Chapter 4 Closer
The showcase was a disaster waiting to happen.
Backstage at The Orpheum, I tugged at the leather pants Samantha had shoved me into—how did Charlotte breathe in these things?—while the band tuned their instruments nearby. The setlist burned in my pocket, lyrics hastily scribbled onto sticky notes hidden along the stage floor.
"Five minutes!" the stage manager called.
Sweat slicked my palms. I closed my eyes, reaching for the pre-race focus that had carried me through every tight turn, every high-speed straight. The world narrowed to my breathing. In. Out.
Then I heard *her* voice.
"Break a leg."
My eyes snapped open. Charlotte stood in the shadows of the wings, dressed in my team jacket, her—my—blond hair tucked under a cap. She shouldn't have been here.
"What are you—"
"I told your crew I was checking sound equipment." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "I found something." She pressed a flash drive into my hand. "Tyler wasn't just being aggressive. Your telemetry logs show brake line tampering."
I stiffened. That wasn't just dirty racing—that was attempted murder.
Before I could respond, Samantha materialized behind Charlotte. Her manicured hand clamped onto my shoulder. "Places, darling." Her gaze flicked to Charlotte. "Mr. Cross, I didn't realize you were a fan."
Charlotte ducked her head in a passable imitation of my usual press shyness. "Big music lover."
Samantha's smile didn't reach her eyes. "How fortunate." She guided me toward the stage with iron fingers. "Remember—the label execs are front row. Don't fuck this up."
The stage lights hit like a physical blow. Thousands of faces blurred into one seething mass. The mic stand waited like a guillotine.
Then the drums kicked in.
Somehow, muscle memory took over. Charlotte's body knew these songs even when my mind blanked. My voice found the notes, channeling the same hyperfocus I used to hit apex speeds. By the third song, the band relaxed. By the fifth, the crowd was pulsing like a living thing.
I spotted Charlotte watching from the wings, an odd expression on my face. Not jealousy—something closer to awe.
The final chord rang out. Thunderous applause. As I exited stage left, Samantha intercepted me. "That," she purred, "was acceptable." She handed me a water bottle—already opened. "Drink. You'll need your voice for the afterparty."
I pretended to sip. Charlotte's warning glance confirmed my suspicion—never take drinks from Samantha.
We slipped away during the meet-and-greet, retreating to the rooftop. The city lights stretched below us, the noise fading to a distant hum.
"You weren't terrible," Charlotte admitted, stealing my water bottle.
I snorted. "High praise."
She hesitated. "You really looked like you belonged up there."
The unspoken words hung between us—*unlike me in your world.*
I studied her—me—the way she hunched my broad shoulders, like she was trying to fold into herself. "Give yourself time. Racing's all muscle memory."
She shot me a wry look. "Says the man who just performed a 90-minute set without rehearsal."
We both laughed. Then, simultaneously, we reached for the water bottle. Our fingers brushed.
A static jolt shot up my arm. Charlotte froze. Our eyes met—hers my familiar blue, mine her deep brown—and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point of contact.
The moment shattered when her—my—phone rang. Tyler's name flashed on screen.
Charlotte answered on speaker. "What do you want?"
"Just checking in, champ." Tyler's voice oozed fake concern. "Heard you've been acting... off since the crash. Almost like you're not yourself." His chuckle turned icy. "Wouldn't want the FIA medical board to question your fitness to race."
The line went dead.
Charlotte's grip tightened on the phone. "He knows something's wrong."
"Or he's fishing." I pulled up the flash drive files on my phone. "This proves he sabotaged me. We take it to the stewards—"
"And say what?" Charlotte countered. "'Hi, I'm Aiden Cross's brain in a musician's body, here's some tech docs I can't possibly understand'?"
Rain began peppering the rooftop. A summer storm rolling in fast.
"We need proof about us too," I said. "The hospital footage—"
"Gone." Charlotte wiped rain from her—my—face. "I checked. That entire night's archive was wiped clean."
Thunder rumbled overhead. The first real downpour hit, drenching us in seconds. Charlotte grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the fire exit, but the door jammed.
We were stranded under a narrow overhang, water sheeting around us. Charlotte shook out my jacket—too small on her frame—and held it over both our heads.
"Your hair's getting wet," she muttered, awkwardly adjusting the makeshift shelter.
I stared at her. "That's what you're worried about?"
Our breaths fogged in the narrow space between us. Rain drummed a relentless rhythm on the jacket. Somewhere beneath the panic and confusion, I noticed how perfectly our heartbeats synced—Charlotte's steady musician's pulse, my accelerated racer's rhythm, gradually aligning.
Her eyes—my eyes—flicked to my lips.
A door banged open below us. "Charlotte! Where the hell—" Samantha's voice cut through the moment like a scalpel.
We jerked apart. The jacket fell, dumping rainwater down our backs.
Samantha emerged onto the landing, umbrella in hand. Her gaze darted between us, lingering on our soaked clothes, Charlotte's hand still hovering near my face.
"There you are," she said, too evenly. "The label CEO wants photos." She extended the umbrella toward me—just me. "Come, darling."
Charlotte stepped back. "I should go. Team briefing early."
As Samantha steered me inside, I glanced back. Charlotte stood frozen in the rain, watching us leave, my face unreadable in the storm.
The next morning, two discoveries would change everything:
1. Charlotte found my hidden second CT scan—the one showing tumor growth.
2. I found the note slipped into Charlotte's bag: *"Remember the accident. Ask Samantha about her brother."*
Neither of us knew it yet, but the pieces were about to snap together in ways we couldn't imagine.
