Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Dexter
Things are bad when Edgar Reznor—Eddie to me, media mogul to everyone else—calls you to his office without a hint of why.
After I hang up with him, I scoured the internet like a man bracing for disaster. I checked headlines, gossip sites, even that forum where someone once tracked me through the color of my shoelaces.
Then, because paranoia is my oldest companion, I stopped by the corner store and flipped through every tabloid on the shelf, fingers twitching as I searched for my own face.
Nothing.
No photos of me at the burger joint last night. No blurry shots of Aly smiling at me like I hadn’t just crawled out of my own grave. The silence is a relief—but it also leaves my nerves jangling like guitar strings tuned too tight. If this isn’t about publicity, then what the fuck is it?
When I get to EchoZone headquarters, Sue—the woman who’s managed Eddie’s entire life since he decided to become the media mogul—is behind the front desk.
I don’t even sit. “What the fuck did I do?”
She doesn’t look up. She just flips a page in the binder she’s annotating like a monk rewriting the Bible. “I didn’t even know he called you.”
“That’s not comforting.”
She shrugs. “Could be about the gala.”
I freeze. “Gala?”
Sue finally glances up, eyes twinkling. “Apparently, there’s a disaster happening with that new company he bought. Whitestone? Whit-something. Some issue with the entertainment.”
Entertainment? I’m so confused that I could just turn around and let him deal with his crazy.
Though that wouldn’t be wise. As I’m about to ask some questions, the intercom crackles before.
Eddie’s voice pours out of the speaker like he’s goddamn omniscient.
“Sue, make sure Dexter comes to my office the second he arrives.”
I exhale hard enough to fog the glass door. “Tell him I’m already halfway there.”
I push open the door to Eddie’s office—and instantly spot Barret, Alec, and Roderick lounging like they’ve been summoned for a secret society meeting. My stomach unknots just a little. If they’re here, maybe I didn’t fuck up alone.
“You took your sweet time,” Eddie says without looking up from his desk, flipping through paperwork with the speed of a man who doesn’t have time for your shit.
“Some of us have jobs,” I shoot back. “You know—pretending not to be famous, hiding in plain sight, crafting anonymous melodies to avoid complete emotional ruin.”
Eddie lifts one brow. “Poetic.”
“So why is your office currently the confessional for idiots?” I ask.
Barret stretches, casual. “We were hoping for bagels.”
“Sure, that’s exactly why I called all of you.” Eddie doesn’t smile. Instead, he grabs a remote, presses a button, and the office fills with a painfully familiar sound. Music.
My music.
Fuck.
Specifically, “At Last.” Me, solo. No Rosie. Just piano and voice. Raw and bare enough to crack open. Part of the demo I delivered earlier to Aly. Well, to Jules because Aly was in the middle of an emergency.
I groan. “Fuck. We’re doing this.”
He pauses the track and leans back, smug as hell. “Yes, Dexter. We’re doing this.”
Then he turns to the others. “One of you should’ve stopped him.”
Rod throws up both hands. “I didn’t know a fucking thing. I’ve got chickens staging a coup and a teething baby who thinks sleep is a scam—I’m just trying to make it through the day without crying into my coffee.”
“Rod’s not in it,” I admit. “It was me. And maybe B and Alec helped cover it. A little.”
Eddie narrows his gaze at Barret. “You know better, babe.”
Barret offers an unapologetic smirk. “We thought it’d be fun. The guy needs a hobby.”
“Well, this hobby is becoming a problem.”
“She’s got him playing the Whitmore gala,” Eddie says, pointing at me like I’ve personally insulted his bloodline. “You realize what that means, right? Public. High-profile. Flashbulbs. Media. Exposure.”
“Hey, I have glasses and a beanie,” I protest. “I could make it work.”
“Dex,” he snaps. “You’re no Superman.”
I sink into the couch. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”
“But it did.” He leans forward, dropping the remote on the desk with a thud. “And now Alyssa Stone gave me your demo. Told me you were ‘incredible’ and ‘maybe worth giving a shot.’ You know what that means? She believes in you.”
I close my eyes. “She believes in me. Not the guy from the covers—half-naked, glassy-eyed, partying like it’s 1999 with a bottle in one hand and something worse in the other.
Not the version of me I spent two years trying to drown in tequila, coke, and every bad decision I could snort, swallow, or fuck my way through.
She doesn’t know that wreckage. And maybe that’s why she looks at me like I’m still worth something. ”
“That’s why this is fucked,” Eddie replies, softer now. “Because you’ve let her believe in a version of you that isn’t the full truth.”
“I’m not lying,” I say. “I just didn’t tell her everything yet. I was going to.”
“When?”
I pause.
“Exactly,” he says, grabbing a folder and slapping it onto the desk. “Do you know how fast this explodes if someone recognizes you and links it back to her? The optics alone would be a PR nightmare.”
Rod exhales like he’s tired of this already. “Just tell her.”
Barret nods. “You’re already halfway in. Might as well finish it with some honesty.”
“I almost did,” I mutter. “Last night. I wanted to. We had dinner and when we were at her apartment, I—” I stop myself. My throat tightens. “It was good. I didn’t want to fuck it up with a confession.”
“Lying to her is fucking it up,” Eddie says. “You want her to fall for someone real? Be real.”
“I am fucking real.”
Eddie snorts. “Not when you’re using a fake name and pretending you don’t know what a Billboard chart is.”
“The Wedding Singer is not fake,” I say, defensive even as I hear how stupid it sounds. “He’s . . . me without all the famous broken parts.”
“You don’t get to cut yourself in half and pretend the other side doesn’t exist.”
I nod slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
“Besides,” Barret adds, voice quieter now, “if she only likes half of you, what’s the point?”
The silence stretches, the song still lingering in the background, echoing the ache I’ve been trying to drown since the moment she looked at me like I wasn’t a fuck-up. Like, I could maybe still make something worth keeping.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll figure it out.”
“You’d better,” Eddie warns, pointing at me like I’m a project overdue. “And by the way? You’re not playing the gala.”
“Oh, thank fuck,” I breathe out.
Eddie doesn’t even blink. “Unless you fail to find someone better. In that case, the four of you are the entertainment.”
Roderick groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Eddie levels his gaze at me. “You let this spiral. Fix it. Or Dead Moth Parade will be on stage, and we’ll call it a reunion tour.”
“I’ll talk to Kit,” Rod says, standing. “But I swear to God, if this turns into a group performance, I’m bringing the chickens.”
Barret grins. “Live music. With feathers.”
Alec finally breaks the tension. “I’ll bring the tambourine. We’ll perform our own version of ‘The Chicken Dance.’ Really bring the house down.”
Barret snorts. Even Rod cracks a tired smile.
I stand, brushing my palms against my jeans as I head toward the door, ready to disappear before this becomes a bigger lecture.
But Eddie’s voice cuts through the room before I can escape. “Dex.”
I stop and turn, already bracing for another warning, another jab disguised as concern.
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t even look angry—just tired. Tired in that way only someone who’s seen you at your worst can be.
“I know you,” he says. “And I don’t think she’s just another stop on your road back. She’s not a footnote. Don’t treat her like one. Not for your sake. And especially not for hers.”
That settles deep, like a chord that keeps humming long after the sound has faded—quiet, but impossible to ignore.
I nod. Once.
And leave because he’s right. For her sake, I need to do something I have never done in my life. Act like a mature person and confront my shit.