Chapter 1
The Tellers

 

Liam 

 

Manchester, UK, 2014 

The Tell-Tale Pub in Manchester smelled like spilt beer, fried food, and worn-in wood—comforting in the way a second home should be. We’d played here a dozen times before, but tonight had that edge to it. That pulse. Like something was about to shift and it did. I didn’t know it yet, but that night was the first step toward blowing my whole bloody life to pieces.

I stood center stage, my guitar resting heavy and familiar on my shoulder as I strummed out the final chord of the set. My voice was still echoing when the applause from the punters rolled in. Modest crowd, sure—but it felt big in all the right ways. And front and center, Shay clapped the loudest, her smile wide and bright, just like the first time I saw her. Two years in, and she still looked at me like I was the only one on stage.

I glanced over at Dan—my younger brother, all swagger and sweat, bass slung low. He shot me a look, riding the post-show high one he always gave when he was ready to start stirring the pot. Max, behind the kit, was grinning like a maniac, twirling a stick before catching it spot on, earning a few cheers from the back of the room. That was our rhythm. Me, Dan, Max. Three idiots chasing a sound we’d been trying to perfect since we were teenagers.

Dan and I grew up with guitars in our hands, thanks to Ron. He wasn’t our biological dad—he was the man who stepped in when our father stepped out. Ron taught me my first chord, taught Dan that a good bass line wasn’t about flash, but about feel. He was our anchor. And more than that—he was music.

Max? He came to us through Ron’s best friend and old bandmate, Wes Williams, which made him our cousin by proxy—but really, he was just our other brother. We’d been playing together for so long it wasn’t just practice anymore. It was muscle memory.

After our set we packed up and joined Shay and Ali—Max’s girlfriend—at our corner table. Shay leaned into me, her perfume mixing with sweat and smoke. Her touch was grounding in that familiar way that having your people around you always is. It felt good.

After the show, the headliners were packing up their gear and Dan’s eyes kept flicking toward the bar where they were hanging out, guitars slung, beers in hand.

“Think we should chat ’em up?” Dan asked, leaning in with that familiar spark in his eye.

Max shrugged, his arm slung around Ali. “We could. Worst they can do is tell us to do one.”

I turned to Shay with a grin. “Reckon we should go charm them with our gritty northern wit?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just don’t start lecturing them about chord structures and pedal configurations. Try being interesting—for once.”

“Bit harsh, love,” I said, clutching my chest in mock pain.

She laughed—that sweet, infectious sound—and I stood, determined to prove her wrong.

“Let’s go pretend we’re cooler than we are, lads.” I tugged Max and Dan to their feet and headed over.

The lead singer—worn leather jacket, beard that looked older than the rest of him—clocked us straight away. His grin was sharp, eyes sharper, as he clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“Great set, lads. You’ve got something. Bit raw, bit rough—but that’s half the charm.”

“Appreciate it,” I said, aiming for casual.

“Humble too,” the lead guitarist added with a smirk.

“Manchester’s a solid scene,” the singer said.

Dan jumped in before I could answer. “Yeah, but it’s small time. We want more than solid. We want glory.”

“Do we?” Max muttered under his breath.

Dan shot him a look like he’d just spat in church.

The guy chuckled. “That’s how we felt about London. So we’re heading to California. In America, Brits are exotic or some shit.”

Weirdly… it made sense.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Definitely. Better chance of getting noticed. Manchester’s a bit of a bubble. London too. Once you’ve got some real experience, jump the pond. Look us up.”

“Hustle hard ‘til then,” the guitarist added.

“Hey, we bleed for the edge—the sound,” Dan said, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Yeah, but it’s gotta be yours,” the singer said. “Something no one else can touch.”

“Even if you jump the pond,” I pointed out, “there’s no guarantee anyone who matters sees it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if they do? They make you.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “We’re happy with our pub gigs. Not dying to hang in dodgy green rooms.”

“No, we’re not,” Dan shot back. “We want the big time.”

The guy laughed. “Then it’s L.A.—sleeping in vans, playing for five punters in a dive…until one of them changes your life.”

“That’s the kind of grind I can get behind,” I said.

“There’s nothing like it.”

“There isn’t.”

He looked at me for a beat too long. “You’ve got it, you know. That thing frontmen have—the kind that makes people stop and listen.”

I wanted to believe him. But it took more than something. We all knew that.

“I mean it,” he pressed. “You could be something.”

Dan grinned. “We don’t want to be something. We wanna be rock legends.”

“Then take the risks. Make the leaps. Test your fucking mettle.”

I shook his hand. “Thanks, mate.”

“Good luck out there.”

“You too. Hopefully we’ll see you tearing up L.A.”

We turned back toward our table, his words still echoing in my head.

Shay studied my face the moment I sat down. “I know that look on you.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “They’re going to the States. He reckons we should too—eventually. Says that’s where the real big shots are. The ones you want to hear you.”

Her smile faltered, just for a second — enough to tell me she’d already played this what-if through in her head, and didn’t like where it went. “The States, huh? You’re joking? Manchester’s got a great scene.”

“Relax, Shay. It’s just talk for now.” I kissed her temple. “We’re not legging it tomorrow. We’ve got what we need right here.”

Max had Ali tucked under his arm, grinning. “Exactly. We’ve got lives here. Family. Girls. Gigs. Hard to walk away from all that.”

Dan leaned forward, eyes still wild with the idea. “But he’s right. The big leagues are out there, just waiting for us to grow a pair and turn up? Hustle hard. Carve out our space in it all.”

