Chaos in Bloom: Part 1 Excerpt

Emma Hartgrave wasn’t looking for a band. and she definitely wasn’t looking for Liam. A brooding British guitarist with too many tattoos and far too much magnetism behind those emerald-green eyes. But when she and her sister Susie are discovered by seasoned music managers Wade and Andy, they’re swept up into a whirlwind plan to build the next legacy band.

Suddenly, Emma finds herself co-fronting a rising indie-rock group on the edge of a record deal, and everything changes.

Together, they make music that crackles with energy and unspoken longing. The chemistry in the studio is undeniable. On stage, it’s electric. Off stage…it’s a minefield of rules, contracts, and carefully guarded hearts.

When the band signs with a major label and begins their meteoric rise, the pressure mounts: write the hits, stay marketable, hold it together. And absolutely—under no circumstances—fall for each other.

But Emma and Liam?

They’re already halfway there.

Torn between the music and the mess, the image and the intimacy, they’ll have to ask themselves, can they survive the spotlight without destroying everything they’ve built?

The first six chapters below...

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Chapter 1

Liam 

Manchester, UK, 2014

The night had an edge. A pulse. Like something was about to shift. I felt it in my bones. I didn’t know it right then, but that night was the first step toward blowing my whole bloody life to pieces.

It smelled of spilt beer, fried food, and worn-in wood, comforting, the way a second home should be. The Tell-Tale Pub in Manchester was a place we’d played a dozen times, and each set got better than the last.

I stood at the centre of it all, my guitar resting heavy and familiar on my shoulders as I strummed the final chord. My voice was still echoing when the applause rolled in. It was a modest crowd, but it felt big in all the right ways.

Front and centre, Shay clapped the loudest. That smile of hers, wide and bright, had held steady since the first time I saw her. Two years in, and it had its rough edges, yeah. But it was easy. Easy in that way that sometimes felt almost too comfortable. Like neither of us was quite all in, but we weren’t willing to let it go either. So we stayed. Stuck, together.

I loved her. That much was true. But I loved playing with the lads more. Music was my first real love. Always had been. Always would be. No one came close.

We were riding the post-show high. I glanced over at Dan, my younger brother, all swagger and sweat, bass slung low. He shot me a look, the one he always gave when he was ready to start stirring the pot. Max, behind the kit, grinned like a maniac, twirling a stick and catching it clean as he stuffed them in his back pocket and stood. That was our rhythm. Me, Dan, Max. Three idiots chasing a sound we’d been trying to perfect since we were pre-teens.

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 mate and former bandmate, Wes Williams. Cousin by proxy, but really, he was 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 grounded me, in the way being surrounded by your people always does. 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, a sweet, infectious sound that had me smiling. 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 wore a beat-up leather jacket. He had a beard that looked older than me. He clocked us straight away. His grin widened, eyes sharp, as he strutted up to us and clapped a hand on my shoulder.

“Great set, lads,” the guy said, clapping me on the back. “You’ve got something… a bit raw, a bit rough. But that’s the magic, eh?”

“Appreciate it,” I said, aiming for casual. “Truly. And…same goes.”

“Cheers, mates,” the lead guitarist added with a smirk. “You lot got any plans? Album? Tour? Legions of groupies?”

“Not yet,” Dan said.

“We like Manchester. It’s home. And it’s a solid scene,” Max added. 

The lead singer cut in before his mate could reply. “Sure, but it’s a bit small-time, innit? You lot interested in chasing something more than ‘solid’?”

“Oh, we’re not mucking about,” Dan said. “We want it all. Girls, solid gold albums. The glory.” 

“Glory? What are you on about, mate?” Max muttered.

Dan shot him a look like he’d just spat in church. “The plan, mate.”

Max held up his hands. “Right. The plan. We want the…glory.”

The lads chuckled. “Well, we’re off to California soon. In America, Brits are exotic or some shit. My cousin’s out there. He’s gonna vouch for us.”

Weirdly, I felt a pang. Jealousy? Maybe.

“Yeah?” I asked.

“Yeah, gonna be mental,” the guitarist said, grinning. “California girls. California nights.”

“Better shot at getting noticed, too,” the lead singer added. “Manchester feels like a bit of a bubble. London’s no better, really.”

“Once you’ve got the stones,” the guitarist said, “you lot need to jump the pond and look us up.”

“He says it like it’s so bloody easy.” The lead singer laughed. “We basically had to plan the next year of our lives. Book an entire tour in advance. I was drowning in bloody paperwork.”

“Wait…really? You have to book a tour?” Dan asked, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d just heard a personal insult.

“Yeah. You need proof. Show dates, venues, sponsorships. It all has to be lined up before you even apply for the visa,” the singer explained.

“Even if you jump the pond,” I added, “there’s no guarantee the right people will see you.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s the kicker. But if they do? If the right person sees you?” He leaned back, smirking. “They make you.”

Max raised a brow. “We’re happy with our pub gigs. Not exactly dying to hang in dodgy green rooms in the middle of nowhere.”

“No, we’re not,” Dan shot back, dead serious. “We want to make it.”

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’ve got something real.”

Dan grinned. “We don’t just want to be something. We want to be the best bloody band in the world.”

“Then get the hell out of Manchester, mates. Nothing’ll test your mettle like the road. Guaranteed.”

I clasped each of their hands. “Appreciate it, mates.”

