Page 97 of Seven Lost Summers
“Yeah, and?”
“And now a girl’s practically short-circuiting in front of you, and you’re standing here blinking like a confused golden retriever. What happened to the guy who could smell a crush from a mile away and seal the deal before lunch?”
I glare at him. “You done?”
“Not even close,” Theo retorts, laughing. “Either you lost your game or your dick’s out of service. Might wanna get that shit checked.”
I stand frozen, confused as fuck. I wait for him to explain, but he remains there, grinning as if this is the goddamn highlight of his week.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t bother hiding a thing. “Immensely. Honestly, I haven’t had this much fun since that groupie called you my name mid-blowjob.”
I blink. “That never happened.”
He shrugs, smug as ever. “You were too busy choking on your ego to catch it.”
I take a sip from my cup and move around the bench, dropping onto one of the stools.
Theo goes back to cracking eggs into a bowl, calm as ever.
My eyes track him as he fishes out a piece of shell and flicks the fragment into the sink before he finally looks up.
“How do you think she’ll go today?” I ask.
“Quinn will be fine," Theo says. "You’ve seen the way she captures shit. Moments no one else even notices. She’ll get one of Ace being the usual grumpy bastard that he is. His resting asshole face will do half the work for her. What I’m really hoping for is that she finally gets a shot of Pretty-boy that makes him look like the rest of us. Sweaty. Slightly pissed off. Maybe caught mid-sneeze.”
I shake my head, laughing now. “You really want to knock Xander off his pedestal.”
“Someone’s got to do it,” Theo says, dead serious. “Every time I see one of those glossy posters, I give him a makeover. Dicks on the jawline, devil horns, the occasional lazy eye. You know, artistic expression.”
I grin, already picturing it.
Theo’s been on a quiet mission for years to take Xander down a peg, usually by defiling his posters with dicks in various positions.
Theo grins. “It’s a public service, really. Makes people stop treating him like he pisses Chanel.”
I snort into my cup. “So are you going to tell me what you said to make Quinn freak the fuck out?”
He doesn’t flinch, just keeps whisking. “Nah. You’ll work it out soon enough. These are ready to cook now.”
I eye the eggs, after that I eye him. I know Theo. Give it five seconds and he’ll get distracted by something shiny and burn the whole damn pan. So I slide off the stool and take over, cracking the skillet to life.
We move around each other easily. No words needed. It’s been that way for years. Through the chaos, the tours, the late-night arguments that nearly split us down the middle, we always find our way back to this—breakfast, eggs, coffee, smartass comments, and a rhythm that works.
Still, I glance toward the hallway, wondering what the fuck Quinn sees that I don’t.
It’s 9:03.
We’re three minutes late, and I already know Kit or Xander will be riding our asses for it. Probably both.
We head toward Ace’s place, the morning heat pressing down, clinging to my skin. Today’s going to be a long one in the studio—the kind that scrapes at your patience and doesn’t let up.
Our sound isn’t what it was when we first started. It’s rougher now, jagged in places, tighter in others. It hits harder. There’s grit in every note. That’s what happens when time beats the shit out of you. Things shift. Bands either evolve or burn out trying to stay the same.
Still, underneath all of it, the foundation holds. The rhythm, the weight, the pulse—it’s all there. Wrapped in newer scars and louder truths.
Quinn walks between us, quiet, eyes on the ground, stuck deep in her own head. Her camera bounces against her chest with every step, fingers twitching against the strap. She’s nervous. Anyone with half a brain could see that.
