Page 28 of Before You Fell

“Look at that,” Jax says from the couch. “The dead can walk.”

Phoenix slides the sunglasses down just enough to observe him over the top. His eyes are bloodshot.

Cruz grins. “Rough night?”

Phoenix’s mouth curves. “Depends who you ask.”

Damon looks up from the lyric sheets. The muscle in his cheek jumps once. His eyes flick to the clock on the wall, then back to Phoenix.

“You’re late,” he says, his voice flat and pissed.

Phoenix lifts one shoulder. “And yet, somehow, the world kept turning.”

His eyes find mine behind the sunglasses. Even hidden, I feel them.

“Morning, Wills,” he says. “Miss me or are we still pretending you don’t notice when I’m gone?”

“Easy, brother,” Cruz says. “Save the asshole routine for someone who thinks it’s foreplay.”

Damon snaps his fingers once at Phoenix. “Booth. Now.”

Phoenix finally looks away from me.

“Relax, asshole,” he says, swaggering toward the vocal booth. “You’ll get your hit.”

Phoenix opens the booth door and steps inside. He grabs the headphones and puts them on.

His eyes meet mine through the glass and, for one second, the room shrinks.

Nothing about Phoenix is ever soft. It’s the kind of soft that presses against my ribs and reminds me I have spent half my life knowing him, loving him, and pretending neither of those things has fucked me over in different ways. He looks at me as if I were the only person here who matters.

I hate that he can still do that.

I hate that after the women, the drugs, and all the filthy little smiles he throws at women who would crawl over broken glass for five minutes under him, my heart still beats harder at one stupid glance.

He leans toward the mic, one hand cupping the headphones, his mouth close enough to the metal grille to make the whole thing appear filthy.

Phoenix never simply sings into a microphone. He owns it. Dirties it. Turns breath and ego into a felony set to a melody.

Damon moves back into the control room and stops at the soundboard beside the engineer, his polished band manager’s face barely hiding how pissed he is.

Damon wants an album, numbers on a board, and Phoenix sober enough to sing but reckless enough to sell.

The engineer leans into the mic. “Are you good in there?”

Phoenix pulls the headphones down around his neck and looks at him through the glass. “Do I fucking look like I’m standing here ordering a sandwich?”

The engineer blinks.

Phoenix tilts his head, his mouth twisting into something mean enough to cut. “I’m in a recording booth with a mic in front of my face. Use your fucking brain.”

Jax snorts from the couch. “Charming prick.”

Cruz barely looks up. “Careful. Keep complimenting him and he’ll start charging you a meet-and-greet fee.”

I sit down between Jax and Jett.

Damon nods at the engineer.