Chapter Ten
Hayden
Mad
YUNGBLUD
Fridays in the studio are always a crap shoot. We’re either all on point because we’ve been working through things all week and finally find a pace and rhythm that works, or we’re off tempo from the exact opposite. Today I’m playing like shit. And everyone notices.
The guys know me well enough to know my relationship with my parents is complicated.
They know we speak, that I pretty much support them financially, and that I attempt to make sure we’re together for the important dates in life.
But those things aren’t necessarily done out of love.
I suppose it’s out of obligation, maybe even guilt.
They know nothing about who I date, or if I date anyone.
On tour, it was rare if I hooked up with anyone.
If I did, it was done with the utmost discretion and I never shared.
Mikey’s come the closest to catching a glimpse into my extra-curricular proclivities, and as far as I know, he didn’t breathe a word of it to the guys.
And they don’t ask questions. That’s the thing about Luc, Dean and Mikey; we’re all here for each other unconditionally.
We have an unspoken bond that makes us family.
We’re ride or die, brothers, without it having to be said out loud.
We say it in the way we support each other. Usually in the most quiet of ways.
But it also means we know each other well enough to know when something is off with the other.
It’s why Mikey keeps asking me every couple of days if I’m good.
It’s why Luc keeps inviting me over to the house after a session to hang with Lily and Larkin, his fiancée and daughter.
And it’s why Dean is standing across from me right now, guitar slung low on his hips, not giving me an inch of grace when I miss my drop in on a song for the third time in a row.
“What the fuck, dude?” His fingers whitening around the neck of his Fender. “You forget how to play or what?”
I glare back at him across the short space separating us, because even though I know he’s got every right to be frustrated, this is nothing compared to some of the shit he’s put us through.
And I’ll be damned if I admit out loud that I can’t stop turning the night before around in my head.
Vanessa is not something I’m ready to discuss out loud, never mind with them.
So, I deflect instead, just adding fuel to the fire.
“Maybe if you didn’t rush the riff, I’d drop in on time.” I keep my tone flat, not revealing an ounce of the frustration thrumming through my veins.
“Are you kidding me with this bullshit right now?” He chuffs and takes a step closer to me. “My riff, my timing? Right. On. Fucking. Cue. Asshole.”
I unclip the strap of my bass and lower the guitar to the floor and then close any remaining space between us, my nose almost touching his.
“Call me an asshole again.” My voice is low, but by tone leaves no room for misinterpretation. “I dare you.”
“What the hell is wrong with you two?” Luc’s between us in the next second, a hand on each of our chests, forcing us apart as his gaze swings back and forth between us.
“You,” he gives Dean a gentle shove as he stares in his direction, “go take a load off in the control room.” He shifts his focus to me and points a finger. “You back the fuck down with whatever shit’s eating you.”
“He fucking started it.” Dean grumbles as he stomps in the direction of the booth, lifting his guitar over his head to drop it into a stand as he goes.
“Shut it, Dean.” Luc hollers over his shoulder, then turns toward Mikey, who’s still behind his kit, grinning like a cat who ate the canary as he watches the drama. “Bro, take five. Let me have the room.”
“Sure thing.” He rises from his throne and strolls out behind Dean, joining him in the control room.
Luc slides a hand into the front pocket of his jeans, his posture casual as he leans against the back of a couch. The control room door swings shut behind Mikey before he drags a hand down his face and then looks back at me. “You wanna tell me what the hell that was?”
I bend to grab my bass from the floor, clipping the strap back on its neck before setting it carefully into its stand. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I straighten slowly, meeting his stare without flinching. “I missed a few drops. Dean got pissy about it.”
Luc lets out a humorless laugh. “Dean gets pissy when Starbucks spells his name wrong. That’s not what I’m talking about.”
He folds his arms over his chest and sighs heavily, calmer than he has any right to be. “You were about two seconds from putting him through a wall.”
“He got in my face.”
“You got in his first.”
I don’t answer. Because he’s right. Luc watches me for another second, reading the silence for exactly what it is.
“So, you’re just going to keep pretending this is about Dean’s timing?”
I glance toward the glass separating the live room from the booth. Mikey’s sprawled back in one of the chairs, feet kicked up onto the console while Dean paces beside him, still ranting with his hands.
“Something came up.”
“Yeah.” Luc nods once. “I figured that much out all on my own.”
That’s all he says about it. No pressure. No pushing. That’s the thing about Luc. He knows exactly when to leave something alone. Finally, he pushes off the couch and points toward the control room. “We’re done for today before one of you idiots ends up in the emergency room.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.” I deadpan, because I’m a little shocked he thinks it would have gotten that far.
“You threatened to kick Dean’s ass over a bass drop.”
I grab my jacket off the arm of the couch. “Fair point.”
Luc opens the control room door. “Pack it up, ladies. Rehearsal’s over.”
Dean throws his hands in the air. “Thank God. I’m working with amateurs.”
“Fuck you,” Mikey fires back around a grin. “I’m a professional.”
Dean points at him. “Professional man child is about all you can claim.”
Luc shakes his head. “Let’s hit Paddy’s. I think we could all use it.”
“Fuck, yes,” Mikey agrees, hopping out of the chair. “I need beer if I’m gonna survive this band.”
“Is that an order?” I grumble, because honestly, the last thing I think I need is more forced proximity with these guys right now. I’m too in my head.
“Yeah, it is.” Luc shoots me a steely look. “You need this more than any of us.”