“Good luck. You’ll need it.”

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

“Same goes.” 

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 trying to talk us into moving to the States. He reckons we should. Says that’s where the real big shots are. The ones you want to hear you.”

Her smile faltered, just for a second. Long enough to tell me she’d already played the what-if out in her head, and didn’t like the ending. “The States, huh? That’s jokes, right? What about Manchester?” 

“Yes. Manchester’s got a great scene,” Ali added.

“Relax, ladies. It’s just talk for now.” I kissed Shay’s temple. “We’re not legging it tomorrow. We’ve got a good thing going here.”

Max tucked Ali under his arm, grinning down at her. “Exactly. Our lives are here. We’ve got our family, our girls, our fans, and plenty of gigs to keep us busy. We’re not walking away from all that.”

Dan leaned forward, his eyes still wild with the idea. “Maybe you lot aren’t. But I’m legging it as soon as I can, lads. There’s something out there. And it isn’t in this piss-hole of a city.”

“Dan,” I warned.

“What? You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little thrilled by the concept. Packing up our gear, heading out on our own, making a name for ourselves. One that’s ours. It’s proper rock star myth stuff.”

I’d be lying if I said it didn’t. It definitely had some appeal. The idea offered a kind of freedom.

I made a face that said I wasn’t convinced.

Dan grimaced.

“It’s out there,” he said to me, his voice low and electric. “Just waiting for us to grow a pair and show up. Hustle hard. Carve out our space in all of it.”

I felt it, like pressure building under the surface. I knew we were circling something bigger, deep down. It was exhilarating and, if I was being honest, mildly terrifying.

“Maybe,” I said, glancing between them both.

Dan slumped back in his chair. “Maybe? Who’s ever heard of a legendary band backstory that starts with a half-arsed maybe?”

I raised my glass and clinked his.

“Maybe ours does.”

*****

A week later, I walked into Mum’s place and headed straight for the kitchen. The smell of dinner hit me instantly, roast potatoes and the ever-present waft of tea steeping on the counter. It was the kind of comfort and softness that always made me forget the rest of the world for a while and just be at peace. 

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 picking up Dan for your gig tonight?”

“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 van 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, eh?”

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.”

“You mean 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 five bloody people. Ali, Michael, Rene and James. Our cousins. Our oldest mates. Our biggest fans.”

“Does that make it cheaper?” he muttered.

“It makes it more chaotic, that's for certain. I am not getting more roomies.”

“Fine but we need to do whatever it takes to save some pounds, bruv. Then we can skip across the pond.”

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

 It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go—it was that we needed a timeline. We had to figure out the logistics. Where we’d stay, how we’d handle visas, sponsorships, money, gigs—everything.

 Right now, it all felt overwhelming.

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

“We should own Manchester before we even think about 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 across 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 privilege."

“Dan, when you can stay on beat, then you can bang on about the privileges involved in hearing your messy bass lines.”

“But I put on a proper show—it's about 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

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 chose.

I slung the bag over my shoulder, pulled out my phone, and snapped a quick selfie. My face looked a little wild-eyed, framed by the chaos of my room, an unmade bed, a mountain of laundry, my guitar case open in the corner like a quiet witness.

I was done being my mother’s protégé.

It had cost me too much.

I didn’t need her anymore. I didn’t want to be her shadow. I was moving on to something bigger—something mine. My own legacy. Not hers.

I wanted everything. But I wanted it my way.

I had a voice. A big one.

I had stories I needed to tell. A heart on fire. And I was done—done being controlled.

By my mother.

By my instructors. 

By men.

By anyone.

The roles they pushed. The labels they tried to pin on me. I was finished with all of it.

My father had left years ago. He was a philandering professor with a wandering eye and a hollow heart. Honestly, good riddance. Maybe he saw it coming. Maybe he knew I’d burn the whole thing down eventually.

I grabbed a photo from my nightstand, my sister, Susie, and me.

Susie wasn’t my biological sister. She was adopted when I was four. Abandoned at a shelter in South Korea, her vocal cords had been damaged beyond repair. She couldn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. From the second she entered our lives, she was mine, my sister in every way that mattered.

She was the only reason I had second thoughts. The only reason I’d stayed this long.

I was born into music. Drenched in it.

It wasn’t just in my blood. It was in my bones. Coded into my DNA.

My mother, Evelyn Harlaender, was a legend in the classical world. A world-renowned soprano. She performed in cathedrals and concert halls around the globe. Taught at Juilliard. Moulded prodigies. And under her strict, obsessive eye, I was trained since I could talk. To sing. To play. To perform. To be perfect.

My younger sister, too. She was always at the piano. Her fingers moved like they were born to dance across keys.

But by sixteen, after a heartbreak I thought would kill me, I found my way into the world I really wanted.

The messy, modern, electric world of real music.

Raw. Loud. Wild.

I wrote. I played. I sang until my voice went hoarse. I followed bands. Fell in love with the music, and sometimes the people making it.

Modern music became my addiction.

And sometimes… so did the men.

The guitarists with blistering solos. The drummers pounding out heartbreak. The chaos, the heat, the untamed fire of it all. I chased that like a high.

It wasn’t just the music I wanted.

It was the danger.

The freedom.

The fury.

And now?

I was running.

Fully. Unapologetically.

I was eighteen, and I was done pretending.

