Page 13 of Second to None

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Marina del Rey,Thursday, August 14th

I didn’t want to be nervous. Unfortunately, my body hadn’t received the memo.

We dropped Emily off for surfing lessons she’d been nattering on about ever since catching a glimpse of some surfer adventure series, then made our way to the boat that Mason had rented for the day. Which…

“Yourenteda bloodyboat.”

“You said that already.” He sounded unperturbed.

“It’s worth repeating.” I stared at the hazy morning sky, the sun a smudged fingerprint of brightness on a light blue canvas. “Seriously, what onearthmade you think it’s a brilliant idea to have our first band reunion on a boat? As in, to have Cass and me meet again in a confined space like that? Wearing swimming trunks, most likely.”

“Like we said, we want to be seen, drum up some curiosity and excitement. What, worried you’ll combust at the sight of him down to his seaside best?” Mason’s voice held a teasing lilt. Zero sympathy, right this way.

“He’s still got a personal trainer. Meanwhile, I watch what I eat and go to the gym twice a week. It’s just not…” I fluttered a hand to convey the utter unfairness of having to face immediate evidence of how much our lives had diverged.

“You look fine, Levi,” Mason said as we pulled into the VIP section of the marina because some of us still qualified. A valet kid, no more than twenty and armed with a clipboard, directed us to park in front of a line of shiny cars. Yeah, I’d driven a Porsche once, too. Perfect car for a dad—if you ignored the fact that one stray juice box would have turned my beige leather seats into a Jackson Pollock.

“I don’t want to lookfine,” I told Mason. “I want to look… I want to look like I’ve got it together, I guess.”

Hell, so much for last night’s claim that this wasn’t about Cass.

Mason’s expression softened. “You do, man. Show me anyone who says differently and I’ll kick their ass.” He hopped out before I could think of a response, infuriatingly at ease as though we were just popping to the corner shop rather than embarking on a day cruise that might put my heart through the shredder all over again.

Here goes fucking nothing.

I pulled myself together and stepped out, inhaling the sharp scent of the sea tinged with a hint of fuel. At the pier, a stretch of luxury yachts gleamed like a line-up of well-polished egos on water.

The valet showed us to our boat—all sleek lines and opulence, like it had been built to accommodate the world’s flashiest midlife crises. I stopped for a second to take it all in. Jesus, this was happening.

“Nothing says ‘secret band reunion’ like chartering a yacht the size of a football pitch, huh?” I asked Mason as we approached.

“Worst case”—he shot me a grin—“you can always jump ship and swim for the shore.”

“Your empathy is astounding.”

He slung an arm around my shoulders and hugged me close, voice pitched to a more serious level. “Relax, okay? I’m sure he’s just as nervous as you are.”

As if.

Before I could say as much, a crew member in pristine white appeared to lead us on board, her practised smile holding a faint edge of recognition. She showed us to a cushioned lounge area where Ellis was already waiting. No sign of Cass yet.

Ellis jumped up as soon as he caught sight of me, his entire face lit by a massive smile that shaved off five years. “Levi! Fuck, it’s good to see you.”

It was. I’d last seen him in person at Jessica’s funeral, two years ago. We’d spoken, of course, but with a toddler at home, he hadn’t made it back to Europe since.

I drew him into a tight hug, tipping my chin onto his shoulder. He smelled almost the same—same cologne, same warmth, only it now mixed with just a hint of nappy cream. From behind us, Mason complained about how he deserved a similar welcome, Ellis countering that they’d seen each other just a week ago so Mason needed to shut his trap. “Cool boat, though.”

“Thanks,” Mason said, pleased as though he’d personally designed and assembled it.

After another squeeze of my arms around Ellis, I let him go. “Don’t encourage him. Next he’ll set us up with a private chef and caviar service.”

“Caviar is disgusting,” Mason said, which, no, had not been my point. Any remark of mine to that effect died when Cass and Jace ambled up the dock.

Oh God.Cass.

He hadn’t changed—not really. His hair might be a little longer, swept back like he’d just stepped off some bloody stadium stage to the applause of tens of thousands. Same smile, amused by whatever Jace had just told him, this lopsided thing that projected casual ease if you didn’t look too closely.

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