35. Try Me
Try Me
Rafe
Iwalk in through the revolving doors, still half-buzzing from what just happened outside.
Seven weeks of shows, interviews, sleepless nights and now it’s over.
The American leg done. Seven weeks of exhaustion and bliss and now the promise of home.
Six weeks of Seattle before we head to Europe. Six weeks with her.
The thought alone feels like a secret I can’t quite hide. I can still feel the warmth of her lips, the imprint of her hands on my shirt. I didn’t fix my hair; I didn’t bother to straighten anything she touched. Then I see them.
Ronan is leaning against a column, coffee in one hand, always early, always calm.
Kiri sits in an armchair, scrolling through his phone, the silent observer as usual.
Rithy leans against the wall beside reception, probably waiting for his uber to the airport, still looking like regret and a hangover rolled into one.
His head tilts when he sees me, the grin slides across his face slow as oil.
“Morning, sunshine,” he drawls, pulling his glasses down just enough to look me up and down, then dead in the eye. As I walk past, he drops his voice to a low murmur that cuts straight through the noise of the lobby.
“Rafe looks like he got his final fuck in. Thank god that little fling is over, her voice is grating. Don't be too sad, you'll replace her in Europe fast enough.”
Every sound in the room, rolling luggage, espresso machines, chatter, drops out. My body reacts before my brain does. One second I’m walking. Next, I turn on my heel, grab him by the collar, and slam him hard into the reception desk. Glass rattles. Someone gasps.
“What the fuck is actually wrong with you, Rithy?” I snarl, my face inches from his.
He just laughs, breath sour with last night’s whiskey, lips curling like he’s proud of himself. He loves this, lives for the crack in my composure.
“Rafe,” Ronan says abruptly, moving in, one hand raised. “Breathe. Don’t—”
Kiri is already between us, hands up, trying to wedge some air between our bodies.
“Both of you knock it off. What the hell is this?”
Rithy doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Don’t you see?
” he says, voice rising, turning toward the others.
“She’s got him wrapped around her god damn finger.
You’re her little pet, Obelus.” He spits the stage name like a curse.
“This is what matters. The band. Not you grinding out your fucking daddy issues inside a hole you won’t even remember next week. ”
Ronan’s voice cuts through, steady and controlled, the drumbeat to my chaos. “Don’t listen. He’s drunk on his own bullshit. Let it go.”
But I can’t let it go. The words hit harder because she’s not here to defend herself.
I promised—I promised I’d protect her from him.
My grip tightens. I can feel Rithy’s pulse jumping under my fingers.
For a moment, I actually think I might choke him.
Then Ronan steps closer, hand firm on my shoulder, grounding me.
“Rafe,” he says again. “Let him go.”
I loosen my hold, just enough to breathe. Just enough to back away.
Then I swing.
My fist connects with his face, solid and satisfying. The crack echoes. Rithy’s head snaps back against the reception desk, and blood immediately blooms under his nose, bright and fast. He laughs through it, actually laughs.
“Go ahead,” he spits, blood staining his teeth. “Use me. Get her out of your fucking system. Then get back to the music, to us.”
I shove him again, fury flashing white behind my eyes, but this time Ronan and Kiri both move fast. They grab us, separating flesh from rage, muscle from impulse. Kiri is shouting in Khmer, dragging Rithy toward the exit.
Ronan gets behind me, his arm locking across my chest, dragging me back until my feet scrape marble. “Calm the fuck down,” he hisses in my ear. “We’ve got an audience.”
It’s only then that I notice it, people everywhere.
Phones up. Hotel guests whispering, staff frozen behind the desk.
A half-circle of strangers recording our family falling apart in real time.
Ronan doesn’t let go until the elevator doors close behind us.
Inside the narrow space, I brace both hands against the wall, head down, chest heaving.
“Ronan, I didn’t mean to—”
He gives a rough laugh, shaking his head.
“Oh yeah, you did. It’s not like he didn’t deserve it.
He’s been asking for it all weekend.” He exhales hard, rubbing the back of his neck.
“But now we’ve got fallout. You know the drill.
We protect each other. Elise and Dawn are gonna want to spin this.
Just be ready to play your part.” The adrenaline’s wearing off, leaving the ache behind. I nod, jaw tight.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Ronan says, clapping a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. “Fuck is right.”
He keeps his hand there while the elevator climbs. I stare at my reflection in the brass panel, knuckles split, shirt wrinkled, pulse still pounding. All the calm I’d carried from her, gone.
But beneath the rage, under the guilt, something steadier remains. The memory of her voice, her promise, her “I’ll see you in Seattle.” And that, I know, is the only thing keeping me from breaking again.
Ronan ushers me into his room and slams the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
He tosses me a towel before I can sit. It’s nearly soaked before I take notice of just how much blood there is, mine and Rithy’s mixed together, impossible to separate.
Just like we used to be. The thought makes me nauseous.
A pang of guilt presses in, so I press my hand harder.
The noise from the lobby still buzzes inside my skull.
A second knock. Ronan opens the door and Kiri slips in, calm, quiet. He takes in the scene without a word: me on edge of the bed, the towel dripping red into a trash can, Ronan pacing. He sets a bucket of ice beside me.
