Page 22 of Graves

Until then, I try to keep a normal routine. It gives me the safety and control I lost while I was with Luke.

Freshly showered, I leave the gym and take the subway back to Manhattan. I thought about finding a gym in the West Village, but I need the connection to my family. If Luke really wanted to find me, he’d know where to look. I only train during the day when he’s at work anyway.

I get home in the late afternoon, groceries in hand, and immediately regret not using the gate by Muvi’s. I pull up my hoodie and squeeze past the fifteen or so guys blocking the sidewalk.

“Are you going to see Aran Graves?”

“Are you Aran Graves’ neighbor?”

“Do you know if Aran Graves is coming out today?”

“What do you know about Aran Graves?”

My head is pounding as I jog up the stairs and duck into the building.

What the fuck is wrong with these people?

I push the hood back down in disbelief and take the elevator to the fifth floor. The second I step into the apartment, I’m hit by harsh, metallic noise—distorted and utterly devoid of melody. I set the groceries in the kitchen, drop my training bag in my room, and follow the sound.

It’s coming from the room at the end of the hall on Aran’s side. It used to be locked, just like his bedroom. Only Fox went in occasionally to check on things.

Now the door is wide open. I stop in the doorway, stunned. It’s a fully equipped studio. My mouth drops open, taking in the huge mixing board, the glassed-in recording booth, and all the instruments—keyboard, several guitars, a bass, and even a drum kit surrounded by speakers behind the glass.

Aran sits at the mixing board with his back to me, headphones around his neck, adjusting knobs. A disturbing wall of noise blasts from the speakers.

What the hell…?

He calls this music?

“Hey!” I call, knocking on the door out of politeness.

Aran glances over his shoulder, kills the noise, and spins around on the chair. “Sorry,” he says. “Something wrong?”

Still stunned by the studio, I stand frozen in the doorway, not sure what I even wanted to say. Aran watches me with those sapphire-blue eyes, waiting.

“The… uh… The door was open.”

“Oh…”

“I’ll close it… okay?”

“Sure. Sorry…”

I’m surprised how good he looks. Relaxed in black jeans and a gray long-sleeve, one leg crossed over the other. My eyes catch the tattoos on his neck, then the messy hair that suggests he just rolled out of bed.

“Anything else?” he asks, raising his brows.

I know he asked it normally, but for some reason, it rubs me the wrong way.

“Nothing,” I snap. “But if you could get rid of the circus outside, the whole street would probably thank you.”

“You think I enjoy this?” he shoots back.

“I don’t know! It can’t be bad for publicity!” I reply, venom in my voice. “I just don’t want my life dragged through the tabloids.”

“Then use the fucking back entrance.” He turns away from me.

I glare daggers at his back, then slam the door shut and storm back to the kitchen, annoyed.