He wasn’t wrong. I’d been feeling it too—like we were circling something bigger, just waiting to break through. I’d done the degree thing, just in case, kept the idea of teaching tucked in my back pocket to keep Mum off my back. But every time I stepped on stage, I knew—this was the life I wanted. Even if it scared the hell out of me.

“Maybe someday,” I said, looking between them both. 

Dan slumped back a bit, but he nodded. “Fair enough. But I’m holding you to that someday, brother.”

I clinked my glass against his. “I’ve no doubt.”

—

Later that week, the kitchen at Mum’s smelled like fresh tea and roast potatoes. The kind of comfort that could make you forget the world for a while. I stepped inside and called, “Alright, Mum?”

Dan was upstairs causing chaos, as usual.

Mum pulled me into a hug, warm and grounding. “Always lovely to see you, dearest. You off to a gig?”

“Yeah, The Black Horse. Should be a decent crowd.”

She handed me a cuppa, worry sneaking into her eyes like it always did. “I just wish you’d consider something more stable. You’ve got your degree. You’d make a brilliant teacher.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Mum, I did uni for you. But this?” I held up my guitar case. “This is for me.”

Ron walked in just then, smiling and settling at the table. “Let them have a go, love. If it doesn’t work out, they’ll land on their feet.”

Dan chose that moment to barrel down the stairs, bass slung over one shoulder and no regard for indoor volume. “Who’s falling? Not me. We’ve got a gig to smash.”

Mum sighed, but there was love behind it. “Just think about a backup plan, will you?”

Dan grinned. “No need for a backup, Mum. This is the plan.”

I squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll be alright. And if it all goes sideways, maybe then I’ll consider that teaching job.”

Ron chuckled. “Told you, Carol. You raised a couple of stubborn dreamers.”

She shook her head. “Impossible, the both of you.”

Dan was already out the door. I followed, the night cool and electric with anticipation.

“So,” he said, practically bouncing. “Ready to blow the roof off tonight?”

I smirked, slinging my guitar into the back of the van. “Absolutely. Let’s give them a proper show.”

We got in the car and Dan looked over at me, serious. His brows knit together like something was about to come down.

“What?” I asked, smirking. “You look like Gran just died.”

“Don’t joke about that,” he said, deadpan. “Gran’s a battle axe. She’ll outlive us both.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out an old issue of Rolling Stone—one he’d carried around since we were teenagers. Ron gave it to him, and he treated it like the bloody holy bible. It was dog-eared, folded in half, pages barely clinging to the spine. He handed it to me, open to a feature about some band that moved from the UK to the States and made it big.

“Dan…”

“Liam.”

“We can’t just move to the bloody States, right now. We have no money. I barely finished uni, and I’ve got a pile of debt.”

“When Gran dies, you’ll be able to pay it off,” he said casually.

“I thought she was going to outlive us?”

Dan shook his head and mouthed, No.

“Look, we’re making decent quid playing,” I countered.

“We’re making quid,” he corrected, “but it pays for equipment and rent. That’s it.”

“My living expenses?”

“Exactly. You should be living with Mum and Ron like I am. Saving. You and Shay in that flat—it’s a bloody fortune, mate. Max is in the same boat.”

“He shares a flat with Ali, Michael, and James. Our cousins. Our oldest mates. Our biggest fans.”

“Does that make it cheaper?” he muttered.

“Yes. So you think I need to get more roomies, then?” 

“Whatever it takes to save some pounds, bruv. Then we skip across the pond.”

I ran a hand through my hair and let out a sharp breath.

It’s not that I didn’t want to go—it’s that we needed a timeline. Time to work out the logistics: where we’d stay, how we’d handle visas, all of it. At the minute, it felt overwhelming.

We just needed time. That was all I could think.

“We’re doing this, Liam. We can’t stay in Manchester forever.”

“We should own Manchester first before we try for the States.”

“No. Manchester’s not the scene—it’s not L.A., not Nashville, not New York. You know it.”

He pressed on.

“If we stay here, we’ll turn into a bunch of old guys with steady gigs and piles of kids, playing pubs on the weekends and driving our wives mad.”

I cleared my throat, considering it. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. But there was another part of me—the part that lit up every time I stepped on stage and hit the crowd with a gritty riff that had them screaming for more—that railed against it. That side of me screamed: No. Absolutely fucking not. I couldn’t let that part of who I was fade into obscurity.

“You don’t want to be Ron and Uncle Wes, then?”

“Exactly,” he said. “I love them—but I don’t want to become them.”

He leaned in, voice low with conviction. “This is the dream, Liam. I’d rather crash and burn chasing it than stay here, comfortable, and wonder forever what could’ve been.”

“And if we make a bloody mess of it?”

“Then we come home, work some blue-collar job, and drink ourselves stupid at the pub every Friday night. At least we’ll have some great stories to tell.”

I exhaled. “You already know what I am about to say, our kid.” 

He groaned. “You’re so bloody stubborn, Liam. Proper does my head in.”

“Aye, and you’re pure chaos. Keeps us even.”

“No one wants even, mate. They want carnage. Fire. Mayhem.” He grinned. “I’ll drag you over that ocean, just you watch.”

“We’ll see. But right now, we’ve got a gig, and we’re late. So shift.”

“Rockstars are never bloody on time,” he said. “You keep ’em waiting — makes ’em grateful for the greatness.”

“Dan, when you can stay on beat, then you can bang on about greatness.”

“Greatness is all about the show—the vibe,” he said with a laugh. “The timing will sort itself out… eventually.”

Truer words. 

I had to trust that it would.

