Page 19

Chapter Nineteen

Xavier

" S o, here's the deal…" Cam props himself on the railing, his chiseled features half-obscured by the dark silhouettes thrown from the towering streetlights that line the docks. "Our band's breaking up."

"What? But you guys are insane." I shake my head. "Your original stuff is… It's sick, man."

"Yeah, well, creative differences." He shrugs. "Plus some other drama I won't bore you with. But Tyler—our drummer—and I want to keep playing together. And Liam Kilberg's probably gonna join us on bass."

Cam's fingers tap a rhythm against his water bottle now, the cold turning his knuckles red. "Thing is, we need a lead singer. Someone who can also handle guitar. And word is, you're pretty damn good at both."

I freeze. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Maggie mentioned it." He catches my expression and adds, "Said she heard you playing at your place. Something you wrote yourself."

Heat creeps up my neck despite the cold. That night in the Observatory, I thought I was alone.

Still, this is… good. What Maggie said—what she did, telling Cam I have a good voice and that I'm talented—it's more than a little flattering. And really kind, especially after the way I've been treating her. I'm sort of stunned.

"Look," Cam continues, "no pressure. But we're getting together on Sunday to jam. Nothing serious, just feeling things out. You should come."

My mind races. Playing with other musicians, creating something real… it's different than just kicking back and messing around alone in the Observatory. Mo re exposed. More raw. Unfamiliar and daunting in a way that seems like it would feel like walking a tightrope with no net, and the whole world watching

"I don't know, man." I shift, lifting my arm to rub the muscle along the back of my neck.

"Just think about it." Cam pulls out his phone. "What's your cell? I'll text you my number and you can text me later if you want details."

I give him my number and a second later, my phone buzzes with his text. "Cool…" I pocket my cell. "And look, I'm really flattered you're even asking me. Not sure I'm as good as Maggie made me out to be, though… I might be total shit."

"I doubt that." He thinks I'm joking.He takes another swig of water. "Anyway, no pressure. Worst-case scenario, it's a chill afternoon jamming with a couple of halfway decent guys. Best-case scenario, we gel and create something awesome."

Worst-case scenario, I make a total ass of myself.

"We go on to live the rockstar lifestyle," Cam continues, shrugging. "Trash hotel rooms, wear mesh tank tops. You know—live the rockstar dream."

"Always wanted to wear a mesh tank top."

Cam laughs. "Well, I'm here to make all your rockstar dreams come true." He glances over his shoulder. "Okay, I should head back in there… The guys are probably wondering where I took off to."

"Sounds good." I follow him back towards the glowing lights of the old warehouse. "And seriously, man—I appreciate you reaching out."

"No problem." He pulls the door open. "Hopefully in a couple years' time we'll be trashing hotel rooms together."

"Don't forget the mesh tank tops. You promised there'd be bad eighties rocker threads."

"We'll get the leather pants to match," he jokes, as we step into the warmth. "Go big or go home."

I weave through the crowd back to our table to find that the group's expanded—Silas is slouching next to Jackie, arm draped around her shoulders, and the blond surfer guy is here too, talking to Seb.

And then Maggie. Perched on the edge of her seat, eyes fixed on the stage as the band prepares to start their second set.

"Xave!" Jackie jumps to her feet and throws her arms around me. "Everyone thought you left."

"Just getting some air." I hug her. "Good to see you, Jax."

The spot I had earlier between Seb and Dylan is taken, so I slide onto an empty chair across from Maggie. The band launches into a cover of an Arctic Monkeys song, and everyone's attention shifts to the stage. Everyone except me.

I can't stop watching her.

She's bobbing her head to the music, completely lost in it. No pretense, no calculated moves—just genuine happiness. A long-shot from the scheming, gold-digger persona my brain's been trying to carve her into. This girl who somehow went out of her way to talk me up to Cam. Called my music good enough that he'd want me in his band—after I've been a Grade A asshole to her for the past month.

She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. I quickly look away, focusing on the band. But my thoughts keep circling back. What's her angle? There's got to be one. Like maybe she's trying to get me out of the house more, so I don't keep interfering with the routines she's set up for Finn. Throw less parties. Stay out of her hair.

But then I see her air-drumming along with Tyler's solo, this little half-smile on her face, completely unselfconscious. And I realize the scheming and plotting angle is not in line with the girl I'm seeing tonight.

