’t be breathing.” Then whoever it is punches me again, and my vision explodes with stars.

He keeps punching. I cover my head with my arms, so he starts kicking me… and then everything goes black.