​​

​

​

Chapter 2
The Hartgrave Sister 

 

Emma

​



 

White Plains, Westchester County, New York State, 2014

I shoved the last of my stuff into a battered old backpack, breath hitching as I scanned the room one last time. My heart pounded—part thrill, part dread. I was actually doing it. Leaving. No more Evelyn. No more rules. No more measuring myself against expectations I never agreed to.

I slung the bag over my shoulder, pulled out my phone, and snapped a quick selfie. My face, a little wild-eyed, framed by the chaos of my room—unmade bed, laundry mountain, guitar case in the corner. I wanted to remember this. The before.

Then Susie appeared in the doorway. Her expression was a mix of confusion, curiosity, and something that tugged straight at my chest—concern.

“Where are you going?” she signed, glancing between me and the open window like she already knew.

I forced a grin, tried to make it look easy. “Out. Gone. I’m not sticking around, Susie Q.”

Her brows pinched. “Is this about the fight with Mom the other night?”

I let out a breathy laugh. “More or less. She lost it over me letting you play in bars with me. Which, yeah—fair. You’re fifteen. It was a bad call, I knew it, but… we were killing it. You were amazing.”

She rolled her eyes, chin high. “Yeah, because we’re good. Really good.”

My heart squeezed. Pride. Guilt. Too many feelings, all knotted together. “Yeah, we are. But we were also reckless. And she’s never gonna let that happen again.”

I gestured toward the bag on my shoulder, the weight of it suddenly feeling like freedom and regret all at once.

“So that’s it? You’re just leaving?”

I couldn’t meet her eyes. I stepped closer to the window, looking down at the garden where my ride waited—a guy I barely knew from the gig the other night. Motorcycle. Leather jacket. Vague promise of a crash spot in the city.

“I’m going to live in the city. Try and make something happen. And if you ever want out… come find me, okay? Just don’t let Evelyn turn you into some pianist prodigy who has a mental breakdown by nineteen and can never play again. You’ve got more in you than that.”

Susie’s arms dropped to her sides. Her face fell. “Who are you even going with?”

I shrugged. “Evan? Ethan? Something with an E. He’s hot. He’s got a bike. And he’s not asking questions.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “You just met him!”

“Yeah,” I said with a small smirk. “At the gig.”

“Emma, don’t go!” Her hands flew through the air, sharp, desperate. “Stay. We’ll leave together. A few more years. Once I’ve finished high school.”

I swallowed hard. My throat burned. I stepped forward and caught her hands, then held her tight, like I could press all my love into her bones. “I wouldn’t survive that long, Susie. You know it.”

She nodded against my shoulder, quiet.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll be alright. Better off out there than a prisoner in this place.”

We held on for a beat longer—just the two of us in a room full of echoes and unspoken things. Then I pulled back, gave her a smile that felt like a tear in my heart.

I climbed out the window and didn’t look back.
Ethan was waiting, engine rumbling under him. I swung onto the back of his bike, shoving on the helmet he offered.

“You ready, Goldie Locks?” he asked.

“Let’s go.”

I wrapped my arms around him and held on for dear life as he tore down the street, the wind whipping against my chest—making the ache there deeper, sharper, harder to stand. I swore I could still hear the piano from her room, soft and stubborn, a melody in my heart. One that would always be playing.

I had nothing but my own stubborn will, no plan—just a dream and my guitar strapped to my back. And for now, that was enough.

Over the next year and a half, I played open mic nights, sat in on live jams, and joined any band desperate enough to need a backup singer. I even dated a few band leaders—looking every bit the groupie—just because it got me on stage or let me step in when someone didn’t show. I took whatever gigs I could get: modeling jobs, background vocals, even a spot on the cover of a band’s album that wasn’t mine. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be near the scene, to break into it somehow. I wanted to learn, create, break through.

All the while, I worked bars and restaurants, taking any paid gig that kept me fed and kept a roof—any roof—over my head. I couch-surfed, stayed with guys I was casually seeing, roomed with girls from work. It was chaotic. I had no roots, no home, no real address. But at least it was on my terms—not my mother’s.

I hadn’t heard from her since the day I left. No calls. No texts. No attempt to reel me back in. I was the disgrace of a daughter she didn’t want, and she was the mother I wanted nothing to do with.

I texted Susie often—sometimes too often—doing whatever it took to keep tabs on her, to let her know I was still here, even if I wasn’t physically there. I missed her. Missed her like breathing. She’d been in my life since I was four, and we’d been speaking through music since the day she arrived. I used to sing to her when she was a toddler, and she’d hum along, toddling after me. She never spoke—not a single word—and the more worried people became about it, the more I realized she was speaking, just in a different way.

When her fingers touched the keys, her voice came alive. You could hear it in every note, every chord, every glide of her fingers over the ivory. She was a force. And I prayed Evelyn wasn’t doubling down on her in my absence.

I exhaled and flopped down on the secondhand couch in the tiny two-bedroom I shared with Faith, one of the waitresses from the bar where I was working.

The last band I’d joined was a group of guys from upstate—The Aurora Boreals. We’d connected through socials.

I didn’t know how many more frontmen and lead guitarists I could chase after, follow on gigs, and butt heads with before someone stopped treating me like the “young darling” they could keep in place with a few well-timed jabs.

Today’s practice didn’t go so well.

“Okay, stop,” Tommy—the frontman—said after a take.
“Emma, you’re singing the backups a bit too high and breathy. It’s too—”

“Sexy,” the drummer cut in.

I raised an eyebrow. “Sexy? It’s a song about a blue-eyed baby—your girlfriend, I’m guessing? It’s a sexy track. You want bluesy? Then you need ‘Blue Eyes’ like The Who, not some rejected David Wilcock B-side.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “You know what, Emma? You’re here as backup—not to give opinions on the songs. That’s not the vibe. So, sing it the way I asked you to.”

