Chapter 2
MAX
The Man Behind the Mask
She’s not my usual type, that’s true. But maybe I’m done with the usual—find a beautiful woman, flirt, fuck, forget. Same game, different face.
This woman is different. She’s beautiful, razor-sharp, and if I’m reading her right, she doesn’t do this kind of thing often.
Best of all? She has no idea who I am. It feels liberating.
She rises to meet me, her breath brushing mine, and the second our mouths hover that dangerous inch apart, the whole room tilts. I feel her breath catch. See the stutter of her lashes. Hear nothing but the thrum of my pulse hammering against the inside of my mask.
And then—finally—she kisses me.
No, we kiss.
It’s tentative at first. Curious. A brush of mouths that feels more like a question than an answer.
Her lips are softer than I imagined—and I’ve imagined them more than I should admit.
I coax her closer with a tilt of my head, a gentle pressure at the seam of her mouth, and when she exhales a trembling sigh—half surrender, half spark—I take more.
Because fuck, I’ve wanted this.
Her taste hits me like a shot of heat straight to the spine. Sweet champagne, a whisper of citrus, and something wilder underneath—something that feels like her. Like mischief laced with innocence. Like secrets waiting to be unlocked.
My hand slides up, fingers curving behind her skull, cradling her. I angle her just right, deepening the kiss, while my other arm pulls her flush against me. Satin clings to her skin. Heat blazes where we connect—chest to chest, hips to hips—and I feel her shiver as I take my time with her mouth.
I tease her lower lip with my tongue, and when she gasps—a raw, needy little sound that damn near undoes me—I answer with a groan that belongs in a much darker room.
Her hand fists in my lapel, and I feel it like a brand—her claiming me, anchoring herself.
She’s trembling, maybe, but she’s into it. Into me.
God, she feels like fire wrapped in silk. Like temptation in a dress too fancy for this kind of thing. She’s supposed to be the good girl—sweet, witty, untouched—and here she is letting me press her against a marble column like I’m the only gravity she knows.
When she finally pulls away, gasping, lips swollen from my kiss, her head tips back against the stone and she looks wrecked. Wrecked and glorious.
And all I can do is stare at her mouth like I’ve left something important behind.
I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just breathe her in like I’m trying to memorize the way she smells, the way she tastes, the way her body melts into mine.
That’s when I feel her pause. See her gaze drop to my collarbone—what little of it is showing.
I follow her gaze and realize what she sees: the ink. The edge of my storm cloud tattoo peeking from beneath my rumpled collar—a stylized swirl that curls into a musical note.
Her fingers twitch, like she wants to touch it. Trace it.
Curiosity flickers in her eyes, unspoken but clear. Who are you?
My pulse jumps—but before either of us can speak, I hear the sharp click of heels on marble.
We break apart just as an aide in a headset appears beside us like a stage direction I forgot was coming. “They’re ready for you,” she says briskly.
Of course they are.
My mystery woman goes still. Her eyes flicker with something I can’t name.
I turn back to her and catch her hand before she can retreat completely. I squeeze it once, firm. Final. “I have to go,” I say, voice low, the rasp of it betraying everything I’m not saying.
She just blinks at me—kiss-bruised, flushed, dazed—and I want to stay. Fuck the show. I want to stay and learn every secret hidden in those eyes.
But I can’t.
So I go.
A hush ripples across the ballroom, followed by the amplified baritone of the master of ceremonies. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special, unannounced performance for you tonight—please give an enthusiastic welcome to our surprise guests!”
Applause chases me to the wings. The lights blaze. My guitar waits.
And when I glance back, I catch a glimpse of my mystery woman slipping through the exit—without looking back.
***
It’s barely past six when I step onto the balcony and let dawn cut through the fog in my head.
New York rarely does silence, but this hour is the closest it gets: muted taxis, a lone gull shrieking over the Hudson, the faint hydraulic sigh of garbage trucks on Eleventh.
I plant my forearms on the glass balustrade, breathe in diesel, river salt, and the ghost of cognac still clinging to my shirt.
Under my breath I hum last night’s waltz—three slow bars that tasted like a stranger’s laughter and a kiss I can still feel on the corner of my mouth.
Impossible. One masquerade ball, one stolen kiss behind a marble pillar, and suddenly the world is in high–definition.
The woman’s voice—bright, amused, hiding nerves—loops in my skull like the riff I can’t nail in the studio.God, she was the hottest woman I’ve ever met—and we didn’t even have sex.
