Chapter 20 Hide and Seek
HIDE AND SEEK
DYLAN
All These Things That I’ve Done By The Killers
“I found you a gig.” I cut straight to it, skipping pleasantries. The phone balances between my ear and shoulder as I scrawl notes across a contract. “Small place, off the grid. Capacity a hundred, but I’ll keep it under seventy-five. Private showcase, invitation only.”
My heart hammers with a cocktail of excitement and anxiety. This has to work. For Jesse. For the label. For the part of me that remembers watching him play in his garage when we were sixteen, before the pressure of his last name crushed the joy out of music for him.
“Seventy-five?” A beat of silence pulses through the line. “What are you talking about?”
“The Silent Revenant.” The name still sends a thrill through me—potential and risk wrapped in two perfect words. “Test run. No critics, no industry vultures, no expectations. Just music.”
The concept lives in my head so vividly—the shadowed figure on stage, music pouring from behind a mask, raw talent unburdened by expectation or legacy. A rebirth.
“Jesus, Dylan.” His voice drops. “I never said I was doing this.”
“You never said you weren’t.” My feet hit the desk as I lean back in my chair, pleased with myself.
I’ve known Jesse long enough to hear the curiosity beneath his protest. The wanting.
“This place is perfect. Black box theater in Echo Park, where they show those experimental films. Dark as hell, intimate stage setup.”
The certainty buzzes under my skin like electricity. This could change everything for him. For us both. Jesse gets his music out, I get the satisfaction of proving that my instincts for talent and presentation still outstrip anyone else in this business.
“Sounds appropriate,” he grumbles. “And if I bomb?”
“Then you bomb, and it dies there.” My pen taps against the notepad where I’ve already started mapping out the logistics. “But you won’t.”
The unspoken trust between us stretches across the phone line.
Jesse exhales, the sound crackling like static. “When?”
Victory tingles in my fingertips. He’s in.
“After the showcase. Gives us time to sort the mask situation.”
“Us?” A thread of amusement cuts through his skepticism.
“I know a designer who specializes in theatrical props. Already sent him concept sketches.”
Mental images flash rapid-fire: silver filigree against black, music notes etched into metal, something that transforms a man into myth.
“Of course you did.” His laugh comes out half-sigh. “No one can know about this,” he warns.
“Relax, I have Legal drawing up NDAs, and my prop guy doesn’t even know who it’s for.”
“You’re a bulldozer, you know that?”
“It’s called vision.” My lips curl into a grin. “You in?”
The silence stretches long enough that I check if the call dropped.
My pulse quickens in the pause. This matters more than I want to admit—not just for business, but for him.
For the guy who once told me music was the only time his mind quieted.
For my friend who writes songs that could shake the world but won’t let anyone hear them.
Finally he says, “If I hate it, we never speak of it again.”
“Deal.”
Relief and excitement curl through my chest. My mind already races ahead—lighting design, acoustics, the perfect sound mix for his style. The mask transforming him into something larger than the son of a legend.
“How’s the material coming?”
“It’s done.” His voice shifts, pride threading through. “We ran through the full set yesterday. It’s… different.”
“Different is exactly what we need.” I spin my chair toward the window. The raw power of his voice, the unexpected melodic shifts, the way he somehow makes metal feel spiritual.
“How’s Morgan? Still trying to sabotage you at every turn?”
The question blindsides me, heat blooming beneath my collar. Morgan—a wildfire in motion. The flash of her green eyes when she’s furious. The curve of her lips when victory dances on her tongue. The fierce elegance of a woman who never backs down.
“The singing panda was just the beginning, and then she crashed my dinner with Ivy.”
My skin tightens at the memory—her walking into that restaurant in that green dress, the way Ivy immediately connected with her. How even in the middle of our argument, I couldn’t stop watching her hands as she talked, the passion in her voice.
“Face it, you’re enjoying this war way too much. When was the last time you actually had a challenge?”
He’s not wrong. Each encounter leaves me buzzing with adrenaline, thoughts tangled, body thrumming with energy I don’t know what to do with.
Rather than admit it to him, I switch gears. “She signed Hollow Reign.”
“Which translates to she’s actually good at her job?”
“Liam’s the drummer,” I groan, running a hand over my face, my jaw tightening until it aches.
“That’s an unexpected plot twist. Have you talked to him?”
What do you say to someone who shares your DNA but not your history? How do you acknowledge a connection you never asked for?
“I don’t want to hear what he has to say, especially after what he pulled with Morgan.”
