Page 27 of Unfinished Noise

Spencer didn’t let him respond. “You want this tour to work? Then don’t blow up the people who are trying to support us. Alfie’s messy, yeah. But he’s loyal. And he’s here because he cares about you.”

Nathan’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him.

Spencer softened his tone, but not his stance. “Talk to him. Not at him. And don’t make him feel like he’s disposable. We’ve already lost enough people.”

Nathan swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then fix it,” Spencer said. “Tonight. After the show.”

A pounding at the door cut through the tension, but Spencer didn’t step back. He held Nathan’s gaze until Nathan nodded—small, reluctant, but real.

Only then did Spencer move aside so Nathan could let Farlan and Billy in.

Farlan looked sharp as hell—black jeans, a fitted charcoal shirt, a silver chain, hair styled like he’d walked out of a magazine shoot. Billy wore ripped denim, a vintage band tee, and a flannel tied around his waist. His eyeliner was smudged, probably from stress or from not caring.

“Are you guys okay?” Farlan asked.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“Where are the boys?” Farlan asked.

“They decided not to come tonight,” Nathan said.

Farlan shot Billy a death glare that could peel paint. “Does this have to do with that phone call from Alfie?”

Billy crossed his arms. “Alfie made it clear he doesn’t want to be friends. He told me to go to hell.”

“Billy,” Farlan said, exasperated, “why can’t you stay drama‑free?”

“Ask Alfie. He started it.”

Nathan stood, voice firm. “Right now, everyone here needs to focus. We can either make it back or die out.”

Spencer said nothing, but the weight of it—the band, the tour, the boys in the hotel room, the ranch Jamie kept painting like a memory he didn’t want to lose. Everything balanced on a wire.

Nathan drove like he always did when he was stressed—hands tight on the wheel, jaw locked, eyes fixed straight ahead. Spencer sat in the passenger seat, watching the city lights smear past the windows. Farlan and Billy climbed to the back, slamming the doors harder than necessary.

The silence lasted maybe ten seconds.

Then Farlan snapped. “What the hell were you thinking, Billy?” His voice cut through the van like a blade. “You keep causing problems and then act surprised when people get pissed.”

Billy’s head jerked up. “I didn’t cause anything. Alfie called me.”

“Yeah,” Farlan said, leaning forward between the seats, “and you couldn’t let it go? You had to poke at him until he blew up.”

Billy scoffed. “I didn’t poke at him.”

“You did,” Farlan shot back. “You always do. And I’m tired of cleaning up after it.”

The familiar tension behind Spencer intensified. He’d heard this tone from Billy before—years ago, backstage, in vans, in green rooms. Billy didn’t fight quietly; he fought like someone who’d been cornered.

Billy’s voice rose. “Why is everything my fault? Alfie’s the one who told me to go to hell!”

Farlan didn’t back down. “Maybe he wouldn’t if you stopped acting like a walking disaster.”

Billy’s breath hitched. “Fuck off.”

Farlan’s next words came out colder. “Maybe you should decide what you actually want. Do you want to be my bandmate or my lover? Because right now you’re doing a shitty job at both.”