“Okay, your call,” I said with a shrug. “I’ll go lower.”

Later, I was venting about it and Faith—my roommate and fellow waitress—called me out.

“Emma, you get into a fight with every band you’re in.”

“That’s because they treat me like I don’t know anything—because I’m young, blonde, and female. They think I’m Penny Lane and not—”

“Stevie Nicks.”

“Yeah.”

“Well…” She shrugged. “You wanna be in a band, you’ve gotta learn to get along, sweets.”

“Forget that,” I said, sitting up from the couch. “I need to find a band that isn’t full of egotists who wouldn’t know good music if it smacked them in the face.”

She smirked. “Yeah, good luck with that. They’re all egotists — that’s why they’re on stage, begging for love in the first place.”

“Fair point,” I admitted.

The bar that night was packed—one of those nights where the air buzzed like a live wire, heavy with bass, bodies, and the kind of anticipation that made your skin hum. I was behind the bar at The Hole. This grimy little New York venue with sticky floors, flickering lights, and the best live music scene I’d ever found. I’d been pouring drinks for hours, sweat clinging to the back of my neck, feet aching, but I didn’t mind. I’d already pulled in nearly five hundred in tips, and the energy in the room kept me wired. It was the kind of night that made you feel like you were part of something electric. Like you belonged.

That night’s opener was The Stalls—a decent draw with a front man that was sex on legs and a drummer who was all effortless swagger. The drummer, Emory, swaggered up to the bar as the last set wrapped. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a music video: black hair too dark to be natural, sweat-slicked shirt clinging in all the right ways, tattoos, and drumsticks sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

“You’ve gotta be the most gorgeous girl in this club, fairy starlight,” he said, flashing a grin built for selling bad decisions in bulk.

I rolled my eyes, though my mouth twitched at the edges. “Fairy starlight, huh? Bet you’ve got a cheesy nickname for every girl you’re trying to get into bed. And I bet they’re stupid enough to fall for it, too.”

He tapped his fingers on the bar, still smirking. “Not every girl.”
“Just the ones who look like every song you’ve spent your life trying to write,” I shot back.
“That’s a damn good pickup line. I’m stealing it.”

 I rolled my eyes. 

 “You can have it. It’s not original.”
“Some smooth-talking frontman hit you up with that banger?”
“Comes with the gig. I’ve got a better one for you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“You’re the kind of woman frontmen build albums around, baby. Be my muse for the weekend?”
“Oh, I’d fall for that one.” He clutched his chest in mock pain, and I grinned.

I gave him a slow once-over, eyes glinting. “You’re very confident—for a drummer.”
“For a drummer? Ouch.”
“It’s usually frontmen and guitarists with all the moves.”
“You seem to have a wealth of experience.”
I shrugged. “Not a wealth. Enough.”
“Well, I may be confident for a drummer, but I have my reasons.”

That smirk—wicked, knowing—like he had every intention of ruining me in the best possible way, and the skill to pull it off.
“I bet.”
“Come to an after-party with me, and maybe I’ll show you why,” he said.
I laughed, shaking my head. 

“Oh, that one got a laugh. I feel like I’m doing better than ‘muse for the weekend’ guy.”

I paused, letting him dangle.
“I’m off in about an hour.”
“I’m taking that as a yes.” His voice was smooth as the whiskey he was nursing. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”
I let out a low hum. “Oh, I’m sure I will.”

He stayed at the bar, laughing with his friends, chatting with fans—stealing glances at me like I was a song he couldn’t stop replaying in his head.

When my shift finally ended, I slung my jacket over my shoulder, caught his eye, and gave a nod toward the door. We wound up at an after-party in a half-furnished downtown apartment—hazy lights, cheap beer, laughter, smoke, and music bleeding from every room. People were crammed into corners, spilling onto the balcony, packing the hallway—musicians, superfans, and a few who probably wandered in off the street.

Emory didn’t leave my side once. He introduced me to the band. The frontman, Brody, was a smoldering brunette with golden highlights and the kind of over-the-top lead singer charm you couldn’t miss. I met his friends, some die-hard fans, a few hangers-on. He introduced me like we were already a thing—like I was somebody. And God, it felt good.

We drifted into the living room where half-tuned guitars passed from hand to hand, voices layering over each other in a mess of melodies and shouted lyrics.

At one point, someone asked who I was and whether I could sing. Emory’s eyes lit up like he’d been waiting for it.
“Emma sings. At least she claims to. Show us what you’ve got, fairy starlight.”

My cheeks warmed. “I don’t know…”

He nudged the guitar my way. “C’mon. Blow them out of the water. If you’re trained like you claim you are. You’ve got chops. Don’t hold back.”

I hesitated, then picked up the guitar. I strummed a few chords—slow, easy—and let my fingers fall into a song I’d written months ago in a moldy apartment I couldn’t afford. It was raw, unfinished, kind of aching. But it was mine.

When I sang, the room shifted. People went quiet. It wasn’t polished, but it was real and of course I used my range because I couldn’t help it. The fills fell and climbed. Whistled and dipped. I felt it settle into the walls, heavy and true. Beautiful but dark. When I finished, the silence broke into whistles and claps and a few stunned looks. Emory looked at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

“Jesus—my fucking heart,” he said, clutching his chest like I’d physically struck him. “You’ve got pipes. I’m in love. Seriously.” He turned to his friends, grinning. They all shook their heads, unconvinced.

“Watch out for this one, Emma,” Brody warned, half-laughing. “He’s trouble.”

“Aren’t all musicians? Especially the frontmen?”

