4. Four
Four
Vince
The crowd’s energy hits like a physical force as I step onto the stage. Thirty thousand people screaming, the bass thrumming through my bones, and my Gibson guitar hanging ready against my hip. This is what I live for.
Cass starts the opening riff of our first solo hit, and I join in, fingers flying over the strings. The familiar rush of adrenaline floods my system as the music takes over. For the next two hours, nothing else exists—no social media drama, image management, or redheaded distractions.
Well, almost no redheaded distractions.
Quinn’s in the wings tonight, tablet in hand, probably documenting every move for her precious content calendar. She’s been here an hour already, watching soundcheck, making notes, and asking the crew questions about our usual routines. She’s being thorough, as always.
I throw in an extra flourish during my solo, partly because the music demands it, partly because I know she’s watching. When I glance her way, she’s shaking her head, but I catch the hint of a smile.
After two weeks of working together, I’m starting to live for those almost-smiles.
The song ends, and I grab a water bottle, using the brief break to check the crowd. That’s when I spot her actually dancing to our next number, her tablet temporarily forgotten. The stage lights catch her hair, making it flame, and for a moment, I almost miss my next chord progression.
Cass shoots me a look. I hit it right on cue, but he noticed my moment of distraction.
“Lost in thought?” he asks between songs.
“Shut up and play,” I mutter, but I can’t help another glance toward the wings.
She’s back to taking notes—all business again. But I saw her—the real Quinn, the one who forgets to be professional sometimes. Like yesterday, when she laughed at my terrible attempt at a British accent during our morning meeting, or last week when she caught me actually practicing before she arrived and called me a ‘good boy’ in that teasing voice that haunted me all day.
The next song starts, and I pour everything into my guitar. Music has always been my escape, my therapy, my love affair. Even as a kid, after my parents died, it was the only thing that made sense. Reenie understood—bought me my first guitar and never complained about the endless hours of practice.
“Looking good out there,” Quinn’s voice comes through my earpiece. She’s been coordinating with our sound tech and learning the ropes. “Try to remember you’re being filmed for social media.”
“Always watching, Red?” I murmur between lyrics, knowing she can hear me.
“Always, Vince.”
But there’s a warmth in her voice that wasn’t there two weeks ago. A familiarity that makes me want to push the boundaries.
I launch into another solo, this one completely unscripted. The crowd goes wild, and through my earpiece, I hear Quinn’s sharp intake of breath.
“That wasn’t in the setlist,” she says.
“Sometimes you have to improvise.” I’m grinning now, riding the high of the music and her reaction. “Isn’t that what social media is all about? Being authentic?”
“You’re a showoff.”
“Yeah, but you like it.”
She doesn’t respond, but when I risk another glance her way, she’s watching me with an intensity that makes my fingers stumble on the strings. Just for a second, but enough that Cass notices again.
“Dude,” he says during the next break, “what’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.” I adjust my guitar strap, very deliberately not looking toward the wings. “Just trying some new things.”
“New things?” He follows my gaze, understanding dawning. “Ah. The social media expert. Man, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t go there. Emily will kill you if you start something with her. She wants Quinn to hang around.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I protest, but even I can hear the lie in my voice. Truth is, I’ve been going there since day one—in my head, at least. Quinn’s different from the others. She sees through my bullshit and calls me on it, but somehow still seems to like what she finds underneath.
The show kicks into high gear with our latest single. I’m showing off now, and I know it. Every riff is technically perfect but with just enough raw edge to make it real. The kind of authenticity Quinn’s always preaching about.
Through my earpiece, I hear her talking to Emily and the video team, helping direct the shots. She’s learned our music over the past two weeks and knows exactly when to focus on each band member. When my solo hits, the main screen splits to show my hands on the strings, and I have to admit—it looks damn good.
“Nice call on the camera work,” I murmur between verses.
“Focus on playing,” she replies, but I can hear the satisfaction in her voice.
The next song is slower more acoustic. I wrote it years ago, back when Reenie first moved to Paris, and the house felt too empty. I never told anyone that’s what it was about, but somehow, during yesterday’s meeting, Quinn guessed.
“It’s about missing someone, isn’t it?” she’d asked, reviewing the setlist. “Someone specific.”
I’d deflected with a joke about a supermodel ex, but she just gave me that look—the one that says she sees right through me.
Now, as I play those opening chords, I catch her watching again. She’s set down her tablet, all her attention on the music. For once, she’s not thinking about analytics or engagement rates. She’s just feeling it.
That’s the thing about Quinn—beneath all the professional polish, she actually gives a damn about the music.
The song ends, and the crowd roars. We launch into our closer, pure rock energy. I’m drenched in sweat, riding the performance high, when I spot a group of girls in the front row holding up a sign: “Vince, Party At Our Hotel?”
I throw them my signature wink—old habits die hard—but I don’t bother signaling security for their room number. The music’s got me in its grip tonight, and for once, the usual post-show hunt doesn’t hold the same appeal.
“Restraint looks good on you,” Quinn’s voice comes through my earpiece, surprising us both if her quick intake of breath is any indication.
“For what?” I ask between riffs.