Shit, maybe there is no angle.

Maybe she just… heard something she liked and told someone about it.

It's a thought I'm not sure what to do with. Throws me totally off balance, because it's foreign and honestly really intimidating.

"Hey, man, I'm Liam." The blond surfer guy stretches across the table, hand extended. His grip is solid, calloused from what I'm guessing are hours of holding surf boards and bass guitars.

"Bass player, right?"

His eyebrows lift slightly as we shake hands. "Yeah. You must've been talking to Cam."

"Just now, yeah." Then I add, "Xavier, by the way."

"Rockwell, I know." The music's thumping through the floorboards, so he leans in closer. "Maggie says you've got some pipes. Hope you come out and jam Sunday."

I find myself nodding. "Yeah, maybe I will."

The band launches into Last Nite by The Strokes, and suddenly I'm not just hearing the music—I'm dissecting it. Breaking down how Cam's guitar weaves with Tyler's drums, the way the bass line holds it all together. My fingers twitch, already mapping out the chord progressions.

But then I imagine myself up there, in front of all these people, and my stomach does a slow roll. Music has always been a private thing for me, up in the dusty Observatory where no one can see me fumble through new songs or working out lyrics that probably suck three-quarters of the time.

Seb catches my eye from across the table, grinning as he drums his fingers against Caroline's curl-covered head. He'd probably lose his mind if he knew I was considering this. He's been trying to get me to play for people since he caught me with my guitar sophomore year.

The thing is, watching these guys on stage, there's this… energy. This back-and-forth between them that makes the music feel alive. Different from playing alone in an empty room at the top of a tower like freaking Rapunzel. I can't help thinking how incredible it would feel to be part of something like that.

Fuck me. I don't know.

I watch Maggie slide off her chair and weave through the crowd toward the order counter. After a minute, I follow.

She's pulling cash from her wallet when I reach over her shoulder, and hand my card to the cashier. "I got it."

"I can buy my—"

"Consider it a thank you."

She grabs her Coke and I'm relieved when I see she's followed me to a spot against the back wall where the music isn't as bone-crushingly loud, confusion written across her face. A neon coffee cup sign above us casts weird shadows, making her hair look more lavender than pink.

"So, Cam just asked to talk to me outside." I lean against the wall, hands in my pockets.

Maggie's eyes widen. "He did? Oh, that's awesome. His band is breaking up and—"

"Yeah, I know." I cut her off, running a hand through my hair. "Look, I wanted to thank you. For recommending me to him. Especially after…" I swallow hard, force myself to meet her eyes. "Especially after how I've treated you since you moved in. You didn't have to do that."

She takes a sip of her Coke, studying me over the rim. "No, I didn't."

"So why did you?"

"Because you're good." She shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. "I heard you singing that night in the Observatory. Talent shouldn't go to waste just because the person who has it is a real dick sometimes."

I chuckle, tapping my thumbs to the beat even though my hands are in my pockets. My gaze drops to my beat-up Vans. "Anyway, it was really… decent of you. So, thanks."

She takes another sip of Coke, and for once, there's no sharp comeback, no biting remark. Just a small nod.

There's a part of me that wants to tell her I've been thinking about her words from the Observatory last week about Finn. That I acted on them tonight and it backfired… and my gut is twisted in knots because I'm pretty sure my brother hates me now. Curious what she has to say about that—which makes no sense, because I shouldn't care what she has to say about a rift she created.

Suddenly, a crash by the washrooms snaps my attention away from Maggie.

"What in the fuck, dude!" Some college guy staggers back against the wall by the washrooms a few feet away, blood streaming between his fingers where he's clutching his nose. "Fucking psycho!" he screams.

My stomach drops when I spot Dylan, fists clenched and bloodied, chest heaving.

"That your only talent?" the guy's friend sneers. "Your fake daddy taught you how to throw a punch before they locked him up?" He arches a taunting eyebrow. "Or did he teach you how to chop up bodies, too… bury them in the backyard?"

Dylan's whole body goes rigid. Before anyone can react, he launches forward and slams his fist intothat guy's jaw too, with a sickening crack!

The guy stumbles but comes back swinging. His bloody-nosed friend jumps back in, grabbing Dylan from behind. "Guess you can take the boy out of the psycho’s lair, but you can’t take the psycho out of the boy," he snarls, restraining Dylan’s arms so the other guy can lay into him.