Done playing the part of the next great prima donna.

I was made for something great, yeah, but it wasn’t that.

I would be a star. A legend.

But it would be my legend. My star. My voice. My way.

And my mother? She wouldn’t allow it. Said I was throwing my life away.

I’d show her how wrong she was.

I’d prove every last one of them wrong.

I didn’t need anyone to do it. I could make it on my own.

I reached for my bag, ready to toss it over the edge of the roof and climb down. 

Susie stood in the doorway.

I froze.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

She just looked at me, eyes wide, searching. A mix of confusion, worry… and something else.

Something that hit me straight in the heart.

“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. “This is about Mom?”

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’re amazing.”

She rolled her eyes, chin high. “Yeah, because we’re amazing. Together.”

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 it 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 put my leg over the windowsill, looking down at the garden where my ride waited—a guy I barely knew. Motorcycle. Leather jacket. Vague promise of a place to crash.

“I’m going to live in the city. Try to 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 before you hit eighteen and can never play again. You’ve got more in you than that and you know it.”

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, not with her watching, shaping, erasing. That’s not who I am.”

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, Goldilocks?” 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 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. Whatever got me on stage or let me step in when someone didn’t show. I took any gigs I could get. Modelling 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, and be the next breakout starlet.

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, and 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?” I gestured toward her. She was off to the side. Short blonde bob, short skirt, an impassive expression.

I continued, “It’s a sexy track, sure. But, if you want it bluesier, I can do that. Or something more like ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ by The Who?”

I let the silence hang for a beat, then added, “Because right now, your layering sounds like a rejected David Wilcox B-side—with me just tagging the tail end of every chorus line like an afterthought.”

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

“Okay, your call,” I said with a shrug. 

I had just finished venting about it when Faith 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?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

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

“Forget that,” I said, getting 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. And aren’t intimidated by a woman with opinions of her own.”

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.

*

New York, New York State, 2014

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 frontman who was sex on legs and a drummer full of effortless swagger. Emory sauntered 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.

“I'll have a whiskey."

"Just a whiskey, huh?" I crooked an eyebrow at him.

"Well, I'd like more than the drink, but I don't wanna get a smack. Exactly how many guys have told you tonight that you're the most gorgeous girl in this club, fairy starlight?” he said, flashing a grin built for selling bad decisions in bulk.

My mouth twitched at the edges.

“Fairy starlight?" I dropped my voice to a breathy, teasing tone. "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, voice low. “Nah. Not every girl.”

“Just the ones who look like every song you’ve spent your life trying to write, right?” I said back, smooth as silk, still teasing. Still testing.

“Oooh. What a line. Wish I'd thought of it,” His voice was laced with sultry edge and devious seduction.

“You can have it. It’s not mine.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe," I said, grabbing a mid-shelf whiskey and glancing back at him over my shoulder. I poured us both a drink. "I’ve got a better one for you if you like that one.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You’re the kind that frontmen build albums around, baby. Be my muse for the weekend?”

“That's smooth," he clutched his chest in mock pain, and I grinned. "I’d fall for that one.”

We clinked our glasses together and sipped.

“I am falling for that one, actually,” he said, holding my gaze with those deep brown eyes, voice dropping low. "How many weekends do you want? You can have them all."

I gave him a slow once-over, eyes glinting. “At least the ones you have to give, right?"

You’re very confident, for a drummer.”

He chuckled low, “For a drummer? Ouch.”

“It’s usually frontmen and guitarists with all the moves.”

“I'm not even making moves. You're the one knocking me off my feet. You seem to have a wealth of experience with musicians.”

I shrugged. “Not a wealth. Enough experience to know how to handle a smooth-talking, leather-wearing, drumstick-twirling menace with a wicked smirk.”

He laughed, “You got me. I'm all cocky swagger. I have good reasons.”

God, that smirk—I knew he had every intention of ruining me in the best possible way, and the skill to pull it off.

“Ohhh no. You ruined it with that one,” I said, laughing and pouring a beer for a blonde guy.

“Come on. Come to an after-party with me, and I’ll show you I'm worth the cheesy pick-up lines,” he said.

I laughed, shaking my head.

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

I paused, letting him dangle.

“Okay. Let's see what you got, drummer boy. I’m off in about an hour.”

“Wise choice,” His voice was smooth as the whiskey he was nursing. “I’ll make sure you don’t regret it, fairy starlight.”

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, fans, 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 smouldering brunette with golden highlights and the kind of over-the-top lead singer charm you couldn’t miss. I met Emory’s friends, some die-hard fans, and a few hangers-on of the band. He introduced me like we were already a thing, like I was somebody. And it felt good.

We drifted into the living room where pre-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. 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. 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.

“My heart,” he said, clutching his chest like I’d physically struck him. “You’ve got pipes. I’m in love.” 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. There were empty beer cans, scratched-up vinyls, and 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 travelling 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, sound checks that rolled into actual shows.

I wrote a lot between cities.

I felt like 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 version as I strummed it out in a hotel room or dressing room 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 were everything. They cracked something open in me, like I’d finally stepped into the version of myself I was always meant to be.

They made me the backup singer and rhythm guitarist a week later.

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

Liam 

Manchester, UK, 2015

Beer in the air, sweat on the walls, music pounding through the floorboards, proper gig energy filled the Black Horse. It was packed. Standing room only, the kind of night you could feel in your chest. 

