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He sighed. “If we do get that deal, though, everything else will be different.”

“Hopefully. That’s a good thing. This is what we’ve worked the past six years for.”

“I know, but it’s weird. Now that it might happen, I’m really fucking scared.”

“It’s not weird at all. But we’ll have each other’s backs. No matter what.”

Ronin gripped my hand tighter, holding it over his chest. His heart was racing as fast as mine.

There was no point in trying to sleep. I pulled my hand away, rolled over and turned on the lamp and then the TV.

“Movie?” I offered.

“Anything to distract me from the thought of this meeting tomorrow,” Ronin agreed as he sat up.

“Anything?” I teased as I turned up the volume.

“Shut up, I can’t hear the show.”

CHAPTER 8

RONIN

AGE 25

Everything changed for us within a year. We signed that record deal, and ten months later, I was still in shock about the 180 in our lives.

We went from doing everything ourselves—booking our shows, hauling our gear, working on our demos—to having a full-time manager, a recording studio, and a road crew to set up our concerts. Which meant more time to play, rehearse, write songs (Brodie), and party.

And fuck, did we party.

Suddenly there were press events and invites hosted by the biggest names in music. And we were the ones that music journalists were clamouring to talk to. People stopped us for selfies and autographs everywhere we went. It was crazy, heady, and everything we’d ever dreamed of.

Our first album was set to release and we were finishing up a cross-country junket to promote it, ending up tonight in LA, at a party hosted by our record label. Or rather, at a mansion somewhere in the Hollywood hills. And we were accompanied by Ivan Cross—Van—our manager. After Bandit Music signed us to a five-year deal, Van was assigned to look after us. Basically, to run things and deal with our rockstar antics. We lucked out. Our manager was a rarity in our business: he was trustworthy, and he knew his shit. Van played too, which was important. He understood not just the business, but the creative drive behind our music.

“Now remember, there’s no formal press at this thing, and NDAs all around,” Van started. “Still, watch what you say.”

Van turned to look directly at Brodie and our lead singer rolled his eyes.

“Don’t bother with the lecture, Van. You know that I say what I want, when I want, and nothing, not a record contract or a warning from Greg, is going to change that.”

Van leaned forward and tapped Brodie’s knee. “Just try not to piss anyone off this time, okay? Our PR team can only handle so many issues at once.”

“I can’t help it if people don’t like to hear the truth. And you know that reporter in New York was being an asshole. He called us overhyped. You think I’m not gonna respond to that?” Brodie snapped and gripped Van’s wrist in turn. “Stop worrying. I know what I’m doing.”

He did. Brodie was snarky but that’s what made him memorable. And quotable. He’d already gone viral for his sarcastic comments about the corporate side of the music biz, not to mention his biting responses to questions about our talent and criticism about his uninhibited performance style. He was also quick to fight when trolls hated on us for being openly queer. Brodie was never going to hold back and that’s why he was loved. By us, and the fans.

Van nodded and pulled his hand back, running it through his thick brown hair. The guy was forty and had hardly any grey hair to speak of, but I had a feeling that was about to change thanks to managing Brodie. And his runaway mouth.

Unlike Faise, who was all but silent on the ride over here. Probably nerves. We’d landed in LA and driven straight from the airport, no time to decompress, AKA drink or get high. Okay, we had champagne, but we needed real liquor. And maybe a spliff to relax.

I looked over at Faise’s profile, something I never got tired of studying. He was dressed in tight, bootcut jeans, and a white linen shirt that was open to his waist, all his golden skin on display, along with his nipple rings. Then I glanced up at his face, his black hair tousled, falling into his eyes. I didn’t miss the clenched jaw, and the way he bit his lower lip. He was nervous for sure.

When Faise turned to me, I saw the worry in his amber eyes. They were always so expressive. The part of him he couldn’t ever hide.

“Are those real?” I whispered.

“Are what real?” he asked.

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