Alright. So.” Vance leaned over his plate of chicken strips, careful of his glass of ice water, and pointed at the open page of Aaron’s notebook. He’d mocked up the stage setup for the event. “We’re going to need pyrotechnics here. The stage will need to be marked with red tape in the danger zones, so I know not to cross it.”

“There aren’t going to be pyrotechnics, Vance,” Aaron said flatly. He knitted his brows together and scowled. Even when he was grumpy, he was cute. Vance sank back into his seat and smiled at him. “And unless you’re paying for them, there aren’t going to be backup dancers, or laser shows, or anything like that.”

“Backup dancers are cheap enough. I can hook you up with some connections.”

“I think your standard of cheap and my standard of cheap are two different things,” Aaron said. “Besides, your connections are on the west coast. We’re in Georgia now. There’s not going to be anyone out here that you know who can come on as a backup dancer. This isn’t the Super Bowl. I don’t have that kind of a budget.”

“What about stage props?” Vance asked. Excitement built in his chest, and it came out as bubbling enthusiasm that he couldn’t keep locked down. “Stage props can make a show. I was touring once with… fuck, I forgot their name. But it was right after Whoa came out, and we were touring, and they had those inflatable wavy-arm air things you see at car dealerships sometimes.”

Aaron said nothing. He looked at Vance in disbelief.

“If we can get our hands on two or four of those and set them up on either side of the stage, we can switch out the plastic tube covering for different songs or when the key changes, and it’ll hype the audience up. Throw in a few huge beach balls, maybe some confetti guns or bubble machines — or both. But I’d suggest not using them at the same time, because no one wants wet confetti. We had a show once where that happened and we all laughed our asses off about it, but it was kind of shitty for the audience and for the clean-up crew.”

Aaron looked like he was going to say something. He opened his mouth and drew in a breath, then shook his head incredulously and folded his arms on the table. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I heard what you had to say, and I’m acknowledging it.”

That didn’t sound all that bad. Aaron was grumpy, but that was to be expected. Vance knew that he’d done him wrong, and he wasn’t expecting Aaron to change his tune so fast. But the fact of the matter was, Aaron needed a headliner, and Vance was looking for a way to revitalize his career. They needed each other. If they could make this event big enough that it gained network attention, Vance’s name would be out there again, and maybe the band would want to work with him on something new. He’d been stagnating for far too long.

“Here’s another idea. I went to one of my friend’s shows once — metal, so a little heavier than what I do — but their headliner was this talented, but no-name band that was in line with their branding. They had a keyboardist, which was cool in and of itself, and he had all these roses tied to his keyboard, all up the legs and along the back. During the show, the band members would throw roses out into the audience, and I’m pretty sure every girl was lined up outside their tour bus after the show was over. It was insane.”

“I’m not trying to get you laid,” Aaron said. He closed the notebook. “I’m trying to figure out what you need as a bare minimum to go up there and perform. I’m not thinking about the bells and whistles just yet. I need to see how much I can budget for that after I get the rest of the equipment out of the way.”

“How long do you want me on? One hour? Two? I can’t go any longer than that. It’s too physically draining.”

“No.” Aaron sighed. It wasn’t in frustration, but in disappointment. It ripped Vance’s heart open, and he frowned. “You’re not listening to me, are you? You’re off in Vanceland, where money is no object, and everyone wants to bend over backward either to help you, or to fuck you… or maybe both.”

“I’m listening,” Vance said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s been a while since I put on a show, and I’m excited about it, that’s all.”

“It’s just… it’s just a small town show,” Aaron said. Vance could tell he was doing his best to hold it together and be civil. He appreciated that. “I’m going to be the one helping you with this… with all of it. You’re not going to have a manager, or a coach, or a choreographer, or any special effects. It’s just you, the sound system, some basic lights, and a stage.”

Vance listened. He took it in and reflected on it for a moment. He’d lived in Los Angeles for too long, he realized. Life here wasn’t going to be like what it was back there, but that was okay. He needed the brain break from being important. Getting back to his roots was meant to humble him so he could get back in touch with the musical mojo he’d had as a young man in a world he wasn’t quite suited to. The way he’d expressed those feelings through music had been what had made his band into a name everyone recognized… and taking himself away from that source of internal conflict had smothered his creativity and made him feel entitled. There was no challenge in living a glamorous life — at least, not in the way that Vance was used to after his time in Prescott. The circumstances were so different it was like he’d left one world and entered another.