Dan, Max, and I 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 centre, smiling at me like she always did. Bright and proud. But I caught something else in her eyes, too. A 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 into the crowd, basking in the afterglow, drinks flowing, people shouting 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.

It didn’t take long for the girl’s boyfriend to clock 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 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?”

“Proper 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 at first.

“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.

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.

******

Manchester air always had that damp chill, and today it felt thicker. Weighted. The airport was a blur of noise and hugs and heartbreak. 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, her voice low and 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 the quiet pride he never voiced.

“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 prouder 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 Shay.

Her 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 Ruby. At Manchester.

The lads and I 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

Emma 

Portland, 2016

Touring was insane. People came at you from every direction. The band had that undeniable rock star 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 were relentless with the pickup lines. And the girls threw themselves at the band like the guys were already legends.

Emory 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. Head toward 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 during 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 hit 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 off hooking up. And it came with 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 straddled 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 as he and the girls scrambled for their clothes. I shook my head at the pathetic excuse for dignity they all clung to.

There were half-empty bottles on the nightstand, half-snorted lines on a tray on a nearby dresser. 

“Fuck this.”

I turned on my heel and stormed to the room we shared, my room, his room, whatever the fuck it was. I started shoving my stuff into my 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, you know? All of it. The screwing around,” he said with a shrug, like that could somehow explain away the entire mess.

I scoffed. 

“We aren’t together, Emory. Not really. You didn’t cheat. You just never stepped the fuck up. And neither did I. 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?” he snapped. “We’re good! You know we are. And you’ve made us that much better. Your voice. The fans love you. I…I love you, baby.”

“Oh, fuck off, Emory. I’ve had some pretty messed-up versions of love thrown my way, but this is right up there. I’m not staying just because you claim to love me. This isn’t love—it’s some half-drunken, high-as-a-kite attempt at clinging to something you think will make you slightly less miserable.”

His face paled. “Emma, come on. That’s not true. There’s more here than just clinging to something halfway decent. Don’t—don’t make me beg. I’ll get my shit together. I swear to God, for you. We’ll do it straight. No other girls. Just… don’t go. Please. Stay, baby.”

I turned to leave, then paused, just long enough to twist the knife.

“You should’ve offered all that before you fucked Bonnie. And Twyla.”

I stared him down, my voice cold and final. “I’m not staying for empty promises you can’t keep. It isn’t who I am.”

I took off his leather jacket and shoved it into his chest. Hard.

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 hell would you do that?”

“Well, for starters, I could make you 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 wanna be out front, Emma. And you belong out 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’re no different. All sin and swagger. You love it, Hartgrave.”

He looked me up and down, his eyes hungry, almost wild.

"Just look at you. You’re aching for the heat, the fire, the spotlight. The sex. All of it.”

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 rest of the world disappear.

Brody was good. Dangerously good.

Jawline sharp enough to slice through common sense.

Cocky enough to make you forget what self-respect was.

And God, he knew how to move. 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. He had every right to be.

I was furious, too.

Brody strutted around like he’d won something. Smug. Self-righteous. A total dick about it.

Chad and Dave barely spoke to me.

I didn’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: I’m in Nashville. I’ve got you.

The next day, the band exploded. We had a massive fight. Everyone was screaming, accusations flying around the room along with a few drumsticks.

I announced I was leaving, and Brody lost it. He wanted me to stay. Chad wanted me gone. But it didn’t stop there. Brody and Emory ended up throwing punches. It turned into a full-on, fist-flying brawl. It had been building for weeks, maybe even before I got there, honestly. Dave eventually left, slamming the door behind him.

It was chaos. A goddamn mess.

One I’d helped create.

And that was the end of it. The end of The Stalls.

I was out.

Everyone scattered.

Brody went to L.A. and asked me to come with him. I didn’t. I couldn’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 went back 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 stayed in that gritty city where music whispered from every alley and the indie scene whispered reinvention.

The sun was high, hot, and 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 with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Her 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.”

Chapter 5

Liam

​San Francisco, California, 2016

We’d been touring the States for two bloody years.

Two years of hustle.

Two years of sleeping in vans, crashing in shitty motels, playing every night. Every gig we could get our hands on.

Writing my arse off like my life depended on it. Because it did.

We bled for every crowd we won.

And slowly, the noise started to build.

Rooms got fuller.

Cheers got louder.

The venues got bigger, better, cleaner.

You could feel it in the air, like the current under your feet before a wave crashes.  

Tonight’s gig had been at The Elbow Room, and the after-party was full-tilt chaos.

Sweat clung to the air.

Laughter tangled with music blasting from some ancient speaker in the corner.

It was the kind of scene I’d grown used to. Low ceilings, sticky floors, spilled drinks, and a crowd full of voices competing to be heard.

The room was a blur of musicians, drunk fans, and the occasional industry type trying to blend in. Spoiler alert. They never did.

I was leaning against the bar, a glass of whiskey sweating in my hand, when a girl cornered me.

Cute. Flirty. Clearly on a mission.

She batted her lashes, flicked her hair, and hit me with questions like I was the final round of a game she was determined to win.

“That one song…something about a dream girl? What’s it about?” she asked. Mega-watt grin. Perfect, shiny white teeth. Dark hair, pale skin. 