“Exactly,” Brody said, chuckling with a blunt between his fingers. “Don’t trust him. Don’t trust me. Don’t trust any of us.”

I shook my head, smiling. “So, you're all trouble then?”

Chad, the lead guitarist, grinned without missing a beat. “Absolutely.”

I leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Good. Because I love trouble.”

That night, Emory took me back to his apartment—a beat-up old flat that screamed broke band living. He shared it with the bassist and the lead guitarist. There were empty beer cans, scratched-up vinyls, posters barely clinging to the walls.

One night of amazing sex, loud music, too much booze, and whispered bad ideas turned into two.

Two into three.

Three turned into a streak of nights that blurred into each other like the lights of a fast car in a long tunnel.

He started inviting me to their gigs. I became a regular backstage—laughing with the band, helping with gear, crashing on couches.

Every night led to us tangled in each other.

It was wild and exhilarating. I was swept up in the rhythm of it all. In him.

Before I knew it, I was traveling across the states with The Stalls as they toured—living out of a suitcase, riding in busted-up vans, sleeping in hotels that charged by the hour.

I learned the rhythm of tour life: late-night load-ins, early-morning load-outs, half-eaten takeout, soundchecks that rolled into actual shows.

I wrote a lot on that tour.

I was on fire—pouring my heart into song after song, filling pages of my notebooks like I couldn’t stop if I tried.

Sometimes, I let Emory or Brody read them—listen to the raw demos I strummed out in hotel rooms or green rooms between sets. They’d give me notes, point out what hit and what didn’t.

Chad, the lead guitarist, helped too. He’d sit with me, walk me through finger placements, transitions, how to make a chorus lift without forcing it. I learned so much from him. Took in every tip, every trick, every nuance like gospel.

I soaked it all up.

Then they let me open for them—just me and my acoustic guitar. No lights. No band. No drama. Just a handful of songs.

And those songs?
They were everything. They cracked something open in me—like I’d finally stepped into the version of myself I was always meant to be.

One opener led to another. Then a few songs with the band. And before I knew it, I was the backup singer and rhythm guitarist.

I loved it—playing, singing, moving with the music, being part of something bigger than myself. The band. The chaos. The life.

I felt alive in a way I never had before.

And I wanted so much more.

​

Chapter 3
The Tellers Pt. 2

 

Liam 

 

Manchester, UK — 2015

Two years later, the Black Horse was packed—standing room only, the kind of night you could feel in your chest. Beer in the air, sweat on the walls, music pounding through the floorboards — proper gig energy. Me, Dan, and Max were in the zone. Every chord I hit on my guitar felt like electricity. Max was a machine on the drums, relentless and loud as hell, and Dan’s bass kept the whole thing grounded, grooving like we were born to do this.

We wrapped up our set to a roar that felt like it might blow the roof off. That buzz—God, there was nothing like it. Shay was right there in the front, just left of center, smiling at me like she always did. Bright and proud. But I caught something else in her eyes too—wariness. Like she knew the other shoe was just waiting to drop.

Max clapped me on the back, grinning like a madman. “We smashed it, mate.”

We slid offstage and into the crowd, basking in the afterglow—drinks flowing, people shouting their praise, locals clapping us on the back. Dan was already at the bar, pint in hand, chatting up some girl like it was a sport. I should’ve known it’d go sideways.

Didn’t take long before the girl’s boyfriend clocked the way Dan had his arm around her. Words were exchanged—loud enough to turn heads. Then a shove. Max froze mid-drink.

“Oi,” he muttered. “Not again.”

We shoved through the crowd just as the guy lunged. I got between them, hands up, trying to de-escalate. “Alright, mate. Leave it, eh?”

Dan, of course, couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Tossed out another jab. The guy took a swing, chaos exploded. Max grabbed Dan, I blocked a punch, and someone’s pint went flying. We got pulled apart before it turned into a full-on brawl, but the damage was done. Adrenaline still humming, I barely noticed Shay until her hand closed around my arm and yanked me toward the exit.

She didn’t say a word until we hit the alley. Then—“What the hell, Liam?”

I sighed, rubbing a hand down my face. “It wasn’t my scrap. I was trying to break it up.”
“Dan was all over that girl,” she snapped. “You can’t just brush it off with ‘he got carried away.’ He’s reckless and you’re right there egging him on.”
“I wasn’t egging him on.”
“From where I was stood, you were.”

Her arms were folded, eyes narrowed—but under the fire there was hurt.

I blew out a slow breath, trying to keep my voice even. “Shay, we’re chasing something here. It’s messy sometimes, yeah, but this—this is what we’ve been grafting for. We can’t keep having the same bloody row about it night after night.”
“We keep having it because it keeps being real, Liam.”
“What? Me playing gigs? Being out late? That’s the job.”
“No,” she shot back. “The fighting, the drinking, the girls. That’s not the job. That’s what you and Dan turn it into.”
“There are no girls. I’ve told you that. You’ve got to trust me.”

I stepped in, voice low but firm. “I’m not going home with anyone. I come home to you. Just you. Always have, Shay.”

Her arms stayed folded, jaw tight.
“How am I meant to believe that when you’re hardly ever here? And when you are, you’re knackered, or straight back out, or buried in some notebook no one else gets to see. I can’t reach you anymore. It’s like you’ve shut me out.”
“That’s—not true.”
“It is.” Her voice cracked, eyes shining. My stomach sank.

Then her gaze hardened. Cold. Clear.
“Dan told me about California.”

I froze.

The noise from the street seemed to drop away. 

