Page 28 of One Last Encore

His jaw tightened as the memory played out in his head. The way Rodney had laughed it off, called Eden a ‘privileged little princess’ who ‘had it coming.’ The anger that had simmered in Beck’s veins. Not just with Rodney, but with himself for not stepping up sooner.

"I’d never sabotage someone, especially not Eden. She’s got more talent in her pinky than most of us could ever hope for, and she’s one of the kindest people I've met. She deserved that win, and the one before it."

The memory of Juilliard freshman orientation flashed through his mind. He had met Eden that summer, both of them standing awkwardly in a sea of strangers, feeling like impostersin a school filled with prodigies. Finding out they were both there on scholarships had made him feel less alone. There was an understanding of the hustle it took to be where they were.

Over the years, their paths had crossed naturally, late nights in bars filled with musicians, Battles of the Bands, run-ins at gigs. They weren’t exactly friends, but Beck couldn’t help but admire her. Eden wasn’t just insanely talented. She was tough, carving out her own spot in the music world while still being one of the nicest people he’d met in the music scene. He respected the hell out of her for that.

Ingrid nodded slowly, pressing her lips together, her gaze drifting like she was mulling over everything he’d just said.

"I’m sorry about Rodney," Beck added, rubbing the back of his neck. "If I’d known what he was planning, I would’ve stopped him. But I swear, I won’t let it happen again."

Silence settled between them, stretching a little too long. Beck wasn’t sure what he expected–maybe judgment, maybe anger. But Ingrid just gave a small nod, like she got it. Like she understood.

"Your brother’s the lead singer, right?" she asked, curiosity flickering in her voice.

"Yeah. He’s got the voice, no doubt. But he’s got a temper too. Kind of a walking disaster when he wants to be."

"He seems like a hothead," Ingrid said, her brows lifting. "I saw him nearly beat the crap out of your guitarist on stage after tripping over a cable."

Beck let out a humorless chuckle. "Yeah… that night sucked. He flies off the handle over the dumbest stuff, especially if he’s been drinking or using."

Ingrid nodded, her expression softening. "That has to be a lot, trying to keep him together on top of everything else."

"It is," Beck admitted, letting out a slow breath. "It’s complicated. I feel like I have to look out for him, but he makesit impossible. He’s the only family I have… around." His voice dipped on the last word, heavy with everything he didn’t say.

With his grandma gone and his mom locked up, things were messy. Rodney always felt like his responsibility, and some days, it weighed on him more than others. He hadn’t talked about all of this with anyone outside his inner circle before. His bandmates and best friends, Finn and Reef, knew everything. They’d been there for it all and had seen the worst of it firsthand.

But telling Ingrid felt different. Like finally letting air into a room that had been sealed off for too long. It didn’t make the weight disappear, but it loosened it, just a little.

"That’s really tough," Ingrid said softly. "I’m sorry you have to carry that." Then, before he could react, her fingers brushed against his hand, settling lightly against his wrist. Her painted soft pink nails barely grazed his skin, but the warmth of her touch sent a shiver up his arm.

Beck stiffened, caught off guard. He wasn’t used to comfort or softness. People touched him, sure, but it was always casual, fleeting, wrapped in something else. A punch to the arm. A slap on the back. A girl’s fingers curling around his wrist, holding on just long enough to pull him closer, to make sure he understood exactly what she wanted. Contact that never lingered, never meant anything.

That kind of touch, he knew how to handle. It came with a script, an expectation. It was easy. Her touch didn’t feel like that.

It wasn’t hesitant, but it wasn’t demanding either. It was just… there. Steady. Certain. And somehow, that made it worse. Because light as it was, it did something to him.

And maybe that was the strangest part. That with her, none of it felt strange at all. Talking to her was easy in a way it shouldn’t have been, like they’d skipped a few steps. Like he’d known her longer than he actually had.

And just like that, something shifted. Not a landslide, not a collapse, just a crack. A hairline fracture in the walls he’d spent years reinforcing. But it was there, and it was real.

His heart, long welded shut out of habit more than hope, gave a reluctant twitch like a fist unclenching after too long. Small. Barely there. But enough.

CHAPTER 9

INGRID. MID SEPTEMBER, FIVE YEARS AGO

The jazz club Beck brought her to was small and cramped. The kind of place where you had no choice but to get cozy with the people around you, whether you wanted to or not.

Every table was packed, the bar overflowing, bodies squeezed against the walls in tight clusters. Beck, of course, had somehow worked his magic and scored them a prime table near the stage. A great spot, except for one tiny impossible-to-ignore problem.

Their chairs were so close together they might as well have been sitting in each other’s laps. His arm kept brushing against her bare forearm, his toned leg knocking into hers under the table. And every accidental touch sent a jolt through her body like a malfunctioning toaster, frying her ability to think straight.

She braced herself every time he leaned in, determined to act unfazed, but her shoulders betrayed her, tensing as his breath ghosted against her ear. His cologne was clean, woodsy, with an aggravatingly attractive hint of something she couldn’t name. It lingered in the air between them, making it infinitely harder to ignore just how unfairly good he smelled.

A man should not smell this good. There should belaws.

Beck didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing to her. He was just existing. Casually leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping idly against his thigh, utterly oblivious to the full-blown internal meltdown she was having. Meanwhile, she was gripping her drink, every muscle in her body wound tighter than a violin string about to snap.

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