So we do it again. And again. Each run-through tighter than the last, each transition smoother, each moment of improvisation landing exactly where it should. By the fifth pass, I'm drenched in sweat and my throat is starting to protest, but I don't want to stop.
Neither does anyone else.
Carmine has been watching from the corner the entire time, perched on a stool with his tablet balanced on his knee. He hasn't said a word since we started. Just observes, takes notes, and occasionally types something I can't see.
His expression gives away nothing.
When we finally call for a water break, I collapse onto the ratty couch shoved against the back wall. Phoenix tosses me a bottle, which I catch with fingers that are shaking from adrenaline more than exhaustion.
"Bells."
Carmine's voice cuts through the post-rehearsal buzz. He's standing now, tablet tucked under his arm, and he's looking at me with an expression I can't quite parse.
"Got a minute?"
Phoenix and Rafael exchange glances. Rex's eye narrows slightly, tracking Carmine's movement across the room like he's a threat that needs monitoring.
"Sure." I push myself up from the couch, legs wobbling slightly. "What's up?"
Carmine gestures toward the hallway, away from the others. Not private, exactly—the studio door is open, and anyone could hear us if they tried—but separate.
I follow him out, hyperaware of Rex's gaze burning into my back.
The hallway is cooler than the studio, the air less thick with the smell of sweat and old equipment. Carmine leans against the wall, arms crossed, studying me with that unreadable expression.
"You're magic with them," he says finally.
I blink. "What?"
"The band. The chemistry." He shakes his head slowly, like he's still processing what he just witnessed. "I've been in this industry for over two decades. I've seen ahellof a lot of artiststrying to manufacture something that looks like connection. What you four have in there?" He gestures back toward the studio. "That was real."
I don't know what to say. Compliments from music industry professionals usually come with strings attached—you're great, butorimpressive, however. Carmine's tone doesn't have any of that. Just straightforward assessment from someone who knows what he's looking at.
"Rex is…difficult," Carmine continues. "Everyone knows that. He's burned through vocalist after vocalist. But you…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You complement his sound, but you challenge it too. Push it somewhere it hasn't been before."
I snort. "Oh, I push him, alright. Push his buttons."
Carmine's lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. I came into this assignment expecting damage control. Crisis management. I'm leaving today thinking this tour might actually be something special."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me standing in the hallway with his words echoing in my ears.
Something special.
Damn, that feels… good.
Provided Carmine is genuine, of course. But I've developed a pretty fucking good read on people, and this guy doesn't have any of the usual signs of being a bullshit artist.
And I let myself believe it for exactly thirty seconds. Let myself feel just a little twinge of hope for a future where this actuallyworks out. Where I finally get to create something that matters. Hell, maybe I'll even get to leave my mark on the world.
Mymark.
When I walk back into the studio, Phoenix is crouched over his drum kit, carefully loosening the snare head while Rafael wipes down his bass strings with a cloth. Neither of them is talking much.
Shit, I think I actually traumatized these poor alphas. Hope they can't tell I think it's kind of cute.
"What'd Carmine want?" Phoenix asks without looking up.
"Just wanted to tell me we don't suck."