Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Dexter
My phone rings just as I’m debating whether I can stomach the cold, shriveled fries I left sitting on the plate. I answer without checking the caller ID, too lazy to pretend I’m not alive.
Barret’s voice cuts through. “I went to your place and you’re not there.”
There’s a beat.
“Seems like a disaster area. Everything okay?”
I groan and let my head fall back against the pillows. “Obviously not.”
“You get robbed?” he asks, casually. “Because all your instruments are gone . . . even your drum set.”
I frown and stare at the ceiling looking for patience. “It’s all in storage now.”
“Storage?” His tone goes up a note, like I’ve said something offensive. “You sure you’re not dying?”
I sigh, not remotely in the mood to explain the cherry bomb incident again. “I’m fine. My life’s just taking a short sabbatical from functionality.”
He doesn’t answer, which is fair. There’s nothing to say to that.
I reach across the room service tray, dig through the crumpled napkins, and fish out a cold fry, inspecting it like it might still pass for food.
“When did eating leftovers become disgusting?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
Barret doesn’t miss a beat. “Probably around the time we stopped getting wasted and our taste buds came back to life.”
He’s not wrong.
“Where are you now?” he asks.
“The Merkel Hotel. Moved in yesterday. Might be here for a while.” I shift my torso with a wince, cracking my back in at least four places.
The beds aren’t bad, but this isn’t my bed, and I need something with better bedding.
“They said weeks, but with how complicated everything is—wiring, water, permits—I don’t know.
Months, maybe. I’m not in the mood to rush the rebuild. The insurance can figure it out.”
“You can use my place,” he offers. “Or live with us.”
I snort. “No offense, but that’s a hard pass.”
He laughs. “Still traumatized from the band house?”
“You mean from walking into the kitchen and finding two people having sex on the counter while someone else was passed out in the sink? Yes. Burned into my brain forever.”
“You’re such a diva now.”
“And you’re domesticated,” I fire back. “You, Cleo, and Eddie are still in full honeymoon phase. The last thing I need is to walk in on you three and find someone tied to a bedframe with a guitar strap.”
Barret barks out a laugh. “Can’t say that wouldn’t happen.”
Exactly.
“Wait,” I pause. “You said your place. Do you still have the penthouse?”
“Yeah. I own it and it’s furnished,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Didn’t move out until last July.”
“Really, just last July?” I ask, more concerned about the passage of time than him still having the apartment.
I guess I lost track of how long they’ve been together. Barret and Eddie feel permanent, like they’ve been a set almost since the band began. Maybe that’s how it is when people fit—you stop keeping score.
“I haven’t rented it out,” he adds. “It still has all the furniture. Clean sheets. Fridge probably smells like death, though.”
“Let me think about it,” I mumble, chewing on the thought. Then I ask, “So why were you looking for me on a Sunday?”
“The studio’s ready,” he says. “We finally finished the last inspection.”
“Oh, good.” I shift upright, sensing where this is going. “Because I need to ask you for a huge favor.”
A beat of silence. “Yeah?”
“Well, I told this kid that I had a famous friend with a studio. And that maybe, maybe, he’d give him a shot.”
There’s an audible groan from Barret. “Why the fuck would you do that?”
“So, I could get rid of him and play at the wedding that was happening in this hotel last night,” I admit, wincing. Even hearing it out loud makes me want to punch myself.
Barret laughs. Hard.
“You’re fucking kidding me,” he manages between wheezes. “He either lost his fucking mind or he’s high. I don’t have a better explanation.”
Then I hear him repeating what I just said, word for word, to someone nearby—followed by a loud, guttural laugh.
Of course it’s fucking Alec. These two are going to roast me for the rest of my life.
“This is fucking gold,” Barret says. “Let me get this straight. You bribed a teenager with fake promises so you could turn a wedding into your own private concert? You really missed the spotlight, huh?”
“It wasn’t a fake promise,” I mutter. “You are famous.”
“There has to be a better reason,” Barret says, still chuckling.
“The wedding planner,” I grumble. “She thought I didn’t know how to play. Asked me if I even knew who Hall & Oates were.”
That earns a loud ooooh from both of them.
“Oh, no,” Alec gasps. “They hurt his feelings.”
“Poor Dexie,” Barret coos mockingly. “The big, scary planner bruised his ego, and he just had to show her he could hold a—wait, what did you use?”
“Rosie,” I snap. “I played guitar. I sang.”
“Aww, look at our little crooner,” Alec says. “Dexter Vaughn: wedding edition.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but the heat under my skin says they’ve already won.
It was ridiculous.
It was so fucking stupid.
But she got under my skin. The way she looked at me—dismissive, like I was just another screw-up. Like I hadn’t built something, earned something. She didn’t know me, but talked to me like I was nothing.
And that’s what got me. That’s what pushed me on stage.
Her.
And maybe . . . maybe the way she looked at me after. After the music started. After her eyes changed.
But I’m not about to explain that to Alec and Barret, two assholes who’d roast me for catching feelings from a twenty-song setlist and one clipboard-wielding goddess with frosting on her elbow.
“I just needed to play,” I say instead.
And it’s not a lie.
Barret goes quiet for a moment. “You okay?”
That question hits somewhere I didn’t realize was sore.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “But it felt good. Just being there. Playing without the noise. No pressure. Just . . . music.”
They don’t answer right away.
Then Alec says, quieter now, “You should come by the studio tomorrow. We can lay something down. Just for you.”
Barret agrees. “Yeah. Don’t let it go to waste. Also, let me know if you need the penthouse.”
I nod even though they can’t see it. “Alright. I’ll think about it.”
“Just don’t make any more weird deals with teenagers.”
“No promises.”
Barret snorts. “Later, Dex.”
They hang up.
The suite’s too big. Too quiet. The air smells like overpriced linen spray and faint regret.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about her.
The smudge of frosting. The way she said “Rafe” with clenched teeth. The twitch of a smile she tried to hide as she walked away.
You were good too, Rafe.
She has no idea.
And maybe that’s what makes this all feel like something.
Something worth sticking around for, and to make that happen, I have to send her my address, which can’t be my penthouse .
. . nor the hotel. I probably need to move to Barret’s or at least make that my mailing address for the time being.
Well, not mine, but Rafe’s. But how do you explain why the check is not being cashed?
Fuck, I really didn’t think this through. I could say it got lost in the mail, right? It’s not like I did that for the fucking money—I paid to be there.