Chapter 1
Chapter One
Theo Sinclair
We’re finally here.
The thought made me a little giddy. In the intervening months since my close friend Max Rivers and I had first had the idea of forming an a cappella group, we’d auditioned maybe thirty guys.
Thirty gay guys.
I had to smile. Max’s proposal to put us all in leather had been one hell of a hook, but add to it my suggestion that all of us needed to be gay, and I’d wondered if there were that many queer voices out there.
Good voices.
But we did it. We found them.
We’d aimed for ten guys, and while some of the men who’d shown up had been mediocre, I had to admit the eight singers we’d decided on were outstanding. Aged from twenty-one to twenty-seven, they were the perfect mix for the sound Max and I wanted to create.
They were also a pretty eclectic bunch.
I knew we couldn’t go from zero to awesome in the space of a few weeks. This was going to take effort, sweat, and yeah, probably tears.
But awesome was the goal, and I was going to keep it firmly fixed in my sights. I’d steer us in the right direction.
‘Someone has to keep order.’
A shiver ran through me.
Not now.
There was zero chance of my brain listening to me. Cameron Walters had been infiltrating my thoughts ever since—
No, don’t go there. Focus.
I swallowed as I came to a halt. “This is it.”
Max chuckled. “I think those are the first words you’ve spoken since I met you at Leicester Square. Do I want to know where your head is right now?”
God no. That would be like handing Max the perfect excuse to tease the fuck out of me. And he knew me too well. He’d been there that night.
He saw way too much.
“What else would I be thinking about but this?” I lied.
Max stared at the peeling paint on the door that led to the rehearsal room I’d found, tucked away in the back streets of Soho, located above a dry cleaners.
“When you said it was low rent, you weren’t talking about the cost, were you?” Max murmured. “After the studio we used for the auditions, this is going to be one hell of a comedown.” That had been sleek and polished, with mirrors everywhere.
I said nothing but unlocked the door and removed the padlock.
Max snickered. “Can’t think why they bother securing it, unless it’s to keep the squatters out.”
I dropped a second key into his palm. “Yours, for those rare occasions when you get here before me.”
He guffawed. “In other words, a key I’ll never get to use.”
We climbed the narrow stairs to the metal door at the top, secured with another padlock.
I pushed the door open, and we stepped into a large room with a battered linoleum floor, chairs and tables that looked as if they’d seen better days, and a small toilet at the back of the room.
In the corner stood an upright piano, its wooden panels scratched to hell, a piano bench in front of it, the red leather covering worn in places.
Max smirked. “Wow. You pulled out all the stops to impress our little gang, didn’t you?”
I glared at him. “Before you say another word, let me point something out. We don’t have the money to rent a studio to rehearse in.”
That earned me a snort. “Well, I may not have the money, but I’m sure you could lay your hands on it.”
“The point is, let’s save that for when we’re ready to start recording something. When we’re certain this is going to work. For God’s sake, we haven’t even sung one note together yet.”
Max gave a grudging shrug. “Okay, and it’s a fair point.” He glanced at our surroundings. “I still think I could’ve found something a bit better.”
I snorted. “You’re welcome to try, but you’d be wasting your time. London prices, remember? Even Soho isn’t cheap.”
“Please, tell me we haven’t paid a shitload for this. How long is the lease?”
“Only a month. I hoped we’d be ready for better premises by then.” I smiled. “Think of it this way. The studio gave the right impression, but that was like a first date.”
Max frowned. “I don’t follow you.”
I grinned. “When you start dating someone, you’re on your best behaviour for the first few weeks or months. Then when you get comfortable, the mask comes off and suddenly it’s okay to let rip with a fart.”
Max laughed. “Okay, now I’m imagining a chorus of farts.” His eyes gleamed. “Ooh. There’s an idea. We don’t sing, we fart out a song.” He waggled his eyebrows. “That a big enough hook for you?”
I shook my head. “Are you going to be this facetious when the others get here?”
He chuckled. “I’ll be on my best behaviour, I promise.
” He gazed at the windows. “Hey, at least there’s natural light.
From downstairs I was envisaging a dingy attic with a few skylights.
” Max bit his lip. “The dingy part was on the money, though.” He grinned.
“You know, this might work in other ways. They could take one look at this place, decide no way in hell do they want to keep rehearsing in here, and pull out all the stops. Talk about incentive.” He dropped the long duffel he was carrying to the floor with a clatter.
“I’ll set up the music stands. I didn’t bother bringing mics.