“For choosing the music.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the stage lights. I cover it with my usual swagger. “Night’s still young, Red.”
“It’s Quinn,” she corrects automatically. “And remember, you have a 2 PM meeting tomorrow.”
“Trying to keep me on a short leash?”
“Trying to keep you focused.”
“Oh, I’m focused.” I throw in another unscripted solo just because I can. “Very, very focused.”
The song builds to its finale, and I pour everything into it—all the energy, all the tension, and all the complicated feelings I’m not ready to examine. When the last note fades, the roar of the crowd is deafening.
I head off stage, guitar in hand, blood still pumping with performance adrenaline. Quinn’s waiting in the wings, tablet tucked under her arm, looking somehow both professional and disheveled from the heat of the stage lights.
“Good show,” she says, all business despite the flush in her cheeks.
“Just good?” I step closer, riding the high of performance. “I think we did better than just good.”
“The social engagement was excellent.” She pulls up some stats on her tablet, trying to maintain professional distance despite my proximity. “That impromptu solo is already trending.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I reach past her to grab a towel, deliberately invading her space. “Admit it—you enjoyed yourself tonight.”
She takes a step back, but not before I catch the slight hitch in her breathing. “My enjoyment isn’t relevant to—“
“Vince Savage!” A handful of groupies push past security, giggling and reaching for me. “Vince! That was amazing!”
Quinn smoothly steps between us, her professional smile firmly in place. “Ladies, if you’d like to meet the band, please check with security about proper protocols.”
I can’t help grinning as she handles them with practiced ease. “Protecting my virtue, Red?”
“Someone has to.” She doesn’t look up from her tablet, but I catch the ghost of a smile. “Since you seem incapable of doing it yourself.”
“My virtue’s not what needs protecting right now.” I lean against the wall, watching her try to ignore me. “How about a drink? To celebrate the social media success?”
Now she does look up, wariness warring with something else in her eyes. “I don’t drink with clients.”
“Come on, Red. One drink. I’ll even let you lecture me about my Instagram strategy.”
“Tempting,” she says dryly. “But no.”
A pair of models waves from across the room—twins I met at last month’s fashion show. Any other night, I’d already be heading their way.
Instead, I’m still watching Quinn, trying to figure out why her rejection stings more than it should.
“Your fan club’s waiting,” she says, nodding toward the twins.
“They can keep waiting.” I push off the wall, moving closer again. “I’m not done with our meeting.”
“This isn’t a meeting.” She takes another step back, bumping into a speaker. “This is you avoiding your actual responsibilities.”
“Maybe I’m just enjoying the company.”
Something flashes in her eyes—doubt, interest, wariness. “Mr. Savage—“
“Back to Mr. Savage?” I reach out, tugging gently on a strand of her hair that’s escaped its clip. “I thought we were past that.”
Her breath catches, and for a moment, I think she might actually give in. Then her phone chimes, breaking whatever this thing is between us.
“I have an early client call,” she says, stepping away. “And we still have our meeting tomorrow.”
“2 PM isn’t that early.”
“It is given what time you’ll go to bed.” A surge of color floods her pale cheeks. “I mean, when you actually arrive home.” She stiffly gathers her things, her professional mask firmly back in place. “Good show tonight, Vince. Try to keep the social posts PG-13 until morning. Okay?”
“No promises.”
She rolls her eyes, heading for the exit. At the door, she pauses. “That second solo? The unscripted one?” A small smile plays on her lips. “It really was amazing.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me with the lingering scent of her perfume and the uncomfortable realization that I’d rather talk music with her than hook up with the twins.
I end up at my usual after-party spot anyway—because it’s expected. The twins are here, along with half the music industry. But two hours in, I find myself scrolling mindlessly through my phone, oddly unsatisfied with the scene around me. My eyes keep scanning the crowd, unconsciously searching for a flash of red hair in the sea of platinum blondes.
One of the twins is currently draped across my lap—Sarah? Sierra?—she giggles at something I didn’t even hear myself say. Her laughter grates on my nerves, too high-pitched and practiced. She hasn’t asked me a single question about the music. Just keeps telling me how amazing I am, how talented, how sexy. The same hollow praise I’ve heard a thousand times before.
Christ. When did I become such a snob?
“You seem distracted,” she pouts, trailing a finger coyly down my chest.
“Just business,” I say, but I’m already reaching for my jacket.
“You’re leaving?” Both twins stare at me in disbelief. “But the party’s just getting started.”
“Early meeting tomorrow.” The excuse sounds weak even to my ears.
“Since when does Vince Savage care about meetings?” Sarah-or-Sierra’s sister demands. “Stay. We can make it worth your while.” She slides closer, all practiced seduction and calculated moves.
A month ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about taking them up on their offer. Now? All I can think about is getting home and going to sleep.
“Maybe next time,” I say, standing up. For the first time in years, I’m leaving a party before dawn. Alone.
The twins’ indignant protests follow me out, but I barely hear them. I’m too busy wondering when exactly Quinn Donovan started making me question every damn thing about my life.
Fuck.
Quinn Donovan is definitely going to be trouble.