Barret’s Epilogue
Barret’s Epilogue
Six months later . . .
The sticks crack against the snare, rattling the glass of the control room window.
Alec’s anger is in every hit, a rhythm that doesn’t just keep time but threatens to splinter the song apart if he pushes too far.
Across the room, Dexter’s fingers glide over the keys, threading a darker mood over Alec’s fire.
Together, it’s jagged and unpolished, but beneath the rough edges I can hear what it could become.
They’re thinking about starting a band. We still have to find a few more members if this happen, but every time I open auditions neither one of them shows up to hold them.
I end up forming new bands or referring those poor bastards to someone who is serious about being in the biz.
My friends . . . somedays they don’t even know what they want for breakfast.
“Too fast,” I bark into the talkback mic, my voice filling the live room. “You’re not racing anyone, Alec. Let the track breathe.”
He shoots me a glare, sweat dripping down his temple, drumsticks hovering midair. “I feel it faster.”
“Yeah, and that’s why it sounds like shit,” I shoot back, leaning forward to adjust a fader. “Feel it, sure. But control it. Otherwise you’re just pounding your rage into wood and hoping someone calls it music.”
Dexter smirks without looking up, his fingers walking over the keys. “Told you he’d say that.”
Alec flips him off, then launches back into the beat when I cue them again.
This time, the rhythm still snarls—but it’s tighter, more controlled.
The fury finds focus. It doesn’t just scream anymore.
It drags you under and dares you to breathe.
Dexter slips in behind him, weaving a low, atmospheric line that snakes beneath Alec’s fire, and suddenly, the rough edges of Static Remedy don’t feel like a mistake. They feel like a promise.
The studio smells like coffee left too long on the burner.
Burnt. Bitter. The kind of scent that sticks to your tongue.
The soundboard hums beneath my fingers, its blinking lights syncing with the pulsing throb of the beat.
The reel-to-reel spins slow and hypnotic.
This place—Eddie built it for me. Because that man .
. . he can’t help taking care of the people he loves.
Even when they don’t know how to ask for it.
Even when they don’t believe they deserve it.
He says I was born to do this. That I light up when I’m behind the glass. That producing is my calling. Maybe he’s right. But my heart? That belongs to him. To Cleo. They’re home. The rest is just music. They’re my lyrics—written into me, line by line, and I wouldn’t change a single note.
Still, I’m good at this. Twisting sound into something raw, something real.
I close my eyes and let the sound tear through me—Alec’s rage, Dexter’s low rumble, and the silence between their notes that somehow says more than either of them.
It’s like time rewinds. Like I’m stepping back into the part of myself I thought I left in a hospital room with monitors beeping overhead and a body that refused to quit.
Producing was never part of the plan. Hell, living past twenty-five wasn’t.
But here I am. Not just alive. Not just taking up space.
I’m helping someone else scream in tune.
The studio door creaks open.
I don’t have to look up.
Eddie’s laugh cuts through the low bass like it belongs here. Rough. Dry. Familiar. It hits the base of my spine and slides up like heat. A second later, Cleo murmurs something low enough I can’t catch, but it shivers right through me.
My chest unknots before I even register why.
“Don’t let us interrupt,” Eddie says, already claiming the chair behind me.
He kisses my shoulder as he passes. Warm lips, a scrape of beard, the scent of cedar and sweat. It’s casual. Thoughtless. Intimate. My hand flexes on the board. I don’t turn, not yet.
Cleo lingers in the doorway. Barely there, but glowing. That smile of hers—the soft one, the one she gave me when she said she was done being afraid—pulls everything inside me taut. I remember that night. “I want to live again,” she said. And, fuck, she meant it.
She isn’t just breathing now. She’s alive.
And so am I.
“Always interrupting,” Alec groans, flinging his sticks down like a toddler mid-tantrum. “I was finally in it.”
“You were about to blow your wrist out,” I mutter into the mic, switching it off with a soft click. Then I spin my chair around to face them fully.
Eddie’s already watching me.
One elbow draped on the back of the chair, legs sprawled like he owns every square inch of the room—and maybe he does.
His gaze skims over me with that lazy heat I know too well.
It starts slow, seeps under my skin, then builds until I’m breathless and aching against the nearest wall.
His hand finds mine. No hesitation. No apology. Just skin on skin—solid and electric.
Cleo steps further into the room, and Eddie reaches for her, fingers brushing hers in that quiet way that still fucking destroys me. Not because I’m jealous. Because I’m lucky. Because I get to have this. Her. Him. Both.
Cleo leans down, tucking herself against Eddie’s side, but her eyes never leave mine.
“Sounds good,” she says softly.
“You heard Alec’s whining over that?” I tease.
She smirks. “You mix miracles.”
Eddie’s hand moves to the back of my neck, thumb sliding just beneath the collar of my shirt, warm and firm. “You’re in your element,” he murmurs, low enough that it’s just for me.