And now he was back for a taste of what he’d left behind.

“I’ll need a microphone,” Vance said. “Probably a sound pack... an ear piece, so I can hear myself and make sure I’m not fucking things up. If you can’t afford to bring on live musicians, I’ll need a track of Whoa without vocals so I can sing it. I hold the copyright on it, so it’s not going to be an issue.”

“That’s… that’s good. That’s something I didn’t even think about.” Aaron opened his notebook again and started to write. Vance watched, not able to make out the words from where he was sitting, but certain that it was a good thing. He’d been helpful. Maybe Aaron would start to come around and open up to him if he continued to help him out. It wasn’t that Vance wanted to get back with him, but having a friend with benefits would be a good way to get some of his energy out. Hell, even if Aaron just wanted to be friends… there was comfort in what was familiar. “Are there any other things I’m forgetting? Royalties, rights, infringements? Something I’d need a legal team to look into, or that could land me or the event in hot water?”

“Not really, because I’m the one who holds all the rights. I think that’s the only smart thing I ever did when I was part of Midnight.” Vance grinned. He picked up a chicken strip and considered it. The waitress had brought it not all that long ago, and it was right on the cusp of being too hot to eat. “Honestly, though, if you’re dealing with someone who’s even a tiny bit famous, you’re going to get people coming out looking for drama. I’d expect a little bit of it — probably not a lot, because I’m old news and the world has moved on, but there’s a chance that someone could start flinging around untrue accusations. Tabloids are awful about that. You might want to enforce a photography rule, although I’m not sure how helpful that might be. Like… no recording devices or cameras, like they do at the movies. You can’t really stop people from getting cell phone footage, but it’s not exactly print quality stuff. If you have checkpoints like that, though, A) you seem like a legitimate event, and B) you’ll be stopping the tabloids from getting footage or photos you may not want making it to supermarket display racks nationwide.”

“That’s another good point.” Aaron kept writing. “I’ve never had a famous band on before.”

“Well, I’m not going to be performing as Midnight. That’s kind of not my place, you know? It’s not my band — it belongs to me and the guys, and if the guys aren’t here, I can’t go around pretending that they never existed, even if I was the face.” Vance paused. “You could definitely name drop, though. That’s well within your rights. You’ll have to use my legal name on your advertising, but you can associate me with the band. ‘Former singer from Midnight, Vance Chastain,’ or whatever fancy wording you can come up with.”

“That’s reasonable. I can work with that.” Aaron didn’t look up from his notebook, and Vance took the opportunity to look him over. Losing weight hadn’t been the only thing that had changed him over the years — he was prouder now than he was before, even when he was slumped over his notebook, writing things down. His shoulders were broad and conveyed certainty. His back was, for the most part, straight when he was sitting — he didn’t hunch over like he had something to hide anymore. He’d been a cute, shy kid who was too good to dream about having fun, and Vance had been his bad influence… but it looked like Aaron had shaken some of his shyness and bloomed into a young man who wasn’t afraid to get shit done. Vance appreciated that.

“You’re probably going to want to have security do a pat-down, too, just to make sure there aren’t any unhinged people looking to start something. You don’t have to get top-of-the-line security, but screening people when they come in not only for recording devices, but weapons is a good start if you’re going to bring a big name in.”

“Got it.”

“So it sounds like you’re going to need an enclosure around the stage so that you can monitor who comes in and who comes out.”

“Yep.” Aaron set his pen down. He looked up and met Vance’s gaze and actually smiled. Vance was shocked. “That’s all great information, thank you.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Vance bit into his chicken strip. It was still a little too hot, but he ate it anyway. “What kind of opening act are you thinking of bringing on? You want me to get in touch with some people?”

Aaron snorted. “No. I don’t have the money for that. We’re going to look for local talent. There are enough bands in and around the area that I’m sure would jump at the chance to share a stage with you… once they know who you are.”

