Page 30 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Theo starts first, fingers dragging over the strings, every pluck sharp.

Ace joins next, his guitar growling through the speakers. I come in last, hitting hard, the crash of my drums rattling through my chest. It’s loud. Raw. Alive. The kind of sound that takes over your body and wipes everything else out.

We run it a few times, tightening the edges, tweaking the rough spots, and fuck, it sounds good.

Movement at the doorway catches my eye. Kit’s there, arms folded, eyes locked on us. Watching. Her presence shifts the room in that quiet, commanding way only she can.

Xander breaks first, striding over to talk to her, while Ace keeps us driving through the next set of chords. We hammer it out three more times before Ace and Theo finally unstrap their guitars and set them down in their usual spots.

“Hey, guys,” Kit says, stepping inside.

Theo doesn’t hesitate.

“Hey, Kitstar,” he grins, scooping her clean off the ground.

“Long time no see, short stack,” he says, spinning her once before setting her down. “Miss me, or just here to stop us idiots from burning the place down?”

Kit rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and Theo’s already backing off with that shit-eating grin, proud of himself.

It’s been two long fucking months. Long enough for Kit’s hair to grow out, no longer the sharp pixie cut she usually rocks with those bright pink highlights. Now it’s longer, softer. Pinker. Almost unfamiliar. But then she smiles, and there she is. Still Kit. Still ours.

We don’t say much as we drift out of the studio and into the break space Ace set up for when we’re not behind the mics or tangled in wires.

The fridge hums quietly in the corner, always stocked.

A round table sits in the center, cluttered with half-empty bottles and scraps of paper covered in lyrics and chord changes from whatever late-night session bled into morning.

In the corner, a beat-up old sofa slouches against the wall—the kind that’s soaked up too many hours of sleep, sweat, and silence from bodies too worn out to make it home.

Xander yanks open the fridge, pulls out a few waters, and tosses them around without a word. I catch mine, twist the cap, and take a long swig as we drop into our seats around the table.

Kit reaches for the folder on the table—the one she must have dropped there earlier.

She flips it open, pages spilling out, corners bent and worn.

Every inch is covered in scribbled notes, the kind of messy, frantic handwriting that only happens when your brain is racing and you’re trying to pin an idea down before it slips away.

“I know it looks like a lot,” Kit says. Her voice is steady, but there’s a flicker underneath, that spark she gets when her mind’s running a million miles an hour.

She glances at each of us, making sure we’re locked in. “I’ve been looking at the website. Our socials. Those ridiculous photos Theo made me post, the ones where he thought he was God’s gift in that leatherjacket.”

Theo grins. “I was.”

Kit ignores him. “Those posts got more comments, more interaction than anything else we’ve done. People want the music, sure, but what they really want is you guys, the real shit. The chaos behind the scenes. The moments in between the music.”

She spreads a few pages across the table. “So I’ve been thinking. We don’t just toss out updates or random posts. We build something that celebrates the band, something that reminds people why they fell for you in the first place.”

She pauses, then adds, “Forget the posters. They’re stiff. Polished. They don’t say anything.”

I lean in, curiosity sparking. “So what are you thinking?”

Kit grins, the kind that says she’s already thought this through. “We bring someone in. A photographer. Someone who can capture everything… rehearsals, writing sessions, the shit that happens in between.”

Silence hangs for a beat.

“You mean like a coffee table book or something?” Xander asks, tipping his chair back.

Ace shoots him a look like he just suggested we start a knitting club.

“What the fuck is a coffee book?”

Xander smirks. “Poppy did something like that at her academy. Put together a twenty-eight-page book for investors.”

Kit nods, eyes lighting up.

“I’m thinking bigger. Something that feels real, something people will want to keep. Not throwaway promo crap, but something that lasts. A way to give back to the fans.”

She spreads the printed pages across the table, the behind-the-scenes shots she posted, the ones that blew up online.

Late-night writing sessions. Theo passed out with his guitar still strapped on.

Me, hair sticking up like I’d been electrocuted.

Ace flipping someone off mid-solo. Xander locked in one of his hyper-focused moods. All the messy stuff. The real stuff.

“These weren’t just liked,” she says, tapping each photo. “They connected. Made people feel like they’re part of what we’re building.”

She looks up. “Picture it as a souvenir book. A way to bring them closer. Not as fans, but as part of the story. What do you say?”

We glance at each other and nod.

No hesitation.

We trust Kit. If she says this will work—if she believes it’ll help get us in front of more people—we don’t question it. It’s happening.