I tip my head slightly, eyes slipping closed. That touch . . . it’s not bold or showy. Just a slow drag of his thumb—but it strips me down faster than any chord progression ever could. I could stay like this for hours, letting his hands write symphonies across my skin.
“Wrap it for today,” I call over my shoulder. “Dex, Alec—save your genius for tomorrow.”
Alec groans. Dexter just nods, already unplugging cables.
As the others leave, Cleo crosses the room.
No hesitation, no apology in her steps. Her hands find my waist, and she leans in.
Her lips brush my jaw before trailing toward my mouth.
Her kiss is warm. Soft at first, then deepening, pressing until there’s no air between us.
I slide my hand into her hair, gripping just enough to earn a quiet sigh from her.
Eddie’s behind me in an instant. His chest to my back. His hand covering mine where it grips Cleo. His other hand glides beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers spreading over my stomach, then lower, until I’m gasping into Cleo’s mouth.
We now alone. The tension is already simmering. Always there, just beneath the surface. It just takes one glance, one breath, and we unravel.
Cleo breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh. “Later?”
“Now,” I rasp, voice rough.
Eddie chuckles, and it rumbles against my spine. “You’re not mixing anything else tonight.”
He turns me in his arms and kisses me like he’s starving. No finesse, just heat and teeth and want. My back bumps the console, but I don’t care. His tongue slides against mine, and I feel Cleo’s hands at my belt, her fingers nimble, her mouth at my throat.
I let my head fall back as her lips graze that spot just beneath my jaw—the one she always finds like it’s hers.
And maybe it is. Her breath is warm, her tongue soft, her teeth a tease.
My fingers curl into Eddie’s shirt as he pins me with his body, and I can’t tell if it’s his groan or mine when Cleo undoes the first button on my jeans.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His eyes burn—hungry, locked in. “Tell me to stop.”
I can’t.
My mouth opens but no words come. Just a shaky breath.
Cleo doesn’t wait. She sinks to her knees, dragging my jeans down with her. The sound of the zipper feels obscene in the silence between breaths and bass. Eddie presses his forehead to mine. His hand cups my jaw.
“She wants you,” he murmurs. “I want you.”
His voice is rough. Edged with need. My thighs are trembling before she even touches me.
Cleo’s mouth trails down, hot breath against bare skin. She looks up at me as she presses her lips to the crease of my hip. There’s reverence in the way she holds me. Like this is something sacred. Like I am.
Then her mouth wraps around me, and everything else slips away.
I gasp, fingers scrabbling for something to hold. Eddie catches my wrist, anchoring me. His other hand threads through Cleo’s hair, guiding but never forcing.
“Fuck—Cleo,” I breathe, but she doesn’t stop. She hums, and the vibration shoots through my spine.
Eddie watches me unravel. Watches her worship me with her mouth, and there’s something unguarded in his face. Not lust—need. Like he’s been holding something back and it’s finally spilling loose.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “Falling apart for us.”
My legs nearly give out. Eddie’s arm slides around my waist, holding me upright as Cleo takes me deeper. Her lips glide down, her tongue curling just right—and I see stars.
“Please,” I whisper, and I don’t know what I’m begging for. More? Mercy? I’d give them both everything.
Cleo pulls back with a wet sound that has Eddie groaning into my skin. She looks up at us, lips swollen, eyes glassy.
“Couch,” she says, breathless.
Eddie doesn’t wait. He grabs my hand, yanks me toward him, and kisses me hard—his mouth all possession and promise.
Cleo’s fingers skim down my spine, her nails teasing skin, her mouth brushing my shoulder as she follows.
We move together in a tangle of breath and hunger, bumping into the arm of the couch before Eddie guides me down with a rough kind of reverence.
I sink into the cushions, half-naked, dizzy, drunk on them both.
They push me down.
Cleo climbs onto my lap, straddling me, her dress rucked up around her thighs.
Her skin is warm, her breath unsteady as she settles against me.
Eddie doesn’t waste time—he’s already behind her, dragging the zipper down with slow precision.
The fabric peels away from her like it’s been waiting to fall.
She lifts her arms, and he pulls the dress over her head, tossing it aside.
She’s not wearing a bra. No panties either. Just flushed skin and that wet, aching heat pressed against me.
“Fuck,” I breathe, my voice catching in my throat.
Eddie’s mouth finds her neck, his hands sliding up her ribs, framing her with a kind of hunger that borders on reverent. She gasps when his palms cover her breasts, thumbs circling over already-tight peaks. Her back arches into him, and I feel the way she pulses against me—hot, slick, needy.
I reach for her, hands settling at her hips, pulling her closer. She presses into me like she’s starving for contact, like this—us—is something she’s been reaching for in the dark.
Like she belongs here.
Like she never left.
Eddie meets my eyes over her shoulder, and there’s no teasing now. No smirk. Just heat. Possession. Trust.
“You ready to watch her fall apart for us?” he murmurs against her skin. “She’s already ready for you.”