I gave a half-shrug, kept it casual. “Just a song I wrote. About girls I’ve met on the road.”

It wasn’t a lie. I’d had my share of flings, one-night stands, hotel heat, late-night chaos to drown the quiet.

The real thing? I’d lost it.

And what was left were echoes, empty moments pretending to be connection.

Moments that only made me feel more hollow than before.

“So… hooking up?” she asked, voice teasing.

I nodded once. No point in sugarcoating it.

“God, you must have girls throwing themselves at you all the time. Look at you.”

Her eyes flicked over me as she took a sip of her drink, lips parting as she drew on the straw. 

I exhaled, dry. Tired.

“Thanks, but it’s kind of the whole deal with being in a band,” I said, deadpan.

Tour life didn’t allow space for real love.

It was motion and noise and night after night of adrenaline spikes followed by the kind of silence that could cave your chest in.

I was always on. Always writing.

Up at 3 a.m. with a melody in my head or packing for the next gig.

So, my dating life? It had just become a sex life.

Transactional. Brief. Blurry.

Dan thrived in it. Bloody loved it, actually.

Max… not so much.

He and Ali broke up over a year ago. She couldn’t keep doing the long distance. The chaos, the constant goodbyes. 

Max rebounded hard with a girl named Lily, who, along with a group of her friends, followed us around for a few months, touring the lower 48. She was an aspiring photographer who took an unreasonable number of pictures of us, somehow making us look like pros in the process. She and Max parted ways a few months ago.

He hadn’t really dealt with any of it, so now he was just as gutted as when things ended with Ali. Quiet about it, but we could feel it. Rolling off him in waves. Grief.

Still, he pushed through. Slipping into the rhythm of it all. Same as Dan, same as me. 

One city. One girl. One night.

Repeat.

Then on to the next gig, the next bar, the next crowd, the next bloody state.

I watched Dan as the girl in front of me talked about her last concert. He was already on his second pint, holding court with a handful of fans who were clearly hanging on his every word.

Max, of course, was charm incarnate, flashing that lazy grin while chatting up an influencer type who looked ready to tattoo his name on her neck. 

I watched the crowd, feeling removed even as I stood among them. The moment, the momentum—the noise, the sweat, the sense that maybe, just maybe, we were finally getting somewhere—wasn’t lost on me, but I struggled to connect with it. With any of it.

I felt like a ghost.

“What’s your name?” I finally asked the girl still monologuing beside me.

“Tara,” she said, blinking mid-sentence like I’d pulled her out of a daze.

“Tara,” I repeated casually. “You want to go somewhere a bit quieter? Have a real chat?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” she said, already perking up.

That’s when a voice sliced through the noise. Clean, direct, and impossible to ignore.

“You, Liam Teller?”

I turned, clocked the gaffer before he even made it to me.

Didn’t look like he belonged, which meant he probably did.

“That’s me,” I said, steady as ever. Then to Tara, “Why don’t you meet me by the coat check?”

She nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

I turned back to the man. Stocky, older, wearing a brown leather jacket over the most God-awful Hawaiian shirt I’d ever seen.

“And you would be, mate?” I asked.

He stepped in, offered a firm handshake, hands rough, fingertips calloused like a guitarist who never quite gave it up.

“Wade Barker,” he said. “I’m a talent manager. I run a business with my partner, Andy Somerset. We’re based in L.A. Been hearing a lot about you and your band.”

I shook his hand, then glanced at the card he handed over.

Bridge & Anchor Talent Management.

Sleek. No gimmicks. Understated.

Which, honestly, made it feel even more serious.

“Appreciate the interest,” I said, flipping the card between my fingers. “You catch the gig?”

“I did.”

His voice had that gravel-edged calm. The kind that said he’d seen plenty and didn’t impress easy.

“Wanted to see what the hype was about.”

That caught my attention. I tilted my head. “And?”

He smiled, just enough to keep it interesting.

“You boys have something. Raw talent. Real chemistry. Just enough edge to make people listen twice. You interested in levelling up?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You blowing smoke up my arse?”

He shrugged, cool and steady. “No. I don’t waste time on bands without legs. But you and your crew? You’ve got them. We could work with you. Tighten the sound. Line you up with some proper gigs. Take you from bars and festivals to stages that matter.”

I watched him. Listened. Read his posture, the cadence of his pitch.

He wasn’t selling a fantasy.

He was handing us a map.

Before I could say anything else, Dan slid in beside me, beer in hand, already eyeing Wade like he could smell the pitch from a mile off.

“Who’s this then?” he asked, raising a brow. “Another big shot promising to make us famous if we sit on his couch?”

“Dan,” I said, warning edge in my voice.

But Wade just chuckled, voice still gruff. “Wade Barker. Talent manager. I think The Tellers have something worth investing in.”

Max joined us next, folding his arms across his chest like he was scanning Wade’s soul. “Alright… what’s the catch, then?”

“No catch,” Wade said calmly, meeting Max’s gaze without flinching. “Just real talk. Talent and energy only get you so far. You want to actually make it? You need timing. Strategy. People in the right rooms. Me and my partner we’ve got those connections. You’ve got the spark. We’d help you light the fire.”

Dan tilted his head, curiosity edging into his voice. “Alright, Barker. Say we’re slightly to moderately intrigued. What then?”

