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“Avenue Q is an underrated show,” Rhodes replied. “And it met all the fucking requirements. I can’t help it if you didn’t like the content.”

Another round of arguments erupted around the table, but my attention stayed on Rhodes. Something about this goofy version of him was so lovable. Honestly, the whole group thrived on laughter, chaos, and random bouts of song. The wedding rehearsal itself lasted all of fifteen minutes. It was as if no one cared. Everyone was far more focused on sitting down and catching up.

As they did, I was trying to get everyone straight. There were just so many of them.

There was Solene, better known to most of the world as Porcelain Riot, the vocalist of Noise Dolls. Romy—or Static Snarl—played lead guitar, while Frankie, who was Velvet Bruise, handled rhythm guitar and backup vocals. Billie Gray, also known as Lowblood, played bass, and sometimes lent her voice when the song called for it. And then there was May—or Crashbaby—their drummer.

The band was easy enough. Jude had unintentionally prepared me for the Noise Dolls portion of the evening through years of unsolicited information.

It was everyone else I was still getting to know.

Asher and Grace were married and apparently came as something of a matching set. Professionally, they were known as Fuzzbox and Blackout Bunny, handling the lighting and front-of-house sound for the band. At least, I was fairly certain that’s what they handled. Imogen was called Deadbolt, and she was the tour manager. She’d already demonstrated her almost supernatural ability to shut down an argument with a single look. They also jokingly called her Mom, which I could understand.

Then there was the security team.

Dawson was the Stray, Beck was the Rook, and Grady was Nightlock. He ran the entire security team. Dawson and Beck looked exactly like men whose profession involved making people reconsider their bad ideas. However, Dawson had spent most of the evening trying to fit an entire dinner roll in his mouth, which somewhat undermined his intimidation factor.

Grady, on the other hand, wasn’t terrifying at all. He was the nicest English guy I’d ever met—well, he was the only English guy I’d ever met. He was soft-spoken, smiled constantly, and had even apologized to me when I accidentally bumped into him. It was hard to believe they’d picked him to be head of security.

Except then someone told a story about some guy who’d rushed the stage during a show in Germany. Apparently, the guy had been twice Grady’s size, high out of his mind, and swung hard enough to break Grady’s nose. Grady had calmly put the guy on the ground, reset his own nose backstage, stuffed gauze up it, and finished working the show before anyone could convince him to go to the hospital.

When I asked why he hadn’t hit the guy back, Grady looked genuinely confused by the question. Apparently, he’d only needed to hit him once.

I was beginning to understand why Rhodes had referred to them collectively as the crew rather than attempting to explain all of this beforehand. They weren’t neatly divided into band, employees, security, and friends. Those lines seemed to have disappeared years ago. Everyone talked over everyone else, food migrated between plates without permission, and old stories were dragged out purely to embarrass whoever happened to be the current target. Asher had kissed the top of Imogen’s head when he walked behind her chair, Billie had stolen half of Beck’s drink, and Sloane had been threatened with bodily harm by three separate people since we sat down.

And Rhodes fit right in the middle of it. Well, maybe fit wasn’t the right word. He belonged here. They interrupted him, touched him, insulted him, pulled him into stories, and expected him to remember jokes that went years back. No one treated him like an addition to the group because he’d come attached to Sariah. He was simply one of them.

Which was also how I discovered that Rhodes Kennedy, intimidating football coach and rocket scientist, had apparently been given the nickname Starboy.

Starboy.

I hadn’t recovered from that one yet. The first time someone shouted it across the table, I’d automatically looked toward Rhodes, expecting confusion from him. Instead, he’d answered without hesitation. That was when I knew I’d been handed information I planned to abuse for the rest of his life. Judging by the warning look Rhodes gave me when he caught me smiling, he knew it too.

And then there was Sariah—or Ragdoll, as everyone around the table called her with varying degrees of affection and exasperation. I’d already known she was Rhodes’ best friend, but watching them together was something else. They had the kind of friendship that seemed to operate without words. She’d hold out a hand without looking, and Rhodes would pass her whatever she wanted. He’d shift in his chair, and somehow, she’d know he was about to get up. More than once, I caught them exchanging a glance across the table before reacting to something the same way. They were fascinating to watch.

There was also a physical ease between them that probably would’ve made me jealous if I didn’t understand exactly what I was looking at. Sariah leaned against him when she laughed. Rhodes fixed the strap of her dress without interrupting his conversation. She stole from his plate, he drank from her glass, and neither seemed to notice. Or maybe they did, and they were just that in sync.

“Theo! Theo, talk to me!” Sariah exclaimed, turning on me and pulling me out of my thoughts. “If you did musical theater karaoke—”

“Don’t bring him into this!” Rhodes interjected.

“Quiet, mate, the bride is talking,” Sloane said, laughing.

“Thank you.” She smiled at him before turning back to me. “If you did musical theater karaoke, what would you sing?”

“I don’t…” I faltered. “I don’t… I’ve never seen a musical unless you count The Wizard of Oz.”

A collective oh rolled over the table, their expressions turning serious. They shared glances and had an entire conversation silently without me being privy to it. It felt like I’d crossed into forbidden territory.

“What’d I do wrong?” I practically begged under my breath as I looked to Rhodes for help, worried I’d fucked everything up already.

“We don’t talk about that show,” Rhodes replied. His hand found my thigh, and he gave it a light squeeze to reassure me.

“That explains nothing,” I muttered.

“It’s better that way.”

“Aye, the munchkin incident,” Sloane commented, his tone grave as he shook his head.