The Broken Keys (The Kings Of Mayhem #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CALLUM/CASH

A Week & A Half Before Now

Stars We Trace in the Dark

I hold her like a present I haven’t earned…and someone’s already knocking to take her away.

Stay cool, Cash. It’s only Livianna, and she knows me well. My nerves are on high alert as I open the door to my place in Laurel Canyon.

Livianna stands before me like she’s been beaten by the rain. Her mascara is smeared, streaking dark trails down her cheeks, and something vulnerable is in her posture.

Her shoulders curl inward, and her hands tremble at her sides. Every protective instinct I’ve ever buried claws its way to the surface.

“I’m sorry I’m so late.” She peeks out at the driveway, then back at me. “Is it okay that I parked there?”

“It’s perfect, and you’re welcome here anytime.”

“Thanks, I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”

Those words nearly bring me to my knees.

“Then you won’t be.” I don’t ask questions or demand explanations. “Come in.”

I step aside and let her in, wrapping one of my oversized hoodies that’s hanging on a coatrack around her shoulders before she even makes it past the entryway.

The fabric swallows her whole, and she pulls it tight like a child holding her blanket, breathing in the scent of my cologne that still clings to the cotton.

My living room stretches out before us. Dark leather furniture, vintage guitars mounted on the walls like trophies, and Grammy statues catch the soft glow of ambient lighting. But she doesn’t notice any of it.

Her gaze lands on the framed photographs scattered across the mantel. They’re of us when she’s sixteen and I’m almost eighteen, laughing over something I can’t remember.

There’s another photo of the band at our first Grammy ceremony—Bren flipping off the camera while I grin like an idiot and Hawke and Cooper glare. There’s a candid shot of her sleeping in my bed years ago, peaceful in a way that seems impossible now.

She ambles toward those pictures like they’re pulling her forward, her fingers hovering over the glass without quite touching. “Where did you get these?”

“They were in a box at my ma’s house where I kept everything.” I follow Livianna. “I could never burn or let go of our memories.”

“Wow. We were so young.”

I glance at the images, warmth radiating through me. Against my better judgment, I visualize her lying in my bed now.

“Come this way.” I guide her into the kitchen that opens into the living space.

Cooking has never been my strength, but something about her fragility tonight makes me want to do normal things, domestic things that might anchor us both to something that could bring us closer.

“You hungry?” I’m already pulling ingredients from the fridge. “I make a mean grilled cheese. And before you say anything, yes, it’s probably the only thing I can make without setting the house on fire.”

That gets a small smile out of her, barely there but enough to ease the knot in my stomach.

“Since when do you cook, rockstar?”

“Since I realized ordering takeout every night wasn’t exactly sustainable.” I heat butter in a pan, the sizzle filling the space between us. “Guns has been hitting the gym with me, too. I need to keep my head on straight.”

She leans against the counter, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie over her hands. “How’s that going for you?”

“Better than expected. Turns out physical exhaustion is a decent substitute for…” I catch myself before I say something that might hurt her.

For drinking. For doing drugs. Having sex with meaningless strangers. For self-destructive spirals that used to define my coping mechanisms. Shit, I have a laundry list of things that could cause her pain.

“Yeah, I got into meditation and Pilates. It’s helped a lot with my anxiety.” She scans my kitchen. “This place is really beautiful, Callum.”

“Thanks. I kinda like it, if I do say so myself.” I flip the sandwich, golden brown and perfect, then turn to open a can of tomato soup.

The mundane task gives my hands something to do while I try not to stare. I never thought I’d see her standing in my own space. At least not for the last five years. Still, I hoped and dreamed every day that this would happen.

“Tell me about Paris.” I stir the soup. “What’s it been like? How’s the fashion world treating you?”

It’s a casual request that lands with the weight of a brick wall. Her expression tightens, and sadness flickers behind her eyes. It’s the same kind I used to see when I’d come home from tour to find her smaller than when I left.

“It’s been...educational.” She nods as if that answer will suffice.

“That’s a careful way to put it.”

“Careful is what I do now. You know the media has never liked me.” She picks at the fabric of my hoodie. “I had a good mentor, though. He’s someone who understands the industry, the pressure, and how to navigate powerful people who think they own you or want to push you around.”

“Jaxon Crowne is your mentor, right? I think that’s what Guns told me.”

