Epilogue
CASS
The Attic, we call this place.
Every riff. Every breakdown. Every screaming argument.
My fingers hover over the master fader, frozen, because I’ve already tried to fix this mix twice and I’m still not sure if the snare on track seven is too hot or if I’ve just listened to it so many times that the frequency has burrowed into my brain and filed for permanent residency.
Probably both. Almost certainly both.
“It’s done.” Joel’s voice cuts through my self-doubt about the mix.
I don’t turn around, because I’m still glaring at the waveform like it owes me money, and partly because Joel saying “it’s done” without immediately following it up with “but we should re-record the verse” is so unprecedented that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I sigh, opening my eyes. “The snare on seven—”
“Is perfect.” He zips the case. “Look at me.”
I spin the chair.
He’s standing there, bass slung over his shoulder, and his face is doing something I’ve legitimately never seen before. The perpetual furrow between his brows is gone. In its place is something soft and content. Shit… is that… happiness?
Did he eat bad sushi? Have the parasites claimed him?
“This is our best work,” he says.
No caveats. No “but if we had more time” or “the label’s going to want more polish.” Just five words, delivered with the sincerity of a man who physically cannot bullshit because his face would reject the lie like a bad organ transplant.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
“And for the record,” Joel adds, tapping the side of his nose. “I was wrong about the gear. Whatever voodoo your boyfriend did to that amp... it sits in the mix perfectly now. It’s got the grit, but none of the garbage. I don’t know how he did it.”
“Engineering,” I say with a smirk. “It’s like magic, but with more math.”
“Well, remind me to buy the nerd a beer.”
For three years, Joel Mendez has been my musical foil. The pragmatist to my purist. The guy who wanted us to “evolve our sound” while I clung to every dirty, unpolished edge. And now he’s standing here telling me I was right.
“Don’t go getting all soft on me, Mendez. Some of my best anger is powered by arguments with you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” But he’s smiling. Actually smiling. “Milo’s waiting in the van. We’re grabbing beers if you want—”
“I’m good.” I gesture vaguely at the mixing board. “Still want to do one more pass.”
He nods, taps the doorframe twice with his knuckles. “See you at load-in tomorrow.”
Then he’s gone, his footsteps fading down the hallway, and I’m left sitting in the glow of my small LED kingdom. I spin the chair in a slow circle, letting my gaze trace the room, which, aside from eating and sleeping and playing gigs, has been our home for months.
Joel’s words still on my mind, I push out of the chair and cross to the vintage amp in the corner, the one Ben fixed. And, for the first time, I let myself just be proud. I’ve spent so long bracing for the moment the label changes its mind, or Ben wakes up and decides he wants something easier.
But that’s not what happened, is it?
It’s been three months since the Battle of the Bands. Since the rain and the alley and the bathroom, and two months since the producer from Iron City Records sat down with us at a bar, handed me a contract and said the words I’d been hallucinating since I was fifteen.
“We want to sign you.”
Two months since the start of that partnership, with people who actually understand what we’re doing. Two months since we got the advance that was enough to pay off my student loans and put a new transmission in the tour van.
Two months since I dropped out of PBU.
Two months since I told Dr. Atwood he was a pompous prick.
Two months since I flipped the bird at my classmates.
And through all that time… Ben.
God, the stolen moments. Midnight grilled cheeses in his dorm. Me helping him with study sessions that devolve into make-out sessions. The way he still blushes when I catch him staring. The fact that he declared himself our sound engineer so we can spend more time together.
There’s a sound behind me, and I instantly know who it is.
“Thought you were supposed to be studying, Sasquatch,” I say.
Warm hands land on my shoulders, and every muscle I’ve been clenching for the past six hours releases at once. I groan as his thumbs find the knots at the base of my neck, working the muscle loose, pressing just hard enough to hurt in the way that means it’s working.
“I was studying.” Ben’s voice is low, close to my ear. “I missed you…”
“No shenanigans,” I whisper. “The snare on track seven—”
“Is perfect.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “I already told you that.”
I spin the chair to face him.
God.
The boy who stammered through our first fake-date negotiation is gone. In his place is this. Ben Kellerman, looking incredible, standing in my studio in a Pinebox t-shirt. And the best part is that he’s not a visitor here anymore.
He’s infrastructure.
He’s mine.
“I’m working,” I say. “And you’re supposed to be memorizing... what is it today? Laplace transforms?”
He grins, stepping closer so my knees are bracketed by his thighs. “I’m on to state-space representation. Way sexier.”
“You’re such a nerd.”
He laughs, his hands still on my shoulders. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t from a vending machine?”
“Define ‘ate.’”
“Cass.”
“There were peanut M&Ms involved. That’s protein. Legumes.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re going to work yourself into the ground.” He runs his thumb along the tension line in my neck, and sparks skate down my arms. “The mix is done. Joel said so. Milo said so. I said so three days ago.”
