Page 79 of Two Hit Wonder

"It's Elijah," Iona said, grinning. "Again. You've got it bad."

"I don't have anything bad. I have a healthy and mature relationship with a very nice man who happens to text a lot."

"You said 'relationship,'" Maeve observed. "Out loud. In front of witnesses."

Cam went slightly pink. "I said no such thing."

"You definitely did," Ellie said. "I heard it. Iona heard it. The walls of this rehearsal space heard it."

"The walls don't have ears."

"In this place? I wouldn't be so sure."

They ran through the setlist twice, and it sounded good. Better than good. It sounded like they actually knew what they were doing, which was frankly alarming after so many years of not doing anything at all. Ellie looked tired, dark circles under her eyes that hadn't been there a few weeks ago, but she played like she always did. Solid. Reliable. The foundation they built everything else on.

Cam was drumming with the manic energy of someone who'd had too much coffee and not enough sleep. Iona kept catching Maeve's eye and smiling, small private smiles that made Maeve's chest do inconvenient things. And made Maeve’s brain go to inconvenient places, like Iona’s bedroom where she was staying every other night, whenever Mo was with Shepherd.

But she was laughing. Actually laughing, at Cam's terrible jokes and Ellie's dry commentary and the sheer absurdity of being here, in this moment, doing this thing she'd been afraid of for fifteen years. Life was good. Life was bizarrely, improbably good, and she was going to enjoy it for as long as it lasted.

They were debating whether to add a cover to the encore when the door slammed open. Maeve stopped mid-word, the mic echoing a squeal until Iona hit the switch to turn it off.

Shepherd stood in the doorway, face like thunder, tablet clutched in his hand. He crossed the room in three strides and threw the tablet down on the nearest amp. "What," he said, "the hell is this?"

They all looked. The screen showed a news site, one that they all immediately recognized. And there, splashed across the front page, were Maeve and Iona. A photo from somewhere, probably paparazzi, the two of them walking close together on a London street. The headline screamed about secret romances and band reunions and the return of The Stage Girls. Maeve’s heart beat harder again and she was mad but also… also a little relieved, also a little proud. Her and Iona. Iona and her. A couple. Just like that.

"I told you to stay low," Shepherd said. His voice was controlled, but only just. "I told you to work, to keep out of the limelight until we were ready. Until Lakeside. Until we had something to show them."

"Shepherd," Iona started.

"This isn't just gossip. This is a full article. Sources, quotes, speculation about the album, about the tour, about everything we've been trying to keep quiet." He jabbed a finger at the screen. "Someone talked. Someone gave them this."

Ellie leaned in, peering at the article. Her face went very still. "The byline," she said quietly.

"What about it?"

"Elijah Stone." Ellie looked up at Cam. "Elijah?"

All the color drained from Cam's face.

Maeve stared at her. The phone. The texts. The secrecy. The "he wants to keep things quiet."

"Elijah Stone is the man you've been seeing?" Maeve's voice was flat. "The journalist?"

Cam nodded and looked like she might be sick.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The rehearsal space had been chaos before, but this was something else. This was like a storm, like a hurricane ripping and tearing through them all, stripping everything back to bare bones.

"You've been seeing a journalist." Shepherd's voice was flat. Dangerous. "This entire time. While we were trying to keep everything quiet. While I was calling in every favor I had to protect this band." His face was turning red. "You…" He was looking angrier than Iona thought she’d ever seen him. Angrier than really he had a right to be.

"I didn't think he would—" Cam started.

"You didn't think." Shepherd picked up the tablet and held it toward her. "Elijah Stone. Music journalist. His byline is right there, Cam. What exactly did you think was going to happen? You’re such a child, Cam. You never see what’s right in front of your eyes, do you?"

Cam flinched like he'd slapped her. "He told me he wanted to keep things private. He said he wasn't interested in writing about us, he was interested in me. He said…"

"He lied." Maeve's voice cut through from across the room. She hadn't moved from her spot by the microphone stand, arms crossed, face unreadable. "That's what journalists do. They lie to get stories. It's literally their job."