“Yeah,” she said, quieter now. “Your brother told me. About L.A. About what you’ve been plotting.”
Her tone sharpened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I dragged a hand through my hair. I didn’t have an answer she’d like.
“So… you were just going to sod off without saying anything?”
“No. Course not—it’s not like that,” I said quickly. “We’ve just been talking about it. I needed to get my own head round it before I brought it to you.”
“And?” she pressed, eyes boring into mine.
I let out a breath. “We’re good, Shay. You know that. Really fucking good. But over there? In L.A.? We might actually stand a chance. A proper shot at cutting through the noise.”

Her voice softened, but it cut sharper than before. “And what about me, Liam? What happens to me if you go?”

That hit square in the chest.
“I’d want you with me,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m not trying to leg it from us. But I can’t stay just because it’s cosy. I can’t let this pass us by—not after everything we’ve put in.”
She looked away, jaw tight. “You’re asking me to walk away from everything. My life here. My education. My future. Just so I can tag along after you in a country where I don’t know a soul?”
“Right shite,” I admitted.
“You think, Liam?” Sharp as glass.
“I’m not asking you to chuck it all,” I said, softer. “I’m asking us to work it out. Together.”

But she was already pulling back, her smile bitter.
“No—you need to work it out. Figure out if you want me… or some dream halfway round the world.”

That one landed deep—like a slow cut that didn’t bleed right away.
“Because right now?” she said, shaking her head, “I don’t see how this works.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the bar before I could say another word.

And just like that, the high from the gig vanished.
I stood alone in the alley, cold air biting through my shirt, the door swinging shut behind her. Music still echoed from inside, muffled and distant. But the silence in my chest was louder.

Max was probably still inside with Ali. Dan with another pint in hand, like nothing happened.

And me?

A few weeks later, it all came to a head. Shay and I had been fighting nonstop. Every conversation turned into an explosion, until we just stopped having them altogether. Dan was pushing hard for us to make a move. I felt it too. The moment was closing in—the choice. Take the dive, or…

I ended up on the same rocky outcrop I’d been coming to since I was a kid. Back when the world felt too loud or too small. Out here, I could breathe. Think. Let the noise drain away until the truth finally surfaced.

The late afternoon sun spilled gold over the hills outside Manchester, drenching the familiar landscape in that soft, hazy light that always made it feel like it was mine alone.

I watched the city stretch out below me, lights flickering on in pockets as the sun dipped lower. 

We’d built something in Manchester—gigs every weekend, a proper little fanbase, people who knew our name and actually showed up to hear us play. That was something. That meant something. Right?

But was it enough?

The States. America. Everything about it felt massive—not just geographically, but emotionally. Professionally. Existentially.

And what if we did it?
No time. No roots. No quiet. Just touring, endless strange cities, and strangers who knew us only as a sound. Would we lose ourselves in all that? Would I lose myself?

I glanced at my phone—several messages from Shay. My stomach sank. I knew the conversation I had to have, and I had to be brave enough to have it. We needed to sort it, lay it all bare. I had to tell her the truth—what I felt in my gut about all of it.

I raked a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. The thought of staying felt like playing the same chord forever—steady, safe… but lifeless. Running the same circuits, watching the years blur into each other, always wondering what could have been if we’d had the guts to try.

Dan wanted this. That was clear. Max was hesitant, but I knew he’d come around. And me? I couldn’t live under the weight of wondering. I’d rather go and fail than stay and rot.

The wind whipped past—sharp, cold. Like a nudge. Or a dare.
I stood, staring out at the skyline—my city, my home—and I knew. Right down in my bones, I knew.

We had to go.

It was time.

Now—or never.

No backup plans. Just the music, the boys — and the sharp, impossible pull of whatever came next.

—

The airport was a blur of noise and hugs and heartbreak. Manchester air always had that damp chill, and today it felt thicker. Weighted. I stood with my bag slung over my shoulder, scanning the crowd until I saw her.

Shay.

She was waiting near the terminal doors, arms crossed, eyes red-rimmed. We’d broken up a few weeks ago. Amicable. Sad. But necessary. I loved her. I think I always would, in a quiet, tender way. But I couldn’t stay for her, and she couldn’t go for me.

“I didn’t want to let you leave without saying goodbye,” she said, voice low, cracking.

I stepped closer, took her hand. “Ta for coming. Really.”

She hugged me like she didn’t want to let go, and it damn near broke me. 

“Take care of yourself,” she whispered against my shoulder.

“I promise,” I said, tightening my grip just a little. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to make this any harder.

We stepped back. I tried to lighten the mood.
“Maybe I’ll see you in London someday,” I said with a crooked smile. “You’ll be part of the symphony, and I’ll be clapping in the front row like a right loon.”

She laughed—soft and sad.
“Yeah. Maybe. Go chase it, Liam. Just… don’t lose who you are.”

Nearby, Max stood with Ali, both wrapped up in the kind of goodbye that says everything without words. His forehead rested against hers, his hand firm on the back of her neck.

“We’ll make it work, Ali,” he murmured, voice barely steady. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

Ali didn’t say a word. Just nodded, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

Dan, of course, was bouncing on his toes like he was waiting for a rollercoaster to start. All buzz and adrenaline, eyes flicking toward the gate—already halfway packed into the future.

But Mum… Mum looked like she might break. She hugged Dan tight, like she wanted to anchor him to the ground and never let go. He choked up for just a second—just long enough to make me look away—then swallowed it down like a pro.

Then she turned to me.

“Are you sure, Liam?” she asked, her voice trembling. “It’s so far. And it’s… dangerous over there. The industry seems even worse. Promise me you’ll be safe, love.”

I kissed her cheek, tried to give her the smile that had always calmed her nerves.
“I’ll do everything I can to keep us safe. I promise. But it’s the rock and roll scene, Mum. And we’ve got to try.”