“It’s all about the pitch,” Vance said. “It’s not hard if you know the right words to say.”

“Well, we’ll see, I guess. I’m not at that point just yet. We’re still eight months away from the event.”

“Eight months, hm?” Eight months was a long time to wait, but Aaron had told him it was a summer event. He should have known.

At least it’ll give me time to get back to my roots. I can find some inspiration, maybe write some new songs…

Vance widened his eyes. “Hey, you know, I could do a full set, if you wanted. I know you shot me down before, but the whole point of me coming back to town was so that I could find the inspiration I lost so I can put out some new music. I can play the new tracks I come up with over the next half year.”

“Absolutely not.” Aaron pinched his lips together. “This isn’t going to become the Vance show. I’m not organizing a private concert for you. You’re like… like the guest of honor. You play your hit song, you hype the audience up, and that’s it. That’s the role I want you to play. We’re looking for a clean cut, professional, flawless performance. Anything longer than that will start to come apart at the seams. It’s… just no, okay? I’m going to shoot you down right now. I’m risking my job on this, and I can’t have it come across as anything other than perfect.”

“You’re risking your job?” Vance frowned. “No pressure, right?”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Aaron mumbled. “It’s only day five since I accepted the job, and I feel like I’m being pulled in all directions. I’ve been trying to lay down some groundwork since you called that morning, but all of it is still preliminary and contingent on what you had to say today. I already know that I’ve got to rethink some of what I had planned and tweak the budget in ways I hadn’t expected. It’s going to be tight.”

Vance hesitated. He didn’t want to overstep his boundaries, but he felt like Aaron was opening up to him, and he didn’t want to miss his opportunity. “Well, I know you’re not really happy to see me here, but… we got along well once upon a time. If you ever want someone to help you blow off some steam, no strings attached—”

Aaron cut him off, laughing. He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

A tiny pain, like a needle poking a vulnerable fingertip, pierced Vance’s heart. He frowned. “It’s just sex, Aaron.”

“I’m not interested in having sex with you.”

“You were on that night at the bar.”

“I was interested in taking home a nearly anonymous hot body for a night I’d forget about,” Aaron said softly. He was speaking in hushed tones now, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “If you’d turned to me at the bar and said, ‘Hey, I’m Vance, want to fuck?’ I would have walked away without a second though. I’m not interested in getting physical with you, strings or not. What happened was a very unfortunate accident.”

“I don’t believe in accidents.”

Aaron collected his notebook. He shook his head. “Of course you don’t. I’ve been saying that all along. That video you shared of me? Totally not an accident.”

Vance stood, too. There was a pressure in his chest that he’d never felt before, and he didn’t know what to do about it. It made him want to grab Aaron by the arm and make him stay, but he knew it was a terrible idea. He wasn’t looking for a fight. “That’s not—”

“I’ve got the information I needed. Thank you for meeting with me today.” Aaron’s tone was back to being strictly professional. He tucked his notebook under his arm. “I’ll call you again if anything else comes up. Thanks for seeing me today.”

“Aaron—” Vance reached out a hand, but Aaron was already speed walking for the door. It closed behind him, and Vance was left alone. He sank back into his chair, poked at the chicken strips on his plate, and sighed. He and Aaron had been a thing for all of a hot second in high school, and the hookup earlier that week hadn’t meant anything to him, so why was there a force inside of him urging him to chase after Aaron? He could hookup with any one of the guys at the bar — Kris had been eager for it, after all. He had options.

But he didn’t want options. He’d found the best choice, and the best choice didn’t want him.

Vance paid his bill and took his chicken strips to go. He was too restless to sit at a diner. He needed to work off some steam, and the only way he was going to be able to do that was if he was on the move.

It was going to be a long eight months, but he was going to see them through… and by the end of them, he resolved to fix things with Aaron. Even if he never got him back into bed, he didn’t want that black mark on his past. He had haters, he’d received death threats, and he’d met some toxic people in his life who he’d gladly brushed aside, but Aaron? Vance couldn’t stomach Aaron’s hate of him.

He would make things right with Aaron and get his career back on track all at once, even if it took months and months to do it.