Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Dexter
Bizarre.
Just fucking . . . this is not the way I expected my day to go.
Not in the slightest.
My penthouse flooded this afternoon because some delinquent with a God-complex and a box of cherry bombs decided his parents’ bathroom was the best place to express his rebellion.
They’d grounded him—some party he wasn’t allowed to attend—and in his grand teenage wisdom, he blew up a toilet.
And, in the process, the entire plumbing system in the building.
He should be grateful my instruments didn’t get wet. If they had . . . I’d be in handcuffs by now.
The fifteen-year-old in me kind of gets it. The adult version wants to strangle him.
Because the kid didn’t just wreck plumbing. He wrecked my entire fucking day—and possibly the next six to ten weeks of my life.
It took four hours, six phone calls, and what could’ve paid off someone’s student loan to convince the hotel manager to give me the presidential suite.
“Too many events,” he said. “Booked through the weekend,” he said.
They couldn’t cater to me—me—until Monday morning.
Like I needed anyone to hand-feed me grapes.
I just needed a dry place to crash, preferably in my favorite hotel.
It felt cosmic. Or maybe just ironic. Like the universe wanted me to eat it for once.
And the final insult?
I couldn’t even valet my car.
No one mentioned that the entrance would be overrun—floral towers taller than most people, tripods tangled in wires, and a swarm of bubble-blowing cheerleaders hyped on sugar after some regional championship. No space to pull up. No one willing to move.
So I parked down the block and carried my gear through sideways rain.
I don’t mind carrying my stuff—it’s grounding—but I got drenched. Twice.
My shirt clung to me like a second skin. My boots squelched. My jeans stuck to me in places jeans shouldn’t.
Thank fuck a couple of the crew guys recognized me—one even asked if I’d pose for a picture with his disposable camera while I stood dripping onto the marble floor—and they helped me get my gear upstairs.
All except Rosie.
No one touches Rosie.
Which is how I ended up playing at a fucking wedding.
That, and the thousand-dollar bribe I handed to the guy who was supposed to perform tonight. Rafe something. Or maybe that’s just what Alyssa called him. Didn’t matter.
What mattered was showing her who she was talking to. I know music. I know how to play. I know Hall & Oates. The nerve of her, asking if I even knew anything about music.
She was pissed, too. Which, after meeting Rafe, made sense. The guy looked like he’d wandered out of a coffee shop open mic night. He brought an acoustic guitar to a ballroom gig. If I hadn’t stepped in, the night would’ve tanked.
And her?
Fiery. All attitude and control. The way she pointed when she talked, how her words came clipped, like each one was a command the room couldn’t afford to disobey. I hadn’t met anyone like her in years.
Most people either fawn or flinch around me. Alyssa Stone? She bit back.
I liked it.
I also liked seeing her rattle when I played. Liked knowing she was recalculating—trying to reconcile the soaked stranger from the lobby with the man behind the guitar. She wanted to dismiss me. I could see it in her eyes. But she couldn’t. Not anymore.
And yeah, maybe it started as a middle finger to the universe—or to her—but somewhere between the first note and the applause, something shifted.
It felt right.
It was me, the stage, and music I haven’t played in ages.
Music that sometimes the guys and I just had fun with while trying to come up with our next album.
The best part: No screaming fans. No bras thrown on stage.
No lights blinding me while I tried to find the beat beneath the chaos.
Just candlelight, linen, and the occasional clink of champagne flutes.
Peace.
I love my fans—I owe them everything—but at some point being Dexter Vaughn became a job instead of a life.
And tonight? It didn’t feel like a job.
The music came easily.
I could breathe again.
That hasn’t happened in a long time.
And now, the ballroom is nearly empty. Half the centerpieces have already been carried out. The band’s packing up. Catering’s rolling out carts of uneaten canapés and crumpled napkins.
And Alyssa Stone?
She’s still here across the room, issuing orders like a general after battle. Her dark hair's slipping from its bun, a few strands clinging to her neck. There’s a faint smudge of something—frosting maybe—on her elbow.
She doesn’t notice me watching.
She’s too busy directing staff, making sure every chair is returned to its precise place, every flower stem finds a vase, every leftover gift gets tagged and logged.
There’s a rhythm to her. Not like music. More like control.
She walks with purpose, clipboard balanced on one hand, a pen tucked behind her ear. Her voice is calm, clipped. No one dares argue. They just nod and move faster.
She’s trying to restore order.
I get it. I live for that feeling too—when the noise quiets and you’re the only one who knows where it all goes.
A young server approaches, holding a piece of leftover cake wrapped in foil.
Alyssa doesn’t even blink. “Take that to the suite fridge. Label it with the newlyweds’ name and tonight’s date,” she says, pointing toward the service elevator.
“They should be in their room in a couple of hours after the after party is over.”
Her voice is hoarse. Frayed around the edges.
She’s probably spoken more today than most people do in a week.
It’s wild how much I notice. The way her hand drifts toward her temple when someone asks her a question. The way her brow tightens when she glances at the time. The subtle slump of her shoulders when she thinks no one’s looking.
She’s running on fumes. And somehow, I know she won’t stop until the last ribbon’s tied, the last candle blown out.