Ron stood just behind her, solid as ever, clapping my shoulder with that quiet pride he never said aloud.
“Make us proud, lad.”

Ruby beamed, her eyes glossy but bright.
“Send me all the pictures. And I’m coming to visit the second you’re settled.”

“Not bloody likely,” Mum scolded with a shake of her head. “Can you imagine?”

Ron chuckled, but didn’t argue.

Ruby gave Dan one of her signature big hugs, then threw her arms around Max, too.

Vivian, Max’s mum, was already in full tears—clutching him like if she held on tight enough, she could rewind time and make him five again. Uncle Wes shook all our hands, pulling Max into a dad hug with the obligatory back slaps.
“I couldn’t be more proud of you lads. Go knock their bloody socks off.”

As we finally turned toward the gate, Dan bumped his shoulder into mine.
“Next stop—California, lads.”

I looked back one last time. At Mum. At Ron. At Ruby. At Shay.

Shay’s smile was soft and tearful, not a goodbye… more like a beginning she knew she couldn't follow me into.

Then I looked at Mum. At Ron. At Manchester.

We walked toward the gate, and I let the fear sit beside the hope.
The possibility. The risk. The everything.

This was it.
All in.
No turning back.

​

​

​

Chapter 4
The Hartgrave Sister Pt. 2

 

Emma

 

Portland, 2016

Touring was madness—people came at you from every direction. The band had that undeniable rockstar swagger: the looks, the charm, the reckless edge. The songs? Solid. Catchy hooks, hard-hitting beats—perfect for drinking and letting loose.

The fans loved it. They bounced to the rhythm, shouted half-remembered lyrics, and partied with us until the early hours of the morning. It was sweaty, loud, and electric.

The guys? They were relentless with the pickup lines. And the girls? They threw themselves at the band like they were already legends.

And Emory—he soaked it all in. The attention. The adoration. He had charm, no doubt, and he scattered it around like confetti.

It didn’t take long before I realized I wasn’t the only one ending up in his bed after gigs.

It cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

We were in some dive bar, setting up for a gig, when I overheard two guys at the far end chatting up the bartender. They were talking about a band that had lit the place up the night before. Making serious waves—The Tellers.

Raw. Gritty. Real.

A trio of gorgeous British guys. Rising fast.

“What did you like about them?” I asked, keeping my tone casual. But just hearing the name sent a strange jolt through me—like a chord half-struck but still humming. A pull I couldn’t explain. Like I needed to see them. Catch the next gig. Like maybe they were part of what was next for me.

“Well,” the guy said, “their stuff was good. Had a vibe. Like they got it, you know? What it’s about. Rock and roll. The real kind. Felt like being in a bar on the Strip in L.A. in the ’60s or some shit. It was something else.”

“Huh.” The feeling sharpened.

“So they’re the real deal then?” I asked, glancing toward my band across the room—half-drunk, stoned, already flirting, and still without a decent new song all tour. “Not just in it for bragging rights?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Real deal. You don’t see that much anymore. Real fucking rock legends in the making.”

The pull in my gut tightened.

And I knew.

It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

And head toward something else.
Something better.
Something that felt like what the bartender had just described.

Like a smoky bar on a Saturday night in 1969.
Like listening to The Who. Cream. Zeppelin. Live and on stage.

Like destiny.

_________

The band was throwing a party at the house we were crashing in while playing a string of bar gigs in Portland. I’d gone out with some of the crew to grab snacks and supplies, hoping the break might reset my nerves.

It didn’t.

By the time we got back, the house was a mess of blaring music, cigarette smoke, and too many bodies crammed into too little space. The usual chaos. The usual bullshit.

And I’d hit my limit.

I was done pretending. I was going to find Emory, tell him I was out, and then I was hitting the road.

I pushed through the crowd and stormed into the rehearsal space out back.

“Chad, where’s Emory?” I snapped.

Chad and Dave—the bassist—avoided my gaze like it was radioactive.

“Uh… don’t know, Emma,” Chad mumbled.

That was his go-to answer whenever Emory was hooking up. And he gave me the same look every time—guilty and vaguely apologetic.

“Yeah. Right.”

I didn’t wait for more lies. 

I crossed the yard to the main house, and marched straight upstairs.

And there he was.
Emory.
In bed.
One girl’s mouth wrapped around his dick.
Another straddling him, his fingers deep inside her as they kissed like I hadn’t just walked into the room.

I dropped my bag with a thud. 

The room went still. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said, flat and loud. No theatrics. No tears. Just done.
“You’re not even trying to be discreet anymore.”

I motioned to the mess—him, the girls now scrambling for their clothes, the half-empty bottles on the nightstand, the pathetic excuse for dignity.
“I’m done. With this.”

I turned on my heel and stormed to the room we shared—my room, his room, whatever the fuck it was—and started shoving my stuff into a bag.

“Emma, wait!” he called, stumbling after me, shirtless and fumbling with his jeans.

“Why?” I said without looking up. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry.
My voice was cold steel.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“For what, exactly?”

He glanced back toward the scene behind him—Chad’s room, I realized, distantly.

“Well… for that. For all of it. The cheating,” he said with a shrug, like that could somehow explain away the entire mess.

“Cheating?” I scoffed. “We weren’t even together, Emory. Not really. You didn’t cheat—you just never stepped the fuck up. And I let it happen. That’s on me. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Because whatever it was? It’s over. I’m done.”

I yanked the zipper on my duffel with a sharp, final tug. “I’ve been done for a while. You’re chasing crowds, not careers. And all you’ve built is noise and excuses.”

