Page 77 of Unleashed By Eden

“Mate, nobody is telling Liam,” Xander says. “We’re not suicidal.”

Chris finishes tapping on his phone and slides it into his pocket. “I’ve been briefed.” He gives me a flat look, then wanders over with two bottles in hand. He holds one out to me, eyebrows raised.

I let my gaze drop to the beer, then back to his face, and shake my head once.

“Yeah, not drinking for a while.”

They all pause.

I clear my throat. “Had a scare,” I say, casual as I can manage. “Stage two cirrhosis.”

Theo’s mouth drops open. Kai flicks a look at Chris, then back at me. Even X freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth.

“I’m fine,” I add quickly. “Just gotta take care of my shit now. Cut back, check in, try to stay healthy.”

The silence stretches. Then Kai leans forward and smacks the table. “Good for you. Doesn’t take much for drinking to spiral on tour.”

Theo grabs his bottle and tips it out. Foam hits the balcony floor in a hissing splatter. “Proud of you, man. We could probably all stand to ease up a bit.”

X nods, jams his fork into his mouth, and throws me a thumbs-up.

Chris eyes me for a long moment, like he’s about to say something more. Instead, his mouth twists into a smirk. “Speak for yourself,” he tosses over his shoulder to Theo. “Drinking’s the only way I survive you clowns.”

He sets the bottle he was holding out for me on the table, cracks open the other one, and takes a long gulp as he heads back to his seat.

Beside me, Violet doesn’t say anything. She slides her pinky finger along the side of my hand until it hooks.

When I glance at her, she’s looking straight ahead.

The conversation devolves into a chaotic mess, the way it always does when the band is half-drunk and relaxed. Old tour stories roll out, one-upping each other about the worst venues, the worst showers, and the most predatory promoters.

Vi is curled beside me, one knee bent, foot tucked under her. Every time she shifts, the urge to drag her into my lap gets stronger.

She doesn’t stay silent on the edge of the conversation, the way she used to as a kid. She jumps in.

Theo and Kai are in a heated argument about who wrote some obscure riff first, a band from the eighties or some nineties group who ripped it off. It turns into a shouting match over a chord progression.

“You’re both wrong,” Vi says finally, dry as fuck, licking sauce off her thumb. “It was Galloway. You can hear the progression in ‘Rusted Crown.’ Everyone stole it from them.”

Four male heads swing her way.

Theo squints. “There is no way you know that.”

She levels him with a look. “I grew up with this idiot blasting bootlegs in my living room, remember?” She gestures a thumb at me.

Kai narrows his eyes, thoughtful. “She’s right,” he tells Theo. “The live version from ’88. Carter used to make us watch it every New Year’s.”

Xander slaps the table. “Oh my god. She’s right. Fuck, that’s embarrassing.”

They all groan, but Vi smirks into her noodles.

She’s always been sharper than people gave her credit for. Especially when it comes to music. My chest swells with pride.

Eventually, the conversation drifts again, this time to our worst onstage fuck-ups. Theo brings up a show five years ago when I dropped a whole verse and made up lyrics on the spot. I don’t even remember doing it until he sings the bullshit line I used. Everyone cracks up.

Still smiling, I push off the couch, go inside, and come back with my acoustic. I drop back into my seat, cigarette hanging from my lips, and roll a lazy run of chords under their chatter.

The smoke coils into the night sky. The view tugs at my attention—Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance, traffic sliding along the streets below—but I stay with the sound of my brothers around me and the press of Violet against my side.