“He was, but not anymore. What about you? This new label thing Bren mentioned. That’s exciting. What’s it been now? Two years?”

“Yeah.” I wanna ask more about Paris, but I drop the subject. “Grub’s ready.”

“Good. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

“Fuck, I’d be crawling if that were me.” The sandwich hits the plate with a soft thud, and I ladle soup into a bowl beside it. “Our new label is doing great. We’ve all found our role within the organization.”

“Even Bren?”

“Yeah. Turns out he’s a networking god. He’s bringing a lot of up-and-coming talent to the table.”

“He is charming, so I’m not surprised.” She pauses as she slips into a chair at the table. “What made you decide to start your own label? How did you get it started? Tell me everything.”

“It was fairly simple once I found someone to back us.” I shake my head a little. “I don’t think I would’ve made it out alive if I didn’t find some hope in the future.”

She remains quiet. We both know going down that line of communication would lead to nothing but defenses going up, and I refuse to let my past get in the way of this moment with her.

I don’t mention that the angel investor is Jaxon Crowne. That piece of information stays untouched for now. I’ll tell her when the time’s right. This night is about her, not me.

But I’m indebted to Jaxon in ways that run deeper than money, and I need her to understand that. Besides, he mentored her, so she shouldn’t have a problem with him backing the band and me.

I have to believe she’ll keep it to herself because if Leon ever finds out, it won’t be pretty.

“Leon.” She says his name as if she knew I was thinking about him. “I haven’t thought about him or heard anything about him in a long time.”

“And you won’t hear it again if I have anything to say about it.” I place the plate down before her. “Eat. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

She takes a tentative bite. “It’s good. Really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” I sit across from her. “I’ve had to survive on my own for a while now. My ma is set up in a house close to here. I had to cut her loose.”

We both laugh because Livianna knows my ma is the only family I have left. I’d never leave her side. She left because she couldn’t stand watching me slowly die.

Livianna and I talk for hours after that. It’s like slipping into a rhythm I thought I’d forgotten. She curls up on the opposite end of my couch, her legs tucked under her, looking tiny in my hoodie but more relaxed than when she first arrived.

“So, you and Bren work out now.” Her old teasing grin plays at the corners of her mouth. “That must be painful.”

“You have no idea. He’s got me doing these insane circuit training sessions. Says I need to channel my aggression somewhere productive.”

“Is it working?”

“Better than I expected. Turns out punching things in a controlled environment is way more satisfying than hitting walls when I’m drunk.” I catch her wince at the mention of my old habits. “I haven’t touched alcohol in eight months, Lily.”

Her eyes widen. “Eight months?”

“Yeah, right now I need clean living, disciplined workouts, and an actual sleep schedule. Guns calls it my ‘boring era.’” I gesture to her. “What about you? You look like you’ve been living on coffee and air.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly.

“You’re still gorgeous. You just seem tired.”

“Honestly, I am.” She pulls my hoodie over her bent knees. “Paris was…intense. The fashion world doesn’t really encourage healthy habits.”

“Tell me about it. What was a typical day like for you there?”

“Early mornings and late nights. Lots of meetings with manufacturers and designers. Photo shoots, fashion weeks, and networking events where everyone smiles while they try to destroy each other.”

“Sounds familiar.”

She considers something for a few beats. “Now that I think about it, it’s a lot like Hollywood. It’s kind of lonely, actually. Even when you’re surrounded by people.”

“You miss being there?”

“I miss…” She glances around my living room, taking in the guitars, the photos, the comfortable chaos that somehow feels more like home than any mansion should. “I miss feeling like I belong somewhere with someone who wants to build something lasting with me.”

The weight of those words settles between us. Was the man she was seeing in Paris more than a casual fling?

“What about the new music?” She changes the subject before I can respond to the vulnerability she just showed me. “Is it different from the ‘Forget Paris’ album?”

I can’t help but beam at that. “You listened to it?”

“Yes, I listened to it.” Her cheeks flush pink. “Every song. Multiple times.”

“Which one is your favorite?”

“You know which one.” She glares at me, but there’s no real heat in it. “‘My Untouchable Son’ made me cry for two days straight.”

“Good. It was supposed to.”

“You’re awful.” She throws a pillow at me.

I catch it.

“You love it when I’m awful.” The words come out too much like the way we used to flirt when everything between us was simple.