Page 16 of Dissonance

Still unfairly handsome.

This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him since the night Cooper signed with me. Of course it isn’t. Red carpets, industry events, the edges of rooms where we coexist without ever quite meeting. I’ve made an art form of it over the years, but avoidance only holds up when you’re not sitting three feet apart in a quiet room.

Cracking open his own bottle, he takes a drink, his throat moving as he swallows. I hate that I notice. Hate that I still remember exactly what those lips can do.

“So.” He twists the cap back on and crosses his arms, black t-shirt pulling across his chest. “ZeroSaint.”

I lace my fingers together on the desk. “What about him?”

“You know what people are saying.” His gaze stays locked on mine. “His reputation.”

It’s not quite an accusation, but it’s damn near scraping it. I release a slow breath through my nose and stare back at him.

“I’m aware,” I say, voice flat. “I do manage him.”

“And what about the other one? The guy he brought?”

“Zane is a problem,” I admit. “I’m handling it.”

“I know his type. No impulse control, no concept of consequence, thinks he’s above everyone else.” His jaw tightens. “I don’t want that anywhere near Cooper.”

“Then we agree on something,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Because neither do I.” Needing to move, I stand. “You do risk assessments, and so do I. Mine just look different. Every day, I’m working with publicists, managing labels, getting ahead of every possible angle because I don’t react to crises, Lachlan. I anticipate them. That’s the job.”

“My concern isn’t me questioning your competence,” he says, frustratingly calm. “It’s me questioning your judgment.”

The heat behind my eyes is immediate and unwelcome. I cross my arms, fingers digging into my biceps.

“You don’t get to separate those two things. Not in my line of work.”

“My line of work keeps people safe.”

“And mine keeps them employed,” I fire back, holding his gaze. “Tyler isn’t dangerous. He’s misunderstood. And there’s a difference. Reign Cooper didn’t just survive this industry; he was being ground down by people who didn’t care whether he slept or ate or stopped, and he came out the other side because someone fought for him. You fought for him. Tyler needs the same chance. Someone in his corner who sees what he could be, not just the mess that follows him around.”

“And if the fallout pulls Cooper in?” Lockie asks, jaw tight. “He’s not just a name on a billboard anymore. He has a family now. Anything that sticks to him sticks to them too. I won’t let him be dragged into someone else’s headlines when he’s spent years building something worth protecting.”

“It won’t,” I say, leaving no room for uncertainty. “Because I won’t let it.”

His gaze cuts away for half a second before returning, like he’s deciding against something he was about to say. The music next door goes quiet, replaced a moment later by laughter, the sounds light, brighter.

“You kept it vague on purpose.” He takes a step closer. “When you called.”

“Yes.”

“Because you knew Cooper would say no.”

“Because I knew you’d intervene. Not because you don’t trust me, but because when it comes to him, you trust your own read more than anyone else’s. And I needed Cooper to make up his own mind.”

I know this about him. Over a decade at Cooper’s side is long enough for it to stop being just a job, long enough that what Lockie feels for him has stopped resembling professional loyalty; it’s closer to the way you’d go to war for a younger brother. I’ve only been Cooper’s manager for three years, but I know enough to understand why Lockie stayed after watching fame nearly destroy him, watching the wrong people get close. Not because it was in his contract, but because Cooper matters to him. That’s not something you dismiss or argue with. Which is why it’s genuinely difficult to stay furious at him for caring too much.

“You know I would never be careless with him. You trusted me then. Trust me now with Tyler.”

He studies me for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders not quite leaving, but shifting somewhere lower.

“I do,” he says finally, quieter than anything that came before it.

At some point—without either of us noticing—he’s moved closer. Not crowding my space, just…there. Close enough that I can see things I shouldn’t be cataloguing; the faint scar near his hairline I don’t remember from before, the steadiness in his eyes that never quite powers down. Close enough that I’m suddenly, acutely aware of my own breathing.

“You still do this.”