An hour later we’re shoved into our usual back corner booth at Paddy’s, the place exactly as it’s always been.
Same scarred wood tables. Same dim lighting.
Same ancient rock posters hanging crooked on the walls.
The bartender, Danny, barely glances up before already reaching for our usual order. “You boys look tense.”
“Dean’s on his period,” Mikey snarks, snagging the basket of fries Danny drops onto the table.
Dean flips him off and reaches for a beer from the bucket that’s now in front of us.
The tension from the studio fades easier here.
Maybe because this place existed before any of the fame did.
Before sold out tours and magazine covers and private clubs hidden in the West Loop.
Back when we were just four idiots from outside Chicago playing bars for free drinks and hoping somebody important happened to walk in.
Luc raises his beer. “To not murdering each other before the album’s finished.”
We clink bottles together.
Mikey leans back against the booth with a grin. “Quinn says I’m emotionally unavailable.”
Dean nearly chokes on his drink. “You literally follow that woman around your apartment like a lost puppy.”
“That’s not true.”
Luc snorts into his beer. “You skipped rehearsal Tuesday because she had a bad day.”
“She looked sad.”
“You made her soup and watched rom-coms with her dude.” Dean chuckles. “You’re so pussy whipped.”
“She likes soup.” Mikey pouts, throwing back a shot of tequila.
Dean points across the table. “You’re domestic now. Accept it.”
Mikey looks personally offended by the accusation. “I’m still cool.”
“No,” all three of us answer at once.
He shakes his head slowly. “This band has become deeply unsupportive.”
Luc laughs, the sound easier than it had been earlier. “How’s living together actually going?”
Mikey steals another fry. “Good.” His grin softens slightly around the edges. “Really good, actually.” There’s something different about him when he says it. More grounded. Less restless. It suits him.
Dean nudges Luc with his shoulder. “Speaking of domesticated. Wedding plans still going strong or did Lily realize she could do better?”
Luc’s expression changes instantly at the mention of her. Softer. Quieter. “Stronger than ever. We’re going to do it next June in Vegas, so keep that month clear.”
Mikey groans dramatically. “He’s gonna cry during the vows.”
“I absolutely am not.” His brow furrowing, his fingers picking at the label on his beer.
“You absolutely are,” Dean argues. “You cried when Larkin called you dad for the first time.”
Luc points at him. “One tear.”
“You sobbed into a throw pillow.”
“That shit was a long time coming.” He defends, and we all nod, because yeah it was.
I shake my head and take another sip of my whiskey while the three of them keep arguing. It’s a little bit of chaos, but it’s familiar and light and for the first time all week, some of the pressure in my chest loosens.
“Sadie decide what she’s doing yet?” Luc asks Dean after a minute.
Dean rolls the neck of his beer bottle between his palms. “Not yet.” He shrugs, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “Amped wants her back on the road in a couple months.”
“And what do you want?” Mikey pushes, sitting forward, propping his elbows on the table.
Dean stares down into his drink for a second too long. “I want her where she’s happiest.”
Luc winces. “Jesus. We’re all getting soft.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dean mutters.
Mikey’s eyes shift toward me then narrow slightly. “Except Bass over there.”
I don’t even look up from my glass. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.” Mikey leans forward onto his elbows. “You’ve been weird for two weeks.”
“I’m not weird.”
“You almost fought Dean over a bass line.”
Dean raises his hands in the universal I told you so way, satisfaction in his tone at finally being validated. “Thank you.”
Luc studies me quietly over the rim of his bottle. He doesn’t push. He just watches. But then, Mikey suddenly freezes mid-sip. His eyes narrow harder. “Wait.”
Dean notices immediately, sits up straighter. “What?”
“This is about a woman.”
The entire table goes quiet.
I set my drink down carefully. “Drop it.”
Mikey’s jaw drops open. “Holy shit, it is.”
Dean leans forward so fast he nearly knocks over his drink. “You have a woman?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Luc mutters into his beer, looking way too entertained.
Mikey points at me like he’s cracked a homicide case. “THAT’S why you’ve been acting insane.”
“I’m not acting insane.” I keep my tone neutral, but my pulse is thrumming hard enough that I can feel my heartbeat thundering against my ribs.
“You threatened murder before noon.”
“That’s fair,” Dean chimes in.
A couple of girls appear beside the table before I can answer further, both of them looking somewhere between nervous and thrilled. “Oh my God. Sorry. We just - are you guys actually Devil’s Halo?”
Mikey immediately flashes them a grin that’s gotten him laid in at least twelve states. “Depends. You legal?”
One of the girls laughs while the other clutches her friend’s arm hard enough to cut off her circulation. “Can we get a picture?”
Ten minutes later, Mikey has both girls laughing, Dean’s signing a napkin for one of them, and Luc’s politely answering questions about touring while simultaneously texting Lily under the table like an eighty-year-old married man.
Normally, one of the girls would’ve shifted closer to me by now. Normally I would’ve noticed. Tonight, I barely register either of them. Mikey notices that too. Of course he does. When in the hell did he get so observant?
His gaze flicks toward me once while one of the girls talks animatedly about seeing us at Lollapalooza last summer. I look away first. Which is apparently answer enough.
And somewhere underneath the noise of the bar, the music overhead, and the chaos of my bandmates giving me shit, one thought keeps circling back through my head with brutal consistency; Vanessa kissed me back.