” He smirked. “Which is good, because we have no equipment. But I do get it. Today is all about first steps. Mics come in when we’re ready to record something.
” He cocked his head. “And speaking of being ready… Are you prepared for chaos? Because with these guys, you know that’s what we’re going to get.
” He began moving the tables to the outer edges of the room, leaving a space in the centre.
Then he opened the bag and extracted the stands.
I had a feeling Max was on the money, but I didn’t care. I’d been buzzing all morning.
I want to hear what sound we make.
I was thankful to have Max at my side. The only person on earth who can make a bass note sound like a hug.
“The last time we all met, we were still two members short,” he said as he worked. “And now adding Finnley to the mix…”
I smiled. “You like him.”
“I like all of them,” he remonstrated. Then his eyes gleamed. “But not as much as you liked our impromptu guest that night.” He grinned.
“Leave it.” The words came out more sharply than I’d intended.
Max’s eyebrows went skywards. “Ooh. Methinks I hit a nerve. You’ve got good taste, I’ll say that for you. Cameron is—”
“Am I in the right place?” a voice hollered up the stairs.
I was never so grateful for an interruption. “Come on up,” I yelled. I couldn’t place the speaker.
Feet clomped on the stairs, and a moment later, Julian Richards came through the door, a denim jacket slung over his shoulder, his skinny jeans tight enough to be a second skin, his boots gleaming.
He sniffed, his nose wrinkling. “You know what it smells like in here? Burnt coffee, duct tape, and the ghosts of failed indie bands.”
I frowned. “Does duct tape have a smell?”
“Yes,” Max and Julian said in sync. They both blinked, then gave each other an appraising glance.
I snorted. “Okay, I’m not going to ask. But failed indie bands?”
His eyes twinkled. “Call it artistic licence.”
I caught a whiff of whatever fragrance clung to Julian, a warm, spicy scent that seemed to fit him perfectly. “Whereas you smell amazing.”
Julian chuckled. “I just finished work. Gotta smell good for the day job.” He sauntered toward the nearest chair, peered at it, then flopped into it.
It was only then I realised I had no clue what Julian’s ‘day job’ was.
I don’t need to know. What matters is he’s here. On time.
Unlike everyone else.
Max nudged my elbow. “Will you relax? They’ll be here.”
Yeah, Max knew me, all right.
The others arrived in dribs and drabs over the next fifteen minutes, most of them dressed casually in jeans and tees, and all of them clutching paper cups or a water bottle. The aroma of coffee snuck into the air.
Finnley Pierce wore the same high heel boots he’d worn for the audition, and although he was the youngest of them, damn, he owned the room when he strutted across it. He took one glance at the space and gave me a look that plainly said What the fuck?
Max caught it. “Nothing to do with me. This is all on Theo. So we’d better make fast progress, because that’s the only way we get to move up in the world.”
Liam Brooks looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept a wink.
I recalled our conversation at the audition. “Hey, Liam. Did you manage to transfer to a local hospital? Or are you still looking?”
Liam’s smile was pure fatigue. “I’m now at the trauma unit at St. Mary’s, near Paddington.
Just finished the night shift about seven this morning, but I couldn’t sleep.
Too excited, I guess.” He raised his chin and looked me in the eye.
“But I’m here, and I can sing.” His blue eyes sparkled.
“Sleep is for the weak anyway.” He sank onto a chair.
Milo Harrison slipped quietly into the studio, his leather jacket over his arm, his tank revealing his tattooed arms.
He has cheekbones to die for. I had to admit all of the guys were lookers. Wait until they’re all on a stage, under spotlights. Or on the cover of their first album. On a poster for their first gig.
Don’t run before you can walk, Theo.
Then I noticed something was missing.
“No guitar this time, Milo?”
Milo smiled. “Nah.” His gaze swept the room to the piano in the corner. “But that’ll do.”
“You play piano too?”
In response, Milo walked over to the piano bench and sat.
He lifted the lid and ran his fingers lightly over the keys.
A moment later, a simple, flowing melody filled the air, rising and falling like waves, evoking mystery and melancholy at the same time.
The piano didn’t have the best tone, but that didn’t matter.
I recognised the melody instantly, and my breathing caught as I stood, transfixed. No one moved for the three minutes or so until Milo finally stilled his hands.
Zane Gallagher expelled a breath. “That was beautiful. What was it?”
