"He did it again," Korgan sighed.
Jay glared at the singer, slouched on the couch, sulking, eyes glued to his phone.
"You've gotta stop, Red. Seriously. This is getting obsessive," he snapped, clearly annoyed.
Red didn't look up. "What do you want me to do? It's hopeless anyway. He's not — he air-quoted with dramatic flair, "playing for my team."
"Since when has a guy being straight ever stopped you?" Jeff chimed in.
Korgan chuckled. "You know that's not the issue. Go on, Red. Tell him."
Red shot a glare at the guitarist. He knew Korgan was teasing, but his cheerfulness only made the whole thing sting more.
Two weeks ago, at the hotel, Red had fallen hard for some pretty boy. As usual. And, as usual, he'd made his move. Well—"move" might be generous. He'd practically pounced on the poor guy, and gotten rejected just as hard.
A lurking paparazzo had caught the moment: Red, grinning like a wolf, dragging his crush into the elevator, grabbing his ass right before the doors closed. Security footage had been seized in a frantic attempt to contain the damage, but the story still leaked. The young man —a hotel bellhop, no less—had shoved him off and made a scene. And honestly? Fair enough. Red had backed off, not out of decency. Out of clarity. This one was a no.
Was Red embarrassed? Not really. Shame wasn't exactly part of his emotional vocabulary. He thrived on scandal. The tabloids practically had a subscription to his disasters. Nobody was surprised. Appalled? Sure. But not surprised. Everyone knew Red Kellin, frontman of Beat'ONE, was a firecracker — and he lived up to that reputation. When he wanted something, he went for it. Whether he got it or not was a different story.
This time, though, it backfired hard. The bellhop threatened legal action, even after Red's apologies (genuine, for once) and his promise to stay at least a hundred meters away.
To "close the chapter" like a gentleman, Red had sent him tickets to their sold-out concert—making sure the seat was exactly one hundred meters from the stage. Now he was moping. The tickets had come back with a brutal note: "I hate fags!" And that was it. Game over. Another beautiful waste. Such a gorgeous guy—straight, and as if that wasn't bad enough, homophobic.
Red sighed, resigned. He sighed again. The studio stank of metal and hot cables. It made him nauseous. Or maybe that was just his motivation going up in smoke.
Jay's voice cut through the silence.
"Red, move your ass and get in that damn booth!" He pointing at the padded door of the soundproof chamber.
The flickering light above flashed like a warning—Jay's patience was running thin. They only had one song left to record for their album, EVENEMENTIAL, and Red's theatrics were tanking their schedule. Meanwhile, their producer Ethan Bosco, circled like a vulture, waiting to pounce at the next screw-up.
"Ethan's gonna—"
"Screw Ethan! He's not the one I want. I want Laurent!"
Jeff blinked. "Who?"
"The bellhop," Korgan reminded him. " Did you sleep through that trainwreck?"
Jeff shrugged. "So many scandals, I lose track."
Korgan snorted. "Coming from you, that's the pot calling the kettle black."
"He was blond, right?" Jeff guessed.
"What do you think?" Red muttered, dead inside.
Jay snapped. "Guys! You think now's the time to mess around? We've got three days!"
"I'm depressed. Can't you at least respect that?" Red shot back.
Deadline or not, he was planning to wallow and drown in self-pity. That missed opportunity had the bluest eyes… Jay's frustration boiled over.
"Red!"
"I'm going out."
He grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, car keys in hand, and slammed the door behind him. The scent of warm leather hung in the air like an aftershock.
"But…"
Jay froze, speechless. Then— BANG! His boot connected with a metal toolbox. The crash echoed like a gunshot. Jeff didn't flinch. Just shrugged, unimpressed. Korgan raised his eyebrows, mildly concerned.
"You know better than to push him when he's like this," he said softly.
Jay erupted. "Goddamn it! I'm sick of walking on eggshells! If he doesn't grow the hell up, and start acting professional, we're screwed. We've got contracts. A timeline! The label's breathing down our necks, for fuck's sake!"
Jeff leaned against the wall, unfazed. "Yelling at us won't help."
Jay stared at the bassist, stunned. Of course, Jeff didn't care—Mr. Movie Star, face of Kanon® Homme perfume, fresh off a new casting for that mega-budget live-action adaptation of Katy Prank's best-seller. Big Shot here had other priorities now. Jay had noticed his growing detachment—indifference to both the serious and the trivial. And it wasn't just Red slowing things down—it was Jeff too, with his jam-packed schedule and his manager, a hyperactive curry-fueled pint-sized Indian who ran on espresso and fury and made their lives hell.
Korgan's expression darkened, as tension thickened. Jay's gaze toward Jeff turned colder. Contempt, almost. If Jeff noticed, he didn't let on. He unfolded his long legs, stood, slid into his jacket, and nodded to the sound techs at the mixing console. His basslines were already recorded. No point in standing around watching the band unravel. His absence wouldn't hurt anyone. He stopped at the door, glanced back.
"Call your daughter, Jet. Tell her I've got loads of gifts for her."
Jay blinked. The anger in his eyes faded, replaced by melancholy. He muttered, "Things weren't like this… when Brent was around."
Jeff paused, his hand on the doorknob. The name hit like a sucker punch. He didn't reply. Just slammed the door behind him.
Jay bit his lower lip, guilt washing over him. Silence fell—thick, suffocating. The orange glow from the studio lights hung like dusk over a battlefield. No one moved. Not even the sound crew.
With Ethan breathing down their necks, everyone's nerves were frayed. The producer had no qualms taking liberties on their behalf. The studio's closing date was fixed. If Red didn't come back in time, they wouldn't finish. And they couldn't extend their booking—another band, the type with deep pockets, had already reserved the next slot.
And it was true—Jay hadn't seen his daughter in a while. The drummer sank into his chair and called for a break.
No one argued.
*