“You meet my partner, Andy,” Wade said. “We sit down. Talk through what you want, what we offer. See if it fits. No pressure. But if you’re serious about taking this further—we can be the team that gets you there.”

I glanced at Dan, then Max. They didn’t say a word, but the air shifted, buzzing with the flicker of something real beginning to build. I looked back at Wade, at the simplicity of the offer. No fireworks. No fantasy. Just someone who looked like he knew what he was doing.

“We’ll think it over,” I said, slipping the card into my pocket. “Appreciate you coming out.”

Wade nodded. “Fair enough. Just don’t take too long. Opportunities like this—” He paused, letting the words hang. “They don’t stick around forever.”

He turned to go, but paused at the edge of the crowd and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t lose that edge, Liam. That’s what sets you apart. That’s what’s gonna take you all the way.”

Then he disappeared, swallowed up by the chaos of the after-party.

Dan clapped me on the back, grinning. “Well, lads. Looks like we’re finally on someone’s radar.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, fingers brushing the edge of the card in my pocket. “Aye… feels like the start of something, that.”

And it did.

Beneath the high of the night, the ringing in my bones, and the noise of everything we’d been chasing. I could feel it. This wasn’t a dream anymore.

We were one step closer to the real thing.

Chapter 6

Emma

​

Nashville, Tennessee, January 2017

With The Stalls officially dissolved, I lost the built-in touring schedule, the audience, the momentum. The fans were bummed, but in the grassroots indie world, bands came and went all the time. It wasn’t unusual.

We weren’t signed, so there was no messy contract fallout. Just leftover albums, merch, and equipment, all of which Chad and Dave took with them.

Susie and I picked up where I’d left off, carrying what momentum we could from The Stalls. My social following had grown a lot by then, and we used that as our springboard. We got our own apartment. Started playing gigs, some paid, most not. I took on a few day jobs to pay the bills, and Susie taught piano lessons out of our living room. 

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours.

We played for crowds of six and crowds of sixty. Didn’t matter.

It was just the two of us, sweat, heart, and soul. Like it had always been.

Every time we stepped onto a stage and the crowd quieted, it felt like drinking the coldest, most glorious glass of water after crawling through the desert.

We kept it simple. Just us. The Hartgrave Sisters. Bare bones and bare souls. Every venue buzzed with that low, expectant energy you could feel in your teeth, like the room was holding its breath.

*****

It was a cold night in January. We were at The Sparrow House, a grungy indie club off the Honky Tonk Highway. We opened our set with a song I wrote about an old boyfriend called ‘Hotel Rooms’, and from the first note, I felt it. That spark. That connection with the crowd. My voice stretched over the venue, rough, raw, threaded with everything I was feeling when I wrote this song. Grief. Rage. Hope. It all lived in the lyrics, the chords, the melody, and I let it rip through me. 

Susie was at the keys beside me, her harmonies clean, anchored, a lifeline. The contrast between us had always worked. My voice was the storm, her chords, the shore. We carved out our world in that moment, one line at a time. A world where everything we’d lost and everything we wanted still lived.

Toward the back of the venue, two guys stood out…Wade and Andy. I didn’t know their names yet, but I’d seen their type before. Industry sharp, polished, but trying not to look it. Well, Andy was. Wade looked like my grandfather if he hosted a late-night radio show about classic rock history.

I figured they were just there for the drinks, or maybe scouting a new look for someone else. But halfway through our second song, they weren’t talking. They weren’t texting. They were just listening. That was rare.

After our set, and a few more by some other up-and-coming acts, the venue shifted into networking mode, dim lights, full-bar service, conversations rolling like waves. I was riding that post-show high. We’d killed it, and I knew it. Not in an arrogant way, just that calm, electric certainty that comes from being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

I stood close to Susie, shaking hands with the other acts, getting hugs and some variation of ‘amazing set’.

My boyfriend, Mark, had been at the bar earlier, lurking like a shadow I couldn’t quite shake. He belonged to a chapter I was ready to close. A rising rock star with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, tight jeans, and the kind of rugged good looks that could stop you cold. He was a distraction, one I’d let linger too long.

He also had a cocaine problem.

I’d started pulling away because of it. Told him not to come tonight. Mark never took no very well. He was jealous, overprotective, and terrible at respecting boundaries.

Still, he wasn’t as bad as the one before him. A songwriter with a habit of throwing punches at bouncers and screaming matches that made hotel walls feel paper-thin. That chapter? One I’d burn if I could.

I really needed to stop dating musicians.

Though dating might be too generous a word. It was more like tumbling into reckless affairs, trailing them across state lines, thinking it’d be wild and romantic. Only to end up disillusioned and pissed off, realizing they were never worth the detour.

I turned my attention back to Susie just as a guy started drifting too close. She was sipping a ginger beer, laughing with a few fans, her guard down. He was older, hovering, lingering, way too interested.

I slid in, casual but deliberate, and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” I said, like we were old mates, flashing him a smile just a bit too sweet. “She’s not your type. Trust me.”

He blinked, caught the edge in my voice, and raised his hands in surrender. “All good, man,” he said, backing off with a sheepish grin.

I gave him a gentle shoulder nudge and a look that made sure he wouldn’t try again.

“Nice move,” came a voice behind me.

