Chapter 4
FOUR
LUCA
Rehearsal drags on for another hour after we nail the sucker bit—fine-tuning transitions, running the full set twice more until Steven’s satisfied and Tasha calls time.
My mouth tastes like artificial cherry, even after chugging water.
Kai’s been shooting daggers at me the whole time, like every touch is a personal offense.
Fine by me. The feeling’s mutual. Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself as I grab my bag and head for the exit.
Michael catches me by the door, clapping my shoulder. “You two were on fire today. Seriously, that sucker pull? Iconic.”
“Yeah, iconic cavities,” I mutter, forcing a grin. “See you tomorrow?”
He nods. “Hotel lobby, bright and early. Don’t be late, or Kai might actually explode.”
I laugh it off, but as I push through the doors into the California sun—warm even in the late afternoon—something twists in my gut.
The guys are heading back to the suite downtown: room service, video games, the usual post-rehearsal unwind.
Min-ho probably organized some quiet movie night, Michael turning it into chaos.
Kai… Well, Kai doing whatever he does to stay in control.
Working out in the hotel gym. Planning. Pretending he’s above it all.
Maybe I should’ve crashed with them this stop. Skipped the family detour. But we’re in L.A., and Mom texted three times this morning since I left: Dinner at home? Your dad’s firing up the grill. Like I could say no without the guilt trip.
Traffic’s light for once—perk of rehearsing mid-day.
I crank the radio in the car my dad loaned me, some throwback station blasting 90s grunge that sounds too much like Dad’s old hits.
By the time I pull into the gated driveway of the house in the Hills—big, sprawling, with the infinity pool overlooking the city—I’m already second-guessing staying another night.
The place screams success: Dad’s gold records framed in the foyer, Mom’s garden bursting with roses she tends as if it’s therapy.
It’s home. It’s also a reminder of how hard I have to work to get out of his spotlight and into my own.
I park next to Whitney’s car—she beat me here, probably straight from whatever audition she had today. The front door’s unlocked, voices floating from the backyard: Mom’s laugh, Dad’s booming baritone, Whitney’s higher pitch chiming in.
I step through the kitchen—marble counters, always spotless thanks to Nancy, our housekeeper—and out onto the patio.
The grill’s smoking, steaks sizzling. Dad’s in his element: faded band tee, jeans, flip-flops, tongs in hand like a scepter.
Mom’s setting the table, her hair tied back, smiling at something Whitney said.
Whit’s curled up on the lounge chair, glass of wine in hand, looking every bit the girl-next-door-turned-aspiring-actress.
“There he is!” Dad calls, spotting me first. “The prodigal son returns. How was rehearsal, kid?”
I force a smile, dropping my bag by the door. “Solid. We’re tightening up for the next leg.”
Whitney uncurls, padding over in bare feet to wrap her arms around my waist from behind. “Hey, stranger.” She presses a kiss to my shoulder blade, all cuddly and sweet. It’s her thing—clinging like we’re still in high school, like nothing’s changed. She does it every time we make up.
I turn, kiss the top of her head. “Hey. You get here early?”
“Traffic was a dream,” she says, tilting her face up for a real kiss. I oblige—quick, familiar. But my mind’s still stuck on rehearsal, on Kai’s glare when I took that sucker from his mouth, the way his breath hitched just a fraction.
Mom waves me over. “Sit, Luca. You look exhausted. Wine? Water?”
“Water’s good.” I sink into a chair, stretching my legs. Whitney perches on the armrest beside me, her hand playing with the hair at my nape. It’s nice. Comforting. But tonight, it feels…off. Like she’s trying too hard, or maybe I am.
Dad flips a steak, the sizzle filling the air. “So, tell me about this tour. Numbers holding up? Fans still screaming your name like they did mine back in ‘95?”
There it is. The casual prod. Dad’s always been supportive—hell, he’s the reason I picked up a guitar at three—but there’s this undercurrent. Like he’s waiting for me to prove I’m not just riding his coattails. “Yeah, crowds are wild. We’re adding dates in Europe.”
He nods, but his eyes sharpen. “Good. Keep earning it. Fame’s a fickle bitch—gives it easy, takes it easier. Remember that demo you sent me last year? Solid stuff. But you gotta push harder than that. No one hands you the spotlight twice.”
I swallow, nodding as though the reminder that I’m where I’m at now because of him doesn’t sting. “I know, Dad.”
Whitney squeezes my shoulder. “He’s killing it. You should see the clips from last night. Trending everywhere.”
Mom chimes in, bless her. “We’re proud of you, honey. Both of us are.” She shoots Dad a look—the one that says ease up.
But he’s not wrong. I grew up watching him command stages, sell out stadiums. When Eclipse scouted me, it wasn’t just my talent—it was the name.
Clark. Doors opened before I knocked. And every late arrival, every casual grin, feels like I’m proving the critics right: the nepotism kid who doesn’t have to try.
I think about the guys back at the hotel.
Michael ribbing me without the weight of legacy.
Min-ho’s quiet focus. Even Kai—grinding like his life depends on it, no safety net.
Maybe I should’ve stayed there tonight. No expectations.
No reminders that I’m still earning my place, one viral moment at a time.
Whitney leans in closer, her breath warm on my ear. “You okay? You seem tense.”
I glance at Dad—still at the grill, humming an old riff—and lower my voice. “Yeah. Just…rehearsal was intense. Harry’s ramping up the fan-service. New choreo.”
Her fingers go still in my hair. “What kind of choreo?”
I hesitate. She’s not gonna like this, it might even start our next break. Still, I open my mouth and tell her. “Throat holds. Pinning. And this sucker thing—Kai unwraps it, holds the stem in his teeth. I…take it from his mouth. Slow. For the fans and cameras.”
