Page 1 of Rockstar's Fake Engagement

One

Nate

The lights flicker once before the arena explodes with sound. The bass drum pounds, reverberating through my chest as I take my place behind my drum set. The rush of adrenaline is instantaneous—a familiar, addictive burn. My pulse syncs with the rhythm, and my body knows exactly what to do before my mind even catches up.

The crowd roars. Thousands of fans, screaming, singing, and moving like one giant wave in the sea of pulsing lights. This is the moment I live for. The moment when nothing else exists—not the flashing cameras, the press junkies, or the fake smiles. Just the music.

I spin my sticks between my fingers, the worn wood like an extension of my own hands. Sam grins at me from across thestage, fingers flying over the strings of his bass. Luke’s already lost in his own world at the keyboard, eyes half-closed, mouthing along to the lyrics. Vince, ever intense, scowls at his guitar, his fingers a blur as they move over the strings. And Cass? He owns the stage—his voice raw, electric.

But me? I’m the heartbeat. The steady pulse that keeps it all together. I don’t need the spotlight. I don’t need to be out front. I just need the rhythm.

The set is a blur of sweat, power, and perfect chaos. When we crash into the final song—our biggest hit—I let loose. The drum solo is mine. Every strike is harder, sharper. My sticks blur, the rhythm flowing from me as naturally as breath. The crowd chants my name, but I don’t break focus.

I don’t play for them. I play because I have to.

The last cymbal hit crashes, and the stage goes dark. For a moment, silence. Then—deafening applause. The sound vibrates through my bones as we take our final encore. Cass slaps me on the back, and Vince punches my shoulder. The energy is electric, addictive—a high that can’t be replicated anywhere else.

We exit the stage and head straight for the green room.

Two hours later, I’m ready for a drink. The Wild Band avoids crowded afterparties when we can—too much noise, too many people, and way too many cameras. Instead, we take over a private bar in the hotel—a sleek, dimly lit lounge with plush seating and a fully stocked selection of top-shelf liquor.

I drop into the nearest corner booth, exhaling slowly as the post-show energy hums through my veins. The performance is over, but the rhythm is still in my head. My fingers drum against my thigh as I settle in.

Luke slides a glass of whiskey in front of me, winking before dropping onto the bench beside me.

Vince is already working his charm on a leggy blonde who’s hanging on his every word. Luke quickly begins to demolish a plate of sliders while his fiancée, Lila, watches with amused affection. Cass and Kendrick are huddled together in deep conversation, probably discussing the new song they’ve been working on. Sam’s got his arm around Emily, our manager, and both of them look through performance footage on her tablet.

Sam raises his beer. “Hell of a show.” He clinks his bottle against Cass’s glass of bourbon.

Cass nods, looking relaxed for once. “Crowd was wild tonight.”

“Like always.” Vince stretches his long legs out, tossing an arm over the blonde’s shoulders. “They come for the music, but they stay for the eye candy.” He grins. “Which, let’s be honest, is me.”

Sam snorts.

Vince smirks. “Can I help it if I’m the most adored?” He smiles down at his current lady friend.

Luke shoves a fry into his mouth. “You mean the most annoying.”

I shake my head, sipping my whiskey as the conversation flows around me. This is how it always is—Sam cracking jokes, his wife, Emily, keeping us all on track as our manager. Vince feeding his ego while he schmoozes a date, while Luke thinks about his next meal. It’s a good thing he’s marrying a chef. And Cass and Kendrick are grounding it all. I watch, taking it all in, letting their energy fill the space.

I don’t say much. I never do.

I like to watch. To observe.

People reveal everything in the way they move, the way they talk, and the way they pretend not to care. You just have to know how to listen.

A sudden noise outside the bar catches my attention. Voices rising. The unmistakable sound of camera shutters clicking at rapid speed.

I glance toward the entrance just as the doors swing open. A gust of cool air rushes in, along with a wave of flashing lights from the hallway beyond.

A group of hotel security pushes through the doorway, trying to block the view, but it’s already too late.

Phones come out, cameras flash, and eager whispers ripple through the crowd. Through the chaos, I catch a glimpse of a brilliant smile and raven hair. Something about her makes me lean forward, trying to get a better look, but the crowd shifts, and she’s gone. Someone nearby whispers, “Lacey Monroe,” but I’m already settling back into my corner, trying to ignore the strange pull I felt in that brief moment.

I take another sip of whiskey, running a hand through my dark hair as I return to my quiet observation of the room. But my thoughts keep drifting back to that smile, those few seconds when everything else seemed to fade away. I shake it off. I’m not the type to get caught up in celebrity drama.

Cass, beside me, follows my gaze. “Did you recognize her?”

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