Chapter Text
You are told, very plainly, that this is temporary.
The call comes from your agent while you're dragging a coiled cable from the back of a subpar venue in San Diego, concrete warm under your boots and the van's side door still jammed from winter. Substitute, temporary, a few weeks. No promises. The last part hangs longest because your agent repeats it twice, which means someone important insisted on the disclaimer. The rest is noise—logistics, travel dates, the usual professional niceties that don't matter when you're being hired to fill a gap nobody wanted in the first place—until the name drops.
The Vampire Lestat.
Your hands stop moving. The cable coils at your feet in a loose pile you'll have to redo later. You hear traffic on the other end of the line, your agent pacing somewhere expensive, waiting for you to react in a way that confirms you understand what's being offered. But you don't react. You wait for the caveat. The real terms. There's always some cost buried under the check, some humiliation baked into the contract. A tour with Lestat de Lioncourt doesn't happen to people like you unless something else has already gone catastrophically wrong for everyone involved.
But the only thing your agent says before the call ends is: Try not to look directly at him.
You laugh. She doesn't.
You accept because refusal would be career suicide, and because you've spent the last six years building a reputation on staying standing in places you were never meant to walk into. This is just a louder, bigger room. And if Lestat de Lioncourt wants to chew you up for sport, at least you'll get paid for the privilege.
The rehearsal space in Los Angeles is a converted warehouse in Burbank, tucked behind a block of production studios that all look identical from the street. Security is visible but quiet—two men at the gate who check your ID three times, a third inside who watches you unload your gear with the kind of attention that suggests he's been told to report on you later. The van that brought you here is replaced by tinted black transport and a gate code you're told to memorize but not write down. Inside, everything is too curated. The concrete floors have no scuffs. The wires are wound with militaristic symmetry. Every amp looks untouched, each piece of equipment positioned with the kind of precision that suggests someone got fired for putting things in the wrong place. There's a long table against the far wall: protein bars in neat rows, boxed kombucha, water stacked in perfect columns like someone's building a shrine to hydration.
The bus idles outside. Black with tinted windows. You don't look at it directly. Somehow you know that would be a mistake.
You arrive thirty-eight minutes early. You check everything twice. Three times, in fact. The backup battery, the spare picks, the pedal board rerouted clean and tight the way you learned to do it when you couldn't afford a tech to fix your mistakes.
No one speaks to you. Two techs near the mixing board discuss patching over a fault in the left channel. One glances up when you plug in your bass, watches you run through your setup, then looks away like he's already decided you won't last. The other doesn't look at all.
Temporary. Everyone here has been told. You can see it in the way they move around you, the careful distance they maintain, the way no one bothers learning your name.
The door opens behind you without warning.
Footsteps echo against the high ceilings, boots landing without urgency, each step deliberate and unhurried in a way that makes you aware of how quickly your own heart is beating. You don't turn. You already know it's him. You've seen the videos, the interviews, the carefully edited footage that makes him look like a mythological creature with a recording contract. But knowing and experiencing are different things, and the air in the room has changed in a way that makes your hands want to stop moving.
You keep tuning.
"