Page 1 of Hidden with a Rockstar
CHAPTER 1
THE GIG
"You don't understand, this tempo is already sitting at one-seventy," the guy on my screen says, "and she's layering ghost notes under that? That's insane."
I'm clicking around the spreadsheet as I listen to the video.
I divide my screen into three parts: a spreadsheet fills the middle of the desktop, and I position Riley Puth's latest practice recording leaning against my pencil case. It acts as a blocker—anyone walking past the cube sees just another accountant hunched over work.
The YouTuber keeps talking over it. "Look at her left hand—see that, wow, right there?—"
On screen, Riley's expression doesn't change. She transitions out of the solo as if nothing just happened.
Just a slight exhale. So cool.
The commentator laughs. "That's amazing."
I realise I've been leaning closer to the screen without meaning to.
My phone vibrates.
I grab it and read the messages flooding in before my brain catches up with my mouth.
Ravita
TONIGHT. TONIGHT.
Marnie
I'm hiding in the stockroom watching this.
Ravita
I'm packed and ready. My mask has been in my bag since last week.
I'm already pulling up the group chat, already typing back:
I'm packed too. See you two at the airport! Riley owes me emotional compensation for the resale tickets.
Ravita
It was worth it. Even if it's instant noodles for months.
Marnie
We're pathetic.
Ravita
I know.
The spreadsheet sits idle on my left monitor. Fifty-three thousand dollars in a category labeled "Other." I closed the tab without saving.
I dig through my desk drawer—stapler, USB stick, chocolate bar—and surface with the limited edition Siren mask. This is an exclusive version with ombré scales.
Somebody please bring tissues.
Ravita