“I heard it once on an episode of Poirot,” Oliver Bennett piped up. He coughed. “Not that I go in for that kinda thing. My parents were watching it.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was written for that purpose.” Max rolled his eyes. “It’s by Satie, a French composer in the late eighteen hundreds. That was the first piece in a series called ‘Gnossiennes’.” He gave Milo an approving glance. “And Zane’s right. That was beautiful.”
Milo closed the lid, his face flushed.
“I play that piece sometimes in the cafe where I work,” Elliott Foster said in a low voice.
He grinned. “I don’t mean I play it—I’d butcher Chopsticks—but I like playing classical shit over the sound system, especially first thing in the morning.
Customers like it.” That grin again. “Then I put on some rock ‘n’ roll to wake ’em all up. ”
“Do you take requests?” Sebastian Hayes asked with a smile.
A really cute smile.
Then I caught Max staring at me, his eyes twinkling. No Fraternisation, remember? he mouthed.
Bastard.
I coughed. “Can I remind you all why we’re here?
” Silence fell. I stood in the middle of the room with a clipboard in my left hand, and a pencil clenched in my right.
On the table beside me sat a sheaf of lyrics, and my carefully printed seating chart that had already been ignored by everyone. Then I glanced at it.
Someone had apparently set a sweating iced latte—or something similar—directly on the paper, ghosting a wet ring across my formatting.
Breathe, Theo. Just breathe.
I cleared my throat. “Okay, Rough Harmony, first rehearsal.” That came out way too brisk. “Congratulations on passing the auditions. Now please sit where I—”
“Assigned seats?” Milo inclined his head toward the chart. “That’s adorable.”
“It’s efficient, not to mention necessary for balance. We’re building a wall of sound, not a pillow fort.”
Max smirked. “Captain Clipboard is on form today.”
I ignored him. “We have two basses, two baritones, two tenors, and four sopran—”
“Falsetto,” Sebastian cut in, sharp as a metronome. “We’re men, not sopranos.”
I pivoted. “Four falsettists,” I corrected, as though I’d planned to say it that way the whole time. “Finnley, Zane, Milo, Sebastian—back row for now. Liam and Oliver, centre baritone. Tenors—Elliott, Julian—to my left. Max—” I flicked a look “—back right with me anchoring bass front right.”
Julian was still lounging on his chair, one elegant ankle crossed over his knee. “Do I get a throne or is it bring-your-own?” His cheekbones seemed so sharp they looked as if they’d been sculpted to stab.
“You get a chair,” I said. “Like the rest of us mortals.” I made a mental note.
This one is going to be trouble. Nothing that Max or I couldn’t handle, however.
I hope.
Elliott raised a hand as if we were still in school. “Do we warm up first? Lip trills? Maybe arpeggios on a five-note?” He wore a soft-looking cardigan and an even softer smile.
“I vote we just sing,” Sebastian bounced on the balls of his feet. “Crash the plane, learn to fly on the way down.”
Max flashed me a grin, one that said See? I told you there’d be chaos.
Zane squinted at Sebastian. “Pretty sure that’s not how planes or music work.”
Liam grinned. “Seb, park your arse for a sec. We’ll get to the crashing.”
Oliver grabbed a music stand and pulled it in front of him.
It took me a moment to realise what was different about him.
It was the glasses. He adjusted the music stand to a mathematically precise angle, then placed a sheet of paper on it.
“I brought a warm-up sequence if we want to standardise daily—”
“Love that,” I said, too fast. I was all for control and standardisation. “Ready, guys?” Nine pairs of eyes focused on me, and I gave a satisfied nod. “Oliver…go.”
Oliver ran through the sequence once, and then nine voices slid into humming.
I tracked every entrance. Elliott was too cautious at first, whereas Julian was overcompensating to prove he wasn’t.
Finnley’s falsetto floated too early, and Milo tried to ornament a warm-up as though it was a solo.
Liam’s resonant hum smoothed out the bumps, and Max laid down a bass line like a foundation poured from concrete and honey.
I heard the glitches. More importantly, I felt them like grit in my molars. I scribbled notes that had nothing to do with their voices.
Breathe.
You asked for this.
You built this.
You can make it sing.
“Good,” I said after we’d done a few scales. “Shall we try a piece of music? Something everyone is familiar with?”
Max bit his lip, and I glared. Max held his hands up. “Hey, you picked it. This one is all on you.”
Julian arched beautifully sculpted brows. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“Let’s… yeah, okay. The piece.” I lifted my eyes. “Queen. ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”