There’s something in that—in her refusal to rest until everything’s perfect—that stings a little.
I used to be like that.
Before everything turned into noise and schedules and a crowd chanting my name instead of listening to the music.
Watching her now, I recognize the same desperate need for control that once kept me sane. She’s holding her world together with to-do lists the way I used to with guitar strings.
Maybe that’s why I can’t look away.
Because I know exactly how it feels when the music stops and you have to face the silence.
And I should leave.
I should take Rosie and go back upstairs, change out of this stuffy suit. Order food since I haven’t eaten since . . . what, noon?
Maybe enjoy a silent night for once—just me and the hum of the city.
But I don’t move.
Instead, I lean against the far wall, guitar case beside me, and keep my eyes on her. Something about watching her—it’s magnetic. Like witnessing a storm from the inside of a car. Safe, but not untouched.
Maybe I want to watch her because she saw me just as a person and that hasn’t happened to me in years.
She crosses the room to one of the banquet tables where someone left behind a cardigan and a pair of glittery flats.
Her hand brushes over the fabric like it hurts to care about one more thing.
Then she closes her eyes for a second, just a second, before turning and scribbling something on her clipboard.
She doesn’t look up at first. Then her eyes flick across the ballroom—and find me.
There’s a pause.
She straightens slowly. Her expression shifts through a dozen things: surprise, annoyance, calculation, and something else I can’t name.
“You’re still here,” she says, not a question.
“Guess I was waiting for my applause.”
That earns me a dry look. “You got it. Right after ‘You Make My Dreams.’”
“You noticed.”
“Hard not to when you’re hijacking my personal soundtrack.”
I shrug. “Thought I’d do some research. Didn’t want you thinking I was a lost cause.”
Her lips twitch like she might smile but decides against it. “That was a low blow.”
“I would’ve paid a thousand dollars to be here.” Wink at her. “And get my money’s worth.”
She sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, and for a moment, I see it—the crack in her armor.
“That’s ridiculous,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. Her voice is low, frayed from a day that’s stretched too long. “I don’t have time for this.”
I take a step forward—slow, measured—like approaching a startled animal. “Then I’ll make it quick,” I say. “Thanks for letting me play.”
“You’ll get your check through the mail.” She taps her chin, eyes narrowing slightly. “No, wait—you forgot to email me your address, didn’t you?”
I drag in a breath and bow my head, feigning guilt. “It’s been a week. Time got away from me.”
Her sigh could flatten a man. “Can you email it to me by tomorrow?” she asks, voice hovering between fatigue and formality. “As I mentioned when we spoke on the phone—we cut checks on Mondays.”
I nod, pretending to think it over. “Why don’t you give me your address again?” I say lightly. “To be honest, I lost it.”
The sound she makes isn’t quite a groan, but it’s close. She flips a page on her clipboard, scribbles something quickly, and rips the sheet free. When she hands it to me, her nails brush my palm—brief, accidental—and I feel it far too much.
“If you applied yourself,” she says, her tone clipped and cool enough to sting, “you could be better.”
Better?
The word sits in my mouth like a dare.
I arch a brow, fighting the urge to laugh. “You really know how to motivate a guy.”
A muscle jumps in her jaw. “You seem like someone who doesn’t hear ‘no’ often.”
She’s not wrong, but I can’t tell if she’s curious or just done with me.
She studies me, expression unreadable, like she’s trying to pinpoint my angle—why I’m still here, what I want. Maybe part of her suspects there’s more beneath the soaked musician who appeared out of nowhere. Maybe part of her already knows.
I sling Rosie’s strap over my shoulder and nod toward her clipboard. “You’re good at this.”
“It’s my job,” she says automatically.
“No,” I counter, my voice dropping, softer now. “You’re really good.”
Her eyes lift, wary. She’s searching for sarcasm. There’s none to find.
“I mean it,” I add. “You pulled off a flawless night after a last-minute swap with a guy you didn’t even trust. That’s not luck—that’s skill.”
Something in her expression softens, then shutters again. She looks away, pretending to check her notes. Maybe compliments confuse her more than problems do.
“You were good too, Rafe,” she says after a beat.
I almost tell her. Almost.
That my name isn’t Rafe.
That she’s been arguing with Dexter Vaughn all night—the man who was once called a fucking prodigy.
A man who played with bands like Dreadful Souls, Led Zeppelin, and others because they needed a musician last minute and my grandfather would just offer his fifteen-year-old grandson who could play anything.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But somehow, saying it out loud feels like breaking whatever this is—this strange, quiet moment that doesn’t belong to the world outside. I can be myself without being myself for once and it’s refreshing. I hate expectations.
So instead, I just smile. “Next time, I might be more prepared.”
And because I can’t help myself, I wink.
Her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but it’s there, caught between irritation and something dangerously close to interest. She turns before it can bloom, heels clicking against the marble, stride efficient as ever.
But I swear—she’s smiling.
Just a little.
I watch her walk away, clipboard hugged tight to her chest, hair slipping from its pins. She leaves behind a faint scent of citrus and stress and something sweeter I can’t recognize but I doubt I’ll forget anytime soon.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.
I don’t know why it matters if she smiles again.
I don’t know what will happen next.
But I know this: I want to find out.