Something in me snaps. I'm across the room in three strides, driving my fist into bloody-nose's face. The impact jars up my arm but his grip on Dylan loosens. Blood roars in my ears. Everything narrows down to fists and bodies and the need to keep these guys off Dylan.

A fist cracks across my jaw, snapping my head sideways. I stagger, catching myself against the wall. Before I can get my bearings, another punch slams into my ribs. Pain explodes through my chest. My ears ring, vision blurring at the edges.

Instinct takes over. I launch forward, driving my shoulder into the guy's chest. We crash into the wall.

"Hey! Hey— break it up!" The manager's voice cuts through the chaos as he pushes between us. "This isn't some roadhouse bar!" His face is red, veins popping on his neck.

The asshole who decked me straightens, and I drag my sleeve across my mouth, wiping away a smear of blood, my knuckles still curling. The guy's friend keeps his distance but fixes Dylan with a cold smirk.

"At least I didn't learn my moves from a serial killer," he slurs under his breath .

Dylan's face goes blank—a dangerous emptiness I haven't seen on him before. He rips free from the other guy's grip and hurls himself at the smirking asshole with inhuman speed. They crash into a table, sending drinks flying. The impact knocks them both to the ground in a tangle of fists and limbs.

I lunge forward to help but freeze when I catch sight of Dylan's face. His eyes are dead, emotionless, like he's somewhere else entirely. His fists keep pounding down mechanically, methodically.

"Dylan!" I shout, but he doesn't seem to hear me. His fist rises and falls, rises and falls.

Seb materializes next to me, with Silas on his heels. We grab Dylan's arms while the manager wraps around his torso. Even with four of us, Dylan's strength is insane—pure adrenaline and rage driving him to keep fighting.

"Get him off!" The manager's face is dripping with sweat from the exertion.

We drag Dylan back, his shoes scraping against the floor. He thrashes against our grip, muscles coiled tight as steel cables. His breath comes in sharp pants, like a cornered animal.

Scarlett pushes through the crowd that's formed around us. "Dylan. Hey… please… Please stop." She reaches for him, but I shake my head—he's too far gone right now.

"Breathe," she pleads, trying to catch his wild eyes. "You need to breathe. Those guys are not worth it."

Dylan jerks forward again, nearly breaking free. His face is blank but his body vibrates with barely contained violence. We tighten our grip, aware that any slack in our hold means he'll lunge straight for those assholes again.

Suddenly, the main doors burst open with a bang. Three uniformed officers stride in, hands on their belts. The crowd parts instantly.

Shiiiiit.

"Everyone stay where you are!" one officer barks, surveying the scene—the overturned table, shattered glass, the guy on the floor with blood running down his temple, my battered face… and four of us struggling to contain Dylan.

It goes without saying that bar fights are not something we get a lot of in Sandy Haven. More like a heated argument over the last gluten-free scone at The Jumpin’ Bean, or a passive-aggressive note left on someone's Porsche windshield.

"Alright," the officer says, voice cutting through the chaos. "Anyone who threw a punch, you're coming down to the station. The rest of you—we'll need statements. And someone better have footage of how this started."

A dozen phones thrust forward, screens displaying different angles of the fight. The officer nods to his partners. "Get these boys separated and in cars." His radio crackles as his eyes sweep over the battered crew of brawlers.

His hard stare lingers on Dylan, recognition flickering across his weathered face. Dylan's shoulders tense under the scrutiny, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. The fight is finally draining from his body, but it's left something worse—a thousand-yard stare that makes him look broken and empty and utterly closed off.

The sharp tang of blood coats my tongue as I drag it along the inside of my cheek, and my ribs throb where that asshole caught me with a solid hit. But the pain barely registers through the ice in my veins as I watch the officer's expression shift.

He knows who Dylan is. Like I said—everyone does. The Maytag Killer media circus was the biggest thing to hit Sandy Haven since they opened a Pottery Barn in the mall off the highway. But then, I guess everyone knows who I am, too. The Rockwell name isn’t just known—it’s a currency around here that buys you attention whether you want it or not.

The officer confirms exactly that when he rumbles, "The Maytag Kid…" His attention swings to me next, eyes squinted into something like confusion. "And a Rockwell…" He shakes his head slowly. "Well, this should be interesting."