Page 10 of Mending Hearts
We follow her through the hallway to the stage entrance. The set is exactly what you’d expect: warm lighting, a long couch, an armchair, a coffee table with tasteful fake books, and a backdrop that looks like a stylized city skyline at night.
Cal Hart is onstage practicing his intro, cue cards in hand, suit jacket off.
He looks up when he sees us and breaks into a grin. “There they are!”
He hops down like he’s meeting friends, not guests. “Steel Saints,” he says, shaking hands like it matters. “Thanks for being here. Seriously. I know you guys are fresh off tour.”
Miles smiles. “Happy to.”
Cal’s eyes flick to me and soften a little, like he can tell I’d rather be under a blanket at home. “Rafe,” he says warmly. “Good to see you again.”
We’ve crossed paths before—industry events, charity galas, the occasional festival. Cal has always been… normal, in a world full of people who aren’t.
“Yeah,” I say. “Good to see you.”
“We’ll keep it chill,” Cal promises. “Tour wrap, a little music talk, then you guys rip the roof off with a song and we all go home happy.”
Drew points at him. “I like this guy.”
Cal laughs. “I’m very likable. It’s my brand.”
We do the sound check. Mics clipped. Levels tested. A quick run of the opening riff for “Velocity” to make sure the audio is clean.
My fingers find the strings, muscle memory doing what it always does. And still—my chest constricts at the first chord. Because this song is a ghost, and the first time I played it in my head, I was thinking about a tall basketball player with a careful smile and too many walls.
Now I play it for crowds of thousands.
Funny how life works.
Sound check done, Naomi leads us back toward the green room. “You’re all set. We’ve got another guest arriving soon, but you’ll all be in the green room together—should be fun.”
“Who?” Vinny asks.
Naomi’s lips part as if to answer, but she’s pulled away before she gets the chance.
We file into the green room—yes, it is sort of green, in an aggressively modern way. There’s a plush couch, chairs, a table with more snacks, and a giant monitor showing the live feed of the stage while crew shuffle around like ants.
And sitting in an armchair like he belongs there is a man I recognize instantly.
Actor.
Famous.
Cool in that effortless way that makes you want to either be him or punch him, depending on your mood. He’s mid-laugh looking at his phone when we walk in, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He looks up, eyes bright.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Steel Saints.”
Miles beams. “Holy shit,you.”
The actor stands and offers his hand like a normal person. “I’m Adrian Vale.”
Adrian Vale. Movie star. Awards. Blockbusters. The kind of guy who plays charming assholes and somehow makes people love him for it.
“Rafe,” I say, shaking his hand.
His grip is firm. “Man, I saw you guys in London. You were insane.”
“Thanks,” I say.
