Page 52 of Every Shattered Note
He doesn’t say anything.Just keeps his eyes on me, like the world won’t move until I do.
When I finally slip my hand into his, his fingers curl around mine, warm and certain.He helps me up, and even after I’ve found my balance, his thumb lingers against my skin—just a subtle drag, a promise he doesn’t voice.
He lets go, but only because he has to.
And somehow, it still feels like he hasn’t.
The jet is sleek and silver, reflecting the overcast sky like a mirror.No logos.No name on the tail.It could belong to anyone ...or no one.As if it exists in an entirely separate world—one that doesn’t follow the same rules as mine.
Inside, it’s even more surreal.Cream-colored leather seats, polished mahogany trim, everything gleaming like it’s been wiped clean of fingerprints or people.There’s just quiet opulence, a folded blanket rests on one seat, two crystal glasses already waiting, and low music curling through the cabin—Ella Fitzgerald, lilting and soft, like the walls themselves remember a different decade and don’t want to let go.
I sink into the seat across from him, stiff, clutching my purse like I’m waiting to be asked to leave.Or wake up.Or both.
He watches me carefully.Like he knows this doesn’t make sense to someone like me, and is bracing for me to bolt.
“You okay?”
“No,” I whisper.Then louder: “I mean ...I don’t know.This isn’t exactly normal.”
His mouth lifts slightly, more ache than amusement.“You need a new normal,” he says.“Maybe learn to relax while you’re at it.”
Easy for him to say.He’s lounging like this is just another Tuesday.One arm sprawled across the top of his seat, like he’s on some talk show couch instead of a luxury jet that feels like it fell out of another dimension.He looks at home here.I don’t even look like I should be holding the glass.
The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, slightly distorted, like he’s talking to us from a submarine.
“Mr.Vaughn, we’re cleared for takeoff.Should be smooth all the way down to San Cristobal, Baja California.”
I blink.“We’re going to Mexico?”
He nods.“Told you there’d be a beach.”
That’s all he says.Like it’s obvious.Like this whole detour was written into the script from the start, and I just missed the rehearsal.
“Rafe ...”I manage, but the words collapse halfway out of my throat.What am I even supposed to say?Thanks for the emotional whiplash?For casually rewriting my entire reality like it’s nothing?
“Not Rafe.It’s Dexter,” he corrects, voice steady.“The name’s Dexter Vaughn.Rafe’s just the guy who showed up late to your event.I paid him off to disappear, so I could prove to you that I actually knew who the fuck Hall & Oates were.”
There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth—perfectly timed, a little too casual.A grin meant to keep things light when they’re anything but.
And me?
My jaw’s somewhere on the tarmac as I stare athim.Not Rafe, buttheDexter Vaughn.
ChapterTwenty-Three
Dexter
Aly is staring at me like I’ve just confessed I’m an extraterrestrial entity sent to infiltrate the music industry.She’s all wide-eyed.Still.So silent, I’m worried she’s not breathing.Her disbelief is almost comical if it weren’t tinged with something that feels more like betrayal than surprise.
“You okay?”I ask, even though I know that’s not the right question.Not anymore.
Her lips part, slowly.“Vaughn,” she breathes.“Like ...the keyboardist from Dead Moth Parade?”
I could tell her I was a lot more than that.I could explain how I used to drift between instruments like smoke—bass, drums, keys—whatever a song needed, I made it breathe.I floated through the stage like I belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.But none of that matters right now, not to her.
“Yeah,” I say, before she spirals too far.
Her brows knit as she rifles through memories she didn’t know she had.“As in Vaughn from VCR Vaughn?The fucking music label?”
