Page 28 of Every Shattered Note
It’s not my fault.No one told me the guy I’d nearly fired last week for being unprepared would show up looking like that.The glasses make him look smarter than he probably is, but the faint stubble on his jaw ruins any chance at innocence.It’s frustrating how well it works.
Jules tilts her head.“You know I’m right.”
“Why are you like this?”I whisper, pressing my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose like that might save me from her commentary—or from myself.
“Because someone has to tell the truth.”She gestures toward the two guys crouched near the front of the stage, taping cables with practiced ease.“And those two don’t match him.Where did he find them?Look at the setup—new gear, quality amps, expensive mics.That’s not the kind of equipment a guy crashing in his parents’ basement brings to an audition.These men look like they just rolled off a tour bus.”
“Which tour?”
She squints, thinking hard, lips pursed in mock concentration.“Hmm ...U2?Dave Matthews?Maybe ‘NSYNC’s older, moodier cousins?”
“That’d be New Kids on the Block,” I say dryly.
Jules snorts.“Same energy.”
I laugh under my breath, unwillingly amused.“Or maybe they’re just roadies.Friends, maybe.”
“Uh-huh.”She crosses her arms.“Or maybe your boy Rafe got kicked out of The Seattle Philharmonic for playing too many love songs in rehearsals.”
“Jules.”
“What?You’re the one who told him to show up.I’m just saying—ask for his credentials before he serenades us into financial ruin.”
Before I can roll my eyes, the air shifts.A low, honeyed vibration hums through the room—just a few simple strums, soft but deliberate enough to pull attention like a string.
It’s him.
We both turn at once.
Rafe’s standing center stage, fingers tracing across the strings like he’s not just tuning but coaxing something to life.The sound fills the room—gentle, warm, but edged with something raw underneath.Every note feels precise, yet easy, like breathing for him.
It’s ridiculous how fast my pulse answers.
There’s no showmanship—no big entrance, no flourish.Just the unhurried rhythm of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.Each note hums through the space and into me, threading through my skin until I’m half-afraid he can tell what it’s doing to me.
It shouldn’t feel intimate.It’s a sound check.
But it does.
The noise from the staff fades, replaced by the soft drag of his thumb along the strings.He looks up, almost absentmindedly, gaze sweeping the room.And when it finds me—just for a heartbeat—it’s enough to pin me in place.
There’s no smile.Not really.Just the brief pull of something across his face—recognition, maybe.Or challenge.
My throat goes dry.I look away first, pretending to jot something on my clipboard.The pen doesn’t even touch the paper.
Pull yourself together, Stone.It’s an audition, not a confession.
He adjusts the mic, tests it once with a quiet “check” that hums lower than it should, and even that sounds good—too good.
Jules whispers, “Oh, this is going to be trouble.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the audition or the way I can’t stop staring—like someone who wants to be the microphone just to hear his voice up close, let it slide through my ears and settle somewhere deep in my bones.Maybe even lower.Maybe even worse.
He interrupts the very, very dirty thoughts I was starting to have.“We took the liberty of rearranging the list a bit,” he says, tone low, even.“But bear with me—I think it should flow better.”
Jules leans toward me.“He took the liberty?”she whispers.“He’s either a genius or a menace.”
I ignore her.Barely.