“Emma, what the fuck?” he snapped. “We’re good! You know we are. And now that you’re in the band—fuck, you’ve made us that much better. Your voice. The fans love you. I love you, baby.”

I spun on him, fire in my chest. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you fucked Bonnie and Twyla. This apology? It’s a joke.”

“Don’t make me beg, Em. I’ll get my shit together. I swear to God, for you. Come on, baby.”

I stared him down, my voice cold and final.
“Sorry, Emory. But I’m not staying for empty promises you can’t keep. That’s not who you are. And it sure as hell isn’t who I am.”

I grabbed his leather jacket—the one I always wore—and shoved it hard into his chest.

Then I walked out and didn’t look back.

On my way out, I nearly collided with Brody, who was lounging on the balcony like he’d been waiting for the explosion.

He leaned against the railing, exhaling a long stream of smoke through his nose.
“I warned you, fairy starlight. Told you he was trouble.”

“You did,” I said, shaking my head. “You told me not to trust him.”

“And you didn’t listen.”

“No,” I said flatly. “I didn’t.”

He flicked his cigarette into the garden and stepped closer, slow and swaggering, all that frontman arrogance coiled like a weapon.
“Stay,” he said, voice low, eyes locked on mine as he closed the distance. “I can make it worth your while.”

I raised a brow. “Oh yeah? And how the fuck would you do that?”

“Well, for starters—co-front woman.” He leaned in, smug. “And I could help you get back at Emory.”

I scoffed. “That is the world’s worst idea, Brody.”

“You want to be out front, fairy starlight. Don’t act like you don’t. You belong there. With me.”
He grinned, wide and wicked. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

It was a hell of a smirk—lethal, laced with temptation. The kind that screamed epically bad idea.

I’d be lying if I said Brody wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you could have a dangerously good time with. But he was just as bad as Emory—and I knew it.

Before I could tell him off, he kissed me.
Messy. Sudden.

I shoved him back. Hard.
“You know,” I snapped, breath short, “you told me not to trust you either.”

He didn’t flinch—just gave me a crooked grin. Lazy. Maddening.
“I told you not to trust any of us. And here you are. One of us.”

He stepped back, voice curling like smoke.
“You love it, Hartgrave. Just like we do. You’re no different—sin and swagger, aching for the heat, the fire, the spotlight. The sex.”

I met his gaze, unwavering.
“I’m nothing like any of you, Brody.”

Then I grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him back in.

It turned into a reckless, stupid, too-hot makeout on the porch—hands roaming, teeth clashing, his mouth on my neck like he owned it. I kissed him like I was trying to exorcise Emory out of my bloodstream.

It wasn’t about Brody. It wasn’t even entirely about revenge.

It was about rage.

About taking something back.
About burning out everything Emory left behind—one reckless decision at a time.

We blurred the line between revenge and release—first in his room, then anywhere we could make the world disappear.

Brody was good—dangerous good.
Jawline sharp enough to slice through common sense.
Cocky enough to make you forget what self-respect was.
And God, he moved—rolling his hips like he’d invented rhythm.

It was filthy. Wild. Vengeful.

I thought it would make me feel less.
It didn’t.

I stayed for a few more weeks.
 

I sang and played like I had something to prove—because I did.
A fire had been lit under me, and it poured out in every chord, every lyric, every scream into the mic.

The fans loved it. 

But, the band was cracking at the seams.

Emory was furious—and he had every right to be.
I was furious, too.

And Brody?
He strutted around like he’d won some contest. Smug. Self-righteous. A total dick about it.

Chad and Dave barely spoke to me.
I couldn’t blame them.

We all knew the truth:
We weren’t making it past Nashville.

Then one morning, I was lying in Brody’s bed—naked, tangled in sheets, the heat of the night still clinging to my skin—when my phone buzzed.

Susie: I’m coming to you. I’m done here.

I stared at the screen like it might crack open under the weight of those words. My fingers shook as I typed back: 

Me: Come to me. I’m in Nashville. I’ve got you.

The next day, the band exploded.
A massive fight—screaming, accusations, slammed doors.
I announced I was leaving, and Brody lost it. He wanted me to stay.
Chad and Dave? They thought I should go.

But it didn’t stop there.
Brody and Emory ended up throwing punches—full-on fists flying, a brawl that had been building for months. Maybe before I even got there, honestly. 

It was chaos. A goddamn mess.
One I’d helped create.

And that was it.
I was out.

Everyone scattered.

Brody went to L.A. and asked me to come with him. I didn’t.

Brody was the ghost of every decision I’d made when I was too scared to own who I was. And I’d finally stopped doubting myself.

 Emory returned to New York without a word.
Chad and Dave took off to start something new—I never found out where.
They took the van and most of the gear with them.

I never saw any of them again.
I planted myself in the heart of that gritty city where art bled into asphalt, where music oozed from every alley, every neon dive bar, and the indie scene made you believe anything was possible.
The sun was high, hot, unapologetic.
And for the first time in a long time—I didn’t feel like running.

Susie showed up that evening.
She stepped off the bus from New York with a backpack slung over one shoulder, chin high, eyes full of fire and fatigue.
When we saw each other, we collided in a hug so fierce it nearly cracked something open.

She pulled back, signed with sharp certainty, “Never leaving your side again.”

I smiled through the tears that came out of nowhere, and signed back,
“Good. Because I’ve been waiting for you.”

We got our own apartment. Started playing open mics again—some paid, most not.
We played for crowds of six and for crowds of sixty. Didn’t matter.
It was just the two of us, like it had always been—just sweat, heart, and soul.

And it felt like drinking the coldest, most glorious glass of water
after crawling through the desert.