Page 108 of Don't Think

And Nora’s screams.

Chapter Thirty

Jax

How many men does it take to unload a van?

Apparently fucking ten.

We didn’t even bring every single piece of equipment we own, it’s mostly just Casey’s goddamn cymbals and hi-hats. It takes at least six trips to haul everything in, and finally, by nine thirty, the studio is organized and ready to go.

James runs over, clapping me hard on the back. “Can you believe it? We’re finally here!” he exclaims, shaking my shoulders.

I chuckle softly. “You ready to work our asses off for the next few months?”

“You fucking bet I am,” he says with a wide grin, then takes off running toward Gareth.

If we can count on anyone to keep up morale around here, it’s definitely James. The rest of us have been dragging our feet allmorning, worn out from either lack of sleep or just not being morning people—especially at freakin’ eight o’clock.

I walk down the narrow hallway, swing open the last door, and step inside slowly. Seeing all our equipment set up feels…surreal.

We’re definitely not in a dingy garage anymore. We’re in anactualrecording studio with a mixing board and everything. Standing in the middle of Petal & Vine Records, I can’t help but think it’s yet another sign from my mum, letting us know we made the right choice to come here on nothing but a chance.

When we came to Boston last year, getting scouted wasn’t even on our minds. We just wanted an excuse to travel, to get our music in front of more people. We never expected anyone to actually love it, let alone be approached at the tail end of the tour by a guy in a suit.

When he first walked up, Gareth was sure he was a lawyer, like we’d done something wrong. But the second he flashed his business card?

We couldn’tbreathe.

It’s hard to believe that just six months ago, I was ready to throw in the towel—on everything. On love. On music. Maybe even on life itself.

I was stuck in the same self-destructive loop—binge drinking and smoking too much pot to even know what day it was, let alone try to gear up for a trip to the States.

That was until James and Gareth spent months dragging me out of the hole I’d dug myself.

If it weren’t for their constant, twenty-four seven pestering, I’d probably still be back at the pub in Cardiff—or worse.

I owe themeverythingfor that.

“You good, man?” Gareth calls from across the room, pulling me out of my reverie.

I glance up and give him a half smile. “Yeah, just taking it all in,” I reply, then walk over and drop onto the black leather sofa beside him.

Across from me, Casey taps his drumsticks against the table—something that usually drives me up a wall. But right now? I don’t think anything could bring me down.

The anxiety, of course, simmers low in my stomach, that gnawing fear of rejection. Putting ourselves out there for people to wind up actually hating us is something I’ve always feared.

While I’m mentally spiraling, a tall man with a full beard, stretched ears, and tattoos running down both arms walks over. He’s wearing a deep scowl, eyes downturned, until he stops directly in front of us—and suddenly my heart’s in my throat.

“Hey, guys. I’m Gerald,” he says, the scowl immediately melting away. Now, he’s wearing an easy smile, his eagerness making me slightly more at ease.

“Do you know if you want to kick things off with vocals or maybe just instrumentals first?” he asks, folding his arms lazily across his chest.

“I think we should start with the vocals. Get them squared away first,” Gareth suggests with a shrug, then glances my way.

I nod. “Yeah, once we’ve got the vocals down, we can move on to Casey’s drum tracks,” I agree. “Then take it from there.”

“Yeah, that sounds good. You guys ready now?”