I close my eyes, picture the lace mask, the big curious eyes behind it, the way her lips parted right before our mouths met. My heartbeat climbs into the pocket of the melody, searching for that impossible blue of her dress.
The balcony door slides open on whisper-track rails.
Vivienne Clark steps out—blazer sharper than frost, high-waisted trousers skimming stilettos that could double as weapons.
She’s been my manager since we were both nineteen and gigging in Detroit dives: half big-sister, half CEO, the only person who can gut my ego and stitch it back again before sound-check.
“I figured I’d find you brooding,” she says, offering a paper cup. I smell high-octane espresso and the faint citrus conditioner she swears beats dry-shampoo on tour.
I take a grateful sip. “I was meditating.”
“On the curvature of last night’s coquest?” She lifts one raven-brow. “Don’t bother denying. Security saw you duck behind a statue with her.”
Security sees everything. It’s their job now that the rehab year has been folded into the official narrative: bad-boy front man kicks the pills, gets his head straight, sells out Madison Square Garden twice.
Sponsors eat that redemption arc with a silver spoon.
They don’t ask whether I still sip a midnight single-malt—as long as the photos show club soda.
“What time’s the war council?” I ask.
“Twenty minutes.” She checks her watch. “And Max—make sure last night’s conquest keeps her mouth shut. One tell-all about a one-night stand and our rollout goes up in flames.”
I almost correct the record—we never made it that far—but shrug instead. Let Vivienne believe the usual.
“Not planning to.” Planning to let it detonate everything else, maybe. But I keep that part to myself and follow her inside.
Our rehearsal loft doubles as boardroom on non-show days. Lucas Trent—my lifelong partner-in-rhythm and the only person who knows my every secret—lounges over the mixing console, beanie hiding messy curls. DeShawn and Annie from rhythm section split a cronut the size of a vinyl.
I watch Lucas for a second, and the memory reel spools up before I can stop it.
We were fifteen when we met—two kids at a crummy Detroit open-mic, him with a pawn-shop bass held together by duct tape, me with a scuffed acoustic and stage fright disguised as swagger.
He plugged into the wrong amp, blew the circuit, and the bar lights died.
While the crowd booed, we swapped panicked grins that turned into laughter—the kind that bonds you faster than blood.
An hour later we were on a splintered back porch, plotting a band name and swearing we’d headline Madison Square Garden “before twenty-five or death, whichever comes first.”
Lucas was there for the highs—first record deal, first bus tour—and the lows no fan blog ever sees.
He carried me offstage in Hamburg when I tore my shoulder slamming into a monitor.
He’s the one who drove me to every shady clinic hunting pain pills, then dragged my half-dead ego into rehab when the pills stopped killing the pain and started killing me.
During visiting hours he read bad sci-fi aloud just to drown out my withdrawal shakes, swearing the galaxy needed our next album.
Whenever doubt gnaws, I replay that motel-parking-lot oath we made at fifteen: No one gets left behind. Lucas kept me tethered to it when I would’ve cut the line myself.
Now he’s eyeing me across the room, curiosity punching through his grin.
“I hear you had fun at the masquerade, huh?” His grin is pure mischief. “Our front man disappears for ten minutes and comes back smiling like he tasted fairy dust. Spill.”
“Calm down, Romeo,” I mutter, heading for the coffee urn.
Lucas blocks the path. “Opposite. Romp-up. Who was she? Feathers, corset, scandalous duchess?”
“Blue dress, half mask,” I admit, my mouth going soft at the memory. “Black lace, feathered with gold. She had her head on straight. I liked that about her.”
He squints. “Not your usual type, then?”
“Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Maybe you’re concussed.” He flicks my temple. “So, conquest accomplished?”
“Just a kiss,” I say, pouring coffee I don’t need. “One hell of a kiss. That’s it.”
Lucas whistles. “Hold up. Maxwell Damien Archer Donovan left a gala with his pants still zipped?”
“Elevator ride was too short,” I deadpan, then shake my head. “Besides, she’s… different.”
“Different how? Like she doesn’t own a selfie ring-light?”
“Like she looked at me and saw a person instead of a rockstar. Like being with her didn’t have to mean fucking to feel good.”
Lucas laughs so loudly the crew techs glance over. “Damn. This is a different tune from you. Brainy with banter. Definitely not your usual type.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Hey, I like it. Keeps life spicy.” He elbows me. “Just promise when you crash and burn you’ll write a sad album so we can buy bigger amps.”
“Optimistic as ever, Trent.”
***