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Then say, very calmly, “What the fuck?”

Nobody answers.

Which is probably good, because the next sound out of me is somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

I reheat the coffee.

Still, not the pizza.

I have standards.

I'm sitting on the counter reading the email Austin sent approximately ninety seconds after we hung up.

There are dates.

A studio address.

Hotel information.

A rough schedule.

A private link to the current version of the song.

And, horrifyingly, my name.

Not Grave Intentions.

DEX MERCER — vocals / writing session

That's me.

Probably.

Unless there is another Dex who happens to sing and write music and also got personally invited by Austin Fucking Fletcher, in which case I wish him well but he needs to get the fuck out of my email.

The front door opens.

Micah walks in wearing a black hoodie, his hair pulled back and still smelling faintly like green soap when he reaches into the refrigerator.

He glances at me.

Then glances again.

“What happened?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why do you assume something happened?”

“Because you're sitting on the counter staring at your phone without talking.”

“Maybe I'm growing.”

“No.”

Fair.

He pulls out a bottle of water.

I try to say it casually. “Austin Fletcher called me.”