I turned. The guy had that unmistakable ex-music-manager vibe, relaxed but calculating. He was tall, tan, maybe early forties, with sharp brown eyes and salt-and-pepper stubble. His blazer was designer, but worn just enough to say I’ve been around. He introduced himself as Andy Somerset. He and his partner, Wade, ran a talent management firm, Bridge and Anchor, out of L.A. Apparently, they were managing a handful of rising acts. The kind was already stirring up noise in the right circles. When he mentioned The Tellers, my ears perked up.

“You two put on a hell of a show tonight,” he said, serious now. “Your voice. It’s powerful. Amazing range. A realness to it. Gorgeous with grit. Doesn’t sound like it’s been filtered through a committee.”

I lifted a brow. “Thank you.”

“So, I’ve gotta ask…what’s the goal here? You and Susie have representation? Label interest?”

I glanced at Susie, who was watching closely. We shared a look. It was equal parts thrill and suspicion.

“No,” I said. “We’re just doing it all ourselves. Playing our stuff. Building what we can. Hard to find representation that isn’t interested in more than just music business semantics. You know those sleazy types? The ‘let’s talk about your future’ conversations that end with ‘Spin for me and pull up your skirt just a little higher.’ Hard pass.”

Andy nodded slowly. “Well… I might have a real business proposition for you both.”

I crossed my arms. “Really?”

His grin broke wide, hands lifted in surrender. “Yes, and it is strictly professional. I am happily taken. And not your type, nor you mine. Unless you secretly collect rare vinyl, like to wear Hawaiian shirts and orthopedic boots.”

That cracked a smile out of me. “Okay,” I said, easing a little. “I’m listening.”

*****

The next afternoon, Susie and I met Andy and Wade at a coffee shop tucked between a record store and a vintage denim shop, quintessential Nashville.

Wade was a walking contradiction to Andy in every possible way. Where Andy was sharp and sleek in his designer blazer, Wade looked like he’d just wandered out of a dive bar on Sunset. He was stocky and wore a loud Hawaiian shirt under a cracked brown leather jacket. He had the kind of tired eyes that let you know he’d been to one too many late-night gigs, and a raspy voice like he’d screamed through the golden era of rock and never quite recovered. From any of it. 

Susie wasn’t sold. 

I saw it in her narrowed eyes, the slight lean back as they talked.

She was listening closely but weighing every word.

In this industry, especially as women, you learned early how easily your body could become currency. A longer set, a bigger stage, a deal that "just needed a little give."

We weren’t those girls.

I might’ve been reckless, sure. I got swept up in wild things and wilder men, but always on my terms.

Susie was quieter and more reserved in her mannerisms. But she had a steel backbone. And an eagle eye for bullshit. 

We had a rule. If either of us got a weird vibe, we walked. No questions. No justifying.

But this? This wasn’t that.

Andy and Wade weren’t offering a trade. They were pitching an opportunity.

Still, it wasn’t what we expected.

They were proposing a collaboration with The Tellers.

I’d heard their names before, in a bar in Portland. Three British guys tearing up the indie scene. Raw, rising fast, buzz in every city they played. The idea was to bring our sound, introspective, emotionally rich, rooted in classical edge, into their storm of gritty guitars and Brit-rock swagger.

It felt risky. Too risky. 

I’d always clashed with men in bands. Too full of themselves, too hungry for the spotlight, and absolutely incapable of taking direction from a woman.

From what I’d heard, The Tellers had the sound. But they also had a reputation for breaking hearts. And I wasn’t about to throw us into the same kind of fire I’d only just crawled out of. Susie was nineteen. Too young to be a cautionary tale.

But I’d been younger when I joined my first band.

Wade leaned in, cutting through my thoughts.

“You two are exactly what we’re looking for,” he said. “That juxtaposition…it’s the point. The Hartgrave sisters and The Tellers could create something no one else is doing. A sound with real teeth. Liam, the frontman, is serious about the music. Authentic. Once he’s in, the others will follow.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

Every frontman I’d ever met claimed to be “serious about the music.”

Most of them were just serious about hearing their own voice played back louder than anyone else’s.

“Send us the demos,” I said finally. “We’ll think it over.”

Wade nodded, his tone still steady but firm. “We’re building something real. Not a trend. Not a one-album wonder. A sound that can go the distance.”

We left the coffee shop, quiet and thoughtful. No wild promises, no hasty decisions.

******

That night, Susie and I sat on our secondhand couch in the apartment, speakers humming as we played the demo tracks Wade and Andy had handed over.

The Tellers were… something.

And we were doing our homework.

“They’ve got a great sound,” Susie signed, glancing up from her phone just as a searing guitar riff cut through the room.

“Yeah,” I said, leaning into it. “Feels like something straight out of the '60s or '70s, doesn’t it? Nostalgic…but with contemporary edge. That guitar? It’s dirty and raw in all the right ways. I love that kind of style.”

“Yeah, me too. You can definitely hear the influences,” Susie signed, nodding slowly. “But there’s more polish to it. The picking is... refined. Different. More—”

“Technical,” I finished for her. “Yeah. I hear it.”

She signed again, slower this time. “And his voice…”

“There’s something about it,” I said, brow furrowing in concentration. “It’s really good. Like…there’s this emotional weight to it. Vulnerability.”

“It reminds me of yours,” Susie signed. “In that way.”

We kept listening.

Susie blinked and signed, “This might actually work.

I nodded, grinning. “Musically, it just might.”