Her body goes rigid. “You what?”
“It’s fake, Whit. All of it. Just to sell the Kuca thing.”
She pulls back, eyes narrowing. “Taking candy from his mouth? With your lips? That’s not fan-service—that’s practically making out on stage.”
“Keep your voice down,” I mutter, glancing at my parents. Mom’s pretending not to hear; Dad’s focused on the steaks. “You’re an actress, you know what acting is.”
Whitney crosses her arms, not hearing me apparently as she continues, “You know how this looks. To me. To everyone.”
“It’s the job,” I say, echoing what I told her last night. But it sounds weaker now. “We need the buzz. Band’s slipping without it.”
She scoffs, standing up. “Right. The band. Not like you enjoy it or anything.”
“Whit—”
She waves me off, grabbing her wine. “Whatever. I’m getting a refill.”
She stalks inside, screen door slamming behind her. Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah. Just…tour stuff.”
Dad chuckles, plating the steaks. “Women and rock stars, kid. Eternal battle. Eat up—you look like you need it.”
I force a laugh, but as I sit there, the sun dipping low over the city, the weight settles heavier. Whitney’s pissed. Dad’s words echo. And I’m just trying to prove I belong up there, under the lights, without the shadow of his name swallowing mine whole.
Sunlight slices through the blinds as though it’s personally offended I’m still asleep.
I jolt awake, heart already hammering before my brain catches up. The room smells like Whitney’s vanilla perfume and last night’s sex—sheets tangled, air thick. My phone’s face-down on the nightstand. I snag it up and squint at the time.
10:42 a.m.
Call time was 9:30. Flight to Phoenix leaves at 11:45. We’re supposed to be wheels-up in an hour. I’m never going to make it to the airport in time.
“Fuck.”
I throw the covers off, adrenaline flooding in. Whitney stirs beside me, naked, one leg hooked over the sheet, blonde hair fanned across the pillow. She makes a sleepy sound, reaching for me without opening her eyes.
“Luca…come back. You can catch the next plane. Or just…stay.”
Her voice is soft, coaxing, as though this is cute. Like we’re still teenagers sneaking around after curfew.
I freeze, staring at my phone. The alarm should’ve gone off at 7:45. Three times. I set it myself last night.
“Did you turn off my alarm?”
She cracks one eye open, shrugs one bare shoulder. “Maybe. You were so stressed last night. Thought you needed the sleep.”
“You turned it off.” My voice comes out flat, dangerous. “You turned off my fucking alarm so I’d miss call time.”
She sits up slowly, sheet slipping to her waist, expression shifting from sleepy to defensive. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. The band can wait five minutes. You’re always running yourself ragged for them.”
“For them?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “This isn’t about them. This is about me showing up. On time. Like everyone else has to. Like Kai does, every goddamn day, no excuses.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh, so now it’s about Kai again? You’re really letting him get under your skin, aren’t you?”
I don’t answer. I’m already moving—yanking open the dresser drawer, grabbing whatever’s clean. Ripped black jeans—no boxers, no time. Black ribbed tank top, the one that clings too tight after a wash. I pull them on fast, not bothering with socks, shoving my feet into sneakers by the door.
Whitney watches, arms crossed over her chest now. “You’re seriously leaving like this? You look like you just rolled out of a club at 3 a.m.”
“I look like someone who’s late because his girlfriend decided to play games with his schedule.” I snatch my phone, wallet, keys. I don’t have to look in a mirror to know my hair is a mess, but I don’t stop to fix it.
“Luca—” she starts, softer now, reaching for my arm.
I step back. “Don’t. I have to go.”
She stands up, sheet falling away completely. Naked, beautiful, and suddenly looking smaller than she did a minute ago. “You’re really mad about this? It was one morning. I just wanted you here. With me. Not running off to play pretend boyfriend with him again.”
I pause at the bedroom door, hand on the knob. For a second, I almost soften—because yeah, part of me gets it. She’s scared. The Kuca thing is blowing up, and every new choreo move makes her feel like she’s losing ground. But that doesn’t make this okay.
“You don’t get to decide when I show up for my job,” I say quietly. “You don’t get to sabotage me because you’re jealous.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. Tears shimmer in her eyes, but I can’t stay to deal with them. Not now.
I walk out.
The hallway echoes with my footsteps. Down the stairs, past the framed platinum records, past the photos of Dad on stage with crowds twice the size of ours. I don’t stop to say goodbye to my parents—they’re probably still asleep upstairs. No time.
Outside, the car’s still in the driveway. I slide in, slam the door, start the engine. The dashboard clock mocks me: 10:51. If I make it on time, Dad can send someone to get the car from the airport. I don’t have time to call for a ride.
I gun it down the hill, windows down, wind whipping my uncombed hair into chaos. Ripped jeans chafe against bare skin as the morning heat sinks into me. Tank top sticks to my back with nervous sweat already starting. I look like hell—disheveled, half-dressed, pissed off—and I don’t care.
Because, for once, being late isn’t because I chose to be. It’s because someone else decided I didn’t get to choose.
And that burns worse than anything Kai’s ever thrown at me.
I weave through traffic, phone blowing up with missed calls from Tasha, texts from Michael (Dude where r u?), one from Min-ho (We’re holding the plane. Hurry.), and nothing from Kai. Which somehow feels worse—like he’s not even surprised.
I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenched.
I’ll make it. I have to.
Because if I don’t show up today—hair a wreck, clothes thrown on, no excuses ready—I’m proving every doubt right. Dad’s. Whitney’s. The internet’s.
Mine.
And I’m not ready to be the guy who can’t even earn his own spotlight.
Not yet.