“One more pass—”
“Is what you’ve said the last four times.” His thumb traces a slow circle at the base of my skull, and my eyelids flutter. “You’re stalling. Why?”
The question catches me off guard, even though the answer is clear. It’s because once I hit that final save, it’s real. Because once we send the masters, there’s no more hiding behind “still working on it.” Because the whole damn world is going to hear what I actually sound like.
And what? They’ll realize you’re a fraud?
“Hey.” Ben’s hands cup my face, tilting it up, forcing me out of the tailspin that my old fear threatens to throw me into. “Where’d you go?”
“Nowhere,” I mumble, but he doesn’t buy it. He just keeps massaging me, keeps looking at me, leaving space for me—the real me—to fill. “I’m scared it won’t last. All of this. The label. The band. You. I keep waiting for the part where it falls apart.”
His expression shifts, going soft and fierce at the same time.
“Listen to me.” He crouches down so we’re eye level, his hands sliding from my face to grip my wrists. “This isn’t a loan that’s going to get called in. You built this—every song, every sound, every stupid snare frequency you’ve been obsessing over.”
“I know, but—”
“No buts.” His grip tightens. “Stop waiting for the crash.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” I say, smirking.
“No, but I’ve learned that to make you stop worrying—” his hands slide from my wrists to my thighs, “—I need to give you something better to do.”
The words land with such specific intent, I raise an eyebrow. “Is that so,” I say, breathlessly.
He holds my gaze and drops smoothly to a crouch in front of my chair, settling between my knees like he belongs there. “I think,” he says slowly, “there might be some wiring issues under this desk that need immediate attention.”
“Wiring issues.”
“Quality control.” His hands slide from my thighs to my hips, fingers hooking into my belt loops. “Very important.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m thorough.”
“I’m working,” I say, but my voice comes out breathy.
“Mmhmm.” He tugs my jeans down over my hips. “No need to stop.”
My thighs clench.
Jesus Christ, this man.
He hooks his fingers in my underwear and drags them down with agonizing slowness. The air is cool against my exposed skin, and I feel an obscene thrill being naked from the waist down in my own studio while Ben spreads my thighs and his tongue finds my clit.
Fuck.
I grip the edge of the console so hard the metal bites into my palms—wet heat and pressure and the scratch of his stubble against my inner thighs, all of it conspiring to white out every thought except more and please and don’t you dare stop.
“Press play on the whole track,” he murmurs, and I can feel him smiling.
“I hate you.” I half-laugh-half-moan, as I hit play.
“No, you don’t.” Another long, slow stroke of his tongue. “You love me.”
It’s not a question.
But it’s true. Somewhere between the fake dates and the real disasters and the moment he presented me with my own amp, ghost-free and humming with clean signal, I fell so completely for this man that the impact is still reverberating through my bones.
He’s learned me with the same obsessive precision he brings to circuit diagrams, and he knows exactly where to apply pressure, when to be gentle and when to be relentless. And, as he slides a finger inside me, the ease of it tells me exactly how wet I already am.
My recorded voice floats from the monitors behind me—the bridge approaching, guitars building—and there’s something surreal about it, my voice singing while my body shakes. And, as the troublesome snare enters the song, he adds in a second finger.
“Ben—I’m—”
“I know.” He doesn’t stop. “Let go.”
Let go.
For twenty-one years, I’ve held on. Held my ground. Held my armor together with sheer force of will because letting go meant trusting, and trusting meant getting hurt. But he’s not asking me to stop being those things. He’s asking me to trust that he’ll still be here.
The orgasm hits right as we belt into the chorus.
Every muscle goes rigid. The console groans under my grip. My thighs clamp around his head as I shatter against his mouth, the feeling so intense that for a moment I forget where I am—forget everything except the sensation and my own recorded voice smashing through the chorus.
He works me through it, his tongue and his fingers totally relentless, until I’m gasping and pushing at his shoulders because it’s too much. So then he gentles, slowing right down, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs as the aftershocks roll through me.
“Your snare frequency is fine,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to my stomach before rising.
I stare at him, as I begrudgingly admit the song is ready. “You’re really proud of yourself right now,” I say.
“Little bit.” He leans over me, one hand braced on the back of the chair, and kisses me. “But mostly I’m proud of you.”
“For what? Sitting still?”
“For everything.” His eyes are soft. “For the label. For the EP. For not burning down Dr. Atwood’s office, even though you had a plan.”
“Lighter fluid… a very specific playlist...” I grin. “The whole nine yards, which would have led to a prison sentence.”
“I know.” He tucks a strand of sweat-damp hair behind my ear. “But you found a better use for your time instead.”
I don’t know what to say. So I lean up and kiss him again, slower, trying to pour everything I can’t articulate into it.
Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for staying. Thank you for loving me.
He reaches past me and hits the ‘Save’ button on the console. “There,” he says. “Now it’s officially done.”
I laugh. “You’re a menace.”
He pulls me to my feet and his arms wrap around my waist. “Come on. I’ll buy you terrible diner food.”
“It’s a date.”