“I’m all in,” Xander says, looking at the rest of us.

I give a nod.

“Why not,” Theo says before turning to Ace. “Well, what about it, Hotshot. Want to show your sparkling personality to the world.”

Ace doesn’t even look at him, just flips him the finger.

“Fine,” he mutters.

“Perfect,” Kit says, flipping through her notes, eyes skimming fast. “I’ll see what I can do about getting a photographer in. They need to be here while you’re learning the new songs, catching all the behind-the-scenes chaos the fans eat up. But on short notice… it might be tricky.”

Theo kicks his feet up on the chair beside him, arms behind his head like the smug bastard he is.

“I might know someone,” he says.

Kit looks up, one eyebrow arched. “Of course you do. Who?”

Theo grins. “You do realize I’m a man of many connections.”

Ace snorts. “Yeah, mostly bartenders and groupies.”

Theo waves a hand. “Details. But this time, I actually know someone legit. She takes photos, owns a camera, knows where the shutter button is. What more do you want?”

Kit pinches the bridge of her nose. “Are they good, Theo?”

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s fucking rude,” he mutters, pulling out his phone. “Fine. I’ll call her. If she sucks, you can throw a drink in my face.”

“Deal.”

“Not beer, though,” he adds quickly. “That shit’s sacred. Aim for water. Or better yet, Xander’s green juice. That shit is just swamp water filtered through gym socks. I can’t believe people drink that shit.”

Kit watches him, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“If you call some random chick you hooked up with once who owns a Polaroid, I swear to God, Theo.”

Theo holds up a finger, cutting Kit off. “First of all, rude. Second, this person is legit.”

He taps his screen and lifts the phone to his ear.

We all hear it ringing, once, twice, then the sound of a voice. It’s a little muffled but clear enough for all of us to catch it.

“Hey, Theo,” Quinn says on the other end of the line.

The sound of her voice does something to me. It’s as if the air has become dense.

“What’s up, superstar?” he says, grinning. “Got a job for you, if you’re not too busy shooting moody black-and-white photos of sad trees or abandoned shoes or whatever the hell it is you do these days.”

There’s a pause, and then Quinn’s voice cuts through. “Funny. I was just editing a close-up of your ego.”

Theo barks out a laugh. “Still savage. I respect that.”

I grin, that firecracker mouth hitting me square in the chest. God, I miss this—the way Quinn fires back without blinking, quick as hell. I’d forgotten how good it feels.

Ace crosses his arms and raises a brow. “I like her already,” he mutters. “She can stay.”

Even Xander lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“So…” Theo says, drawing it out. “You got anything on over the next—” He pauses, eyes flicking to Kit, brows raised, waiting for the cue.

Kit sighs, rubbing her temple. “Two weeks.”

Theo nods, as if that’s exactly what he was about to say. “Right. Two weeks. You busy?”

Silence follows.

Then Quinn laughs. “Two weeks… Theo, that’s not a job. That’s a hostage situation?”

Theo grins. “A sexy one. With benefits.”

Kit groans. “I regret everything.”

Xander mutters, “I regret knowing him,” shaking his head, even though he’s grinning now.

Even Ace, who hasn’t cracked a smile since 2015, lets out a grunt that might actually be a laugh.

Before anyone can fire back, Theo shoves the phone toward Kit. “Here. Talk to her.”

Kit eyes the phone like he’s just handed her a live grenade. “If this is some girl you banged in a dressing room and only remembered now, I swear to God—”

“Relax,” Theo says, grinning all innocent. “Her name’s Quinn. Just take the call.”

Kit sighs, snatches the phone, and covers the mic with her hand. “If she asks for child support, I’m hanging up.” Then she turns away, pressing it to her ear. “Hey, Quinn. Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll give you the sane version.”

We watch as Kit starts pacing slow circles near the beat-up couch, phone pressed tight. She’s explaining everything properly now, walking Quinn through the details instead of Theo’s bullshit sales pitch.

Kit hangs up, strides back over, and drops the phone into Theo’s hand.

“She’s sending me her portfolio tonight. I’ll take a look and decide from there.” She narrows her eyes at him. “If this is some elaborate plan to get laid, Theo, do us all a favor and download a dating app.”

Theo flashes that cocky grin. “What, and miss out on you micromanaging my sex life? Where’s the fun in that?”

Kit groans.

Ace mutters something about needing earplugs for the whole tour.

I laugh, already knowing this is gonna be one hell of a ride.