“It’ll be like… rock grit meets emo girl magic,” Susie signed.

“Don’t get your hopes up yet, Susie-Q. They’re a bunch of rowdy British guys. It might be a disaster. I’ve never joined a fully formed band without walking straight into a mess of chaos.”

And something told me this time would be no different.

Wade and Andy seemed hopeful, like they believed it would all just fall into place.

I wasn’t that optimistic.

She nodded, then signed, “I’m still curious how his voice will blend with yours.”

I tapped my fingers against my thigh, keeping time with the track. “Yeah… they could give our sound some grit. And we could give theirs some cinematic fullness. But none of that matters if we can’t get along.”

The challenge of blending different styles into something bold and unexpected had me buzzing. It felt big, bigger than I’d expected. Like a spark catching in dry brush, fast, bright, and dangerous. But beneath the hum of excitement was that familiar knot in my gut. A quiet warning. That this could all go up in smoke. Another almost. Another letdown.

Unable to shake the swirl of emotions, nerves, hope, dread. I opened Instagram and YouTube and typed in “The Tellers.”

Liam Teller came up, and his profile was sparse, typical guy stuff. But what little he did post spoke volumes.

His pictures were captivating. Professionally shot band photos mixed with candid glimpses of his life. He was gorgeous, of course. Tall and broad-shouldered, built like he could command a stadium or carry someone over his shoulder without breaking a sweat. Tattoos crawled across his arms and peeked out from the neckline of his shirts, adding an edge to his quiet, self-assured demeanour. He had a magnetic, understated presence. I scrolled through his feed, taking in the sharp lighting and artistic framing of his shots.

Someone who knew their way around a camera had definitely taken these. Maybe a girlfriend, I guessed. He looked incredible in every frame, a mix of smouldering and approachable that made my stomach flip.

God, he was going to be trouble. Real trouble. If I let him. Because he was everything I liked about musicians. Talented, passionate, introspective, and built like he could throw me around a room.

Which only confirmed my suspicion. He was probably an egotistical asshole who wouldn’t love sharing the spotlight. 

Let’s see.

Against my better judgment, I hit the follow button.

To my surprise, the notification popped up almost instantly. 

Liam Teller followed you back.

He was online. He followed back right away.

Bold move, met with a bolder one.

The idea of messaging him hung in the air like forbidden fruit. Ripe, dangerous, and begging to be picked.

Sliding into a frontman’s DMs? Classic bad idea.

But this felt… different. And I needed to know why.

The feeling gnawed at me, sharp and persistent.

Before I could stop myself, my fingers were already typing:

Me: Hey, Liam Teller. Preempting the meet-up next week and sliding into your DMs.

The typing ellipsis appeared almost instantly.

Had he been lurking on my profile? Hadn’t he?

The thought sent a warm rush down my spine.

Curiosity bloomed into something bigger.

Who the hell was this guy?

And why did it feel like I was about to find out something I wouldn’t be able to unknow?

Liam: Alright, Emma Hartgrave. Nice to meet you.

Nice to meet you. Polite enough. No “Hey gorgeous,” “What up hottie,” or “You’re the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.” Reserved for a frontman.

Me: So… what are you all about? Besides gritty guitar riffs and breaking hearts?

Liam: You creeping my profiles?

Me: You creeping mine?

Liam: Fair point.

Me: Andy and Wade have been talking you guys up a bit.

Liam: Sticking to the good bits, I hope.

Me: Something about steering clear of Max and Dan.

I was joking, of course, but his reply came almost immediately.

Liam: That’s actually sound advice, that.

Me: And you? Are you the deep, brooding one?

Liam: Lol. You got that from my profile?

Me: No, from your songs. Wade and Andy gave us fresh copies of your demos. They’re good. Amazing, really.

God, I sounded like a fan.

What was I even doing?

This felt like a cliff’s edge. And I’d learned to be wary of good-looking men and sudden heights.

Liam: Cheers, love. That means a lot coming from someone as talented as you.

“Love, huh? Must be a British boy thing.”

Still, heat crept up my neck as I typed back, tossing in a blushing emoji I instantly regretted.

I was flattered he’d even bothered to listen. Flattered, he cared.

Liam: You coming next week, then?

Me: Guess so. Then we’ll find out how it all blends together.

Liam: Aye, I have to say, I’m looking forward to it.

Me: Better not get ahead of ourselves. Could end up an epic failure.

Liam: Oh, probably. Proper disaster.

Me: Worst thing to ever happen to both our bands.

Liam: Absolutely. But sod it, yeah? We’ll never know if we don’t take the risk.

Me: Always been my mantra when it comes to the music, Teller.

Liam: Same here.

Huh.

I didn’t see that coming.

He seemed…genuine. At least through text.

As I set my phone down, despite my better judgment, I couldn’t help the grin tugging at my lips.

There was a buzz in my chest.

A low hum of inevitability thrumming under my skin.

Let’s see what you’ve got, Teller.

Read Free on KU

Beauty, Breakdowns, and Beginnings

They were built to break records—not each other’s hearts. 

Emma Hartgrave wasn’t looking for a band. and she definitely wasn’t looking for Liam. A brooding British guitarist with too many tattoos and far too much magnetism behind those emerald-green eyes. But when she and her sister Susie are discovered by seasoned music managers Wade and Andy, they’re swept up into a whirlwind plan to build the next legacy band.

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