“Front desk called Elise,” he says. “She’s on her way up. PR’s already spinning. There’s videos.”
“Of course there’s videos, from all angles,” Ronan mutters. “Every phone in Miami was filming.”
I press the ice to my hand and let the sting burn through.
Kiri folds into the armchair opposite, elbows on his knees. “How bad is it?”
“My hand?”
He shakes his head. “The fallout, you and Rithy. He’s pissed, wouldn't let me near him to help clean up. What the fuck was that, Rafe?”
The next knock lands like a gavel. Elise, our long-suffering tour manager, doesn’t wait for permission, she storms past Ronan, phone in one hand, folder in the other, her lanyard swinging like a weapon.
“Tell me you didn’t actually hit him and I’m trapped in some publicity nightmare,” she says.
Ronan raises a hand. “Oh, he hit him alright.”
She closes her eyes, exhales. “Okay. Damage control mode starts now.” She scrolls through her phone, then stops and flips her phone around. “The first uploads are coming in.” Blurry footage from a fan's Instagram plays, my fist connects, the sound alone makes my stomach turn.
“You’re lucky Rithy isn’t pressing charges,” she says. “Management’s panicking, sponsors are calling. This goes viral with a negative angle, Europe might be dicey.”
Kiri leans forward. “What’s the plan?”
“We’re drafting a joint statement,” she says.
“Heated disagreement between bandmates, creative tension after months on tour, yada yada. We’ll call it brotherhood, passion, and artistic process.
The usual bullshit. You’ll both apologize on camera.
Whatever was left of your anonymity is likely gone after this.
It’ll probably hit the news cycles, this is what we call highly-clickable content.
Don't be surprised if they approach your families for statements. ”
I don’t even argue. I just sit there, feeling the words settle like dust. I hadn’t thought about it when I did it, what it would cost. Our names were technically out there already; people figured it out if they cared enough to dig.
Some recognized me by the eyes, the voice, the scar on my eyebrow from an old piercing that got caught once.
But you had to look for it. You had to want to know.
Now you won’t have to. It’ll be everywhere, clips, captions, headlines cut to slow-motion frames of a punch that wasn’t supposed to happen.
Whatever veil we had left is gone. My parent’s number will probably be in a journalist’s call log before morning.
I exhale, slow. My actions opened a door I can’t close again.
It feels like losing something I’d been trying to protect for years, without realizing how much it mattered until it was already gone.
Ronan groans. “Rithy’s going to love that.”
Another knock. Rithy walks in, an ice pack pressed to his face, tissues shoved up his already-bruising nose, smirk in place like armor. He looks like both the wound and the weapon.
“Well,” he says, voice rough but bright, “family meeting? Adorable.”
I stand before I can stop myself. Ronan’s hand catches my shoulder. “Don’t.”
Elise gestures to the seat across from me. “Sit, Rithy. We’re fixing this.”
He drops into the armchair across from Kiri, still smiling. “By all means.”
A voice cuts in from Elise’s phone speaker—Dawn, PR in New York, all purpose and polish. “Gentlemen. Keep this simple. No blame, no drama, no third parties. Two artists, one misunderstanding. That’s the narrative.”
Rithy tilts his head. “So no mention of why Rafe went all pitbull?”
The gleam in his eyes when he glances at me makes my jaw lock.
I lean forward. “You bring her name into this, and I walk.”
Dawn sighs through the phone. “Rafe—”
“I’m not negotiating. You want your apology, you’ll get it. But if a single headline ties her to this, I’m out.”
Rithy laughs under his breath. “Still playing her white knight. Cute.”
“No,” I say, voice flat. “Just being professional, something I guess you forgot how to be.”
Elise steps between us. “Enough. Rithy, shut it. Rafe, sit.”
I slam back onto the bed. He shrugs, pressing the ice harder to his nose. “Fine. Wouldn’t want the good doctor’s name dragged through my beautiful blood, right?”
I shift forward again, but Kiri’s already on his feet, silent and immovable. He stares until Rithy’s smile falters.
Elise exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose, while Dawn lays out the game plan with practiced PR precision.
“Here’s what happens. Go to your corners, clean up and meet back in an hour.
You film a thirty-second video. No veils for sincerity points, smiles on.
Exhaustion, long tours, too much passion is the script.
You hug it out. We flood the brotherhood angle.
No interviews, no livestreams. Both of you are grounded.
That means no leaving, no airports, no photo ops, and you’re off all socials for seventy-two hours.
The less we give it the quicker it dies. Clear?”
Silence.
“Clear?” she repeats.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Crystal,” Rithy adds.
“Good.” Elise clicks the end call button and makes it halfway out the door before her phone is already ringing. Ronan follows to stop her from killing whoever’s next. Kiri stays, our silent sentinel.
Rithy watches me from across the room, ice melting through his fingers. “You think you’re protecting her,” he says. “But secrets always sell better later. You’ve just given the story teeth.”
I rise slowly. “Then pray it never leaks. Because if it does, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who started it.”
His grin twitches, fear and defiance threaded together. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”