“Does she know who he is?”
“No, I don’t want to get into it with her. There’s enough baggage there. The idea of explaining Liam to Morgan makes my stomach clench. Another complication in an already impossible situation. “I tried to warn her. She threw me out of her office.”
“Now why would she do that?” he asks with slight amusement.
“I might have barged in while she was meeting with them.” I scratch the back of my neck. “And somehow ended up offering to babysit Hazel this afternoon.”
Jesse’s laughter explodes through the speaker. “You’re WHAT? The guy who killed a cactus is watching a human child? You must really be trying to prove yourself to her.”
“I gotta go,” I grumble.
“Wait, wait,” he says between fits of laughter. “Should I call emergency services now, or wait until you’ve superglued the kid to something? Is Rachel at least supervising this disaster-in-waiting?”
“Goodbye, Jesse.” I hang up the phone just as the door to my office swings open like a warning shot.
Morgan stands in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding Hazel’s. Her eyes are full of suspicion, like she’s about to hand over the nuclear codes to a guy who once set a toaster oven on fire.
“This is a terrible idea,” she mutters, glancing down at Hazel. “You sure you want to stay here?”
Hazel nods solemnly. “Your office is small. Does he have cookies?”
Morgan groans.
“I have one snack drawer,” I say. “And it’s mostly expired granola bars.”
Morgan ignores me. “If she comes home with a concussion or a neck tattoo, I will bury you.”
“How about a lip ring?” I run my tongue over my bottom lip, smirking, and Morgan levels me with a death glare.
“Relax. She’ll be safer here than at a preschool yoga class.”
“Preschool yoga doesn’t come with ratty Converse and bad decisions,” she says, forcing me to look down at my worn-in and well-loved shoes.
“Hey,” I flash her a cocky grin, “I save my bad decisions for after hours.”
Hazel pipes up, eyes wide with mock innocence. “What’s a bad decision?”
Morgan sighs. “See? This is already a disaster.”
She hands me a list of emergency contacts like she’s delivering a subpoena. Then she crouches and kisses Hazel’s forehead. “Be good, okay?”
Hazel nods. “Okay.”
I wave. “Don’t worry, Mama, we’ll be fine.” I throw in a wink just to make her roll her eyes, half because I can’t help myself, half because watching her fluster is the highlight of my week. Her lips twitch, like she’s fighting a smile, and it’s enough to make my chest feel tight.
Morgan gives me one last look, the kind that says I’m watching you, before turning on her heel and striding out.
The second Morgan disappears, Hazel drops her innocent act like a mic. Her backpack hits the floor, and she spins in a slow circle, taking in my office like she’s planning a renovation.
Rachel walks in, mid-sip of her coffee, and stops dead. “Jesus, did one of your secret baby mamas drop off a toddler on your doorstep?”
I scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s Morgan’s daughter, Hazel.”
Rachel raises a brow, grinning. “Oh, offering to babysit the kid so she’ll let you back in her panties?”
I glance pointedly at Hazel. “Do not say that in front of the kid.”
Rachel shrugs. “Relax. She’s four. She doesn’t understand.”
Hazel looks up. “I wear big girl panties.”
“Now look what you did,” I wave a hand at Rachel.
“My bad,” she says, twisting her mouth. “I forget sometimes my kids take after their dad. Not the brightest bulbs, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, that’s… unfortunate.”
“Although Maria takes more after me, she’s like a born entrepreneur. Instead of a lemonade stand, she decided to do an estate sale. Sold our couch for more than we paid for it—which wasn’t hard since we got it from Marco’s grandmother when she passed,” Rachel laughs.
I stare at her, horrified.
“Don’t judge. We grounded her, of course.” Rachel rolls her eyes. “And I took the money and bought a new couch. I feel like it was a win-win.” She shrugs.
“Okay, we need to refocus. Are you gonna help or pass judgment?”
Rachel sips her coffee, perched like a smug cat on the corner of my desk. “You volunteered, Daddy Daycare. Besides, some of us have work to do.”
I glare at her.
“C’mon, kid. Let’s see what kind of contraband I’ve got in my desk drawer. There might be some leftovers from when I had to keep my kids busy during the audit we had last year.” She slides off my desk and grabs Hazel’s hand.
“You brought your kids to work with auditors here?” I ask, exasperated.
“Of course not,” she scoffs and backs out of my office. “I was here alone being my usual responsible self, providing very important documents that were not covered in glitter to the auditors.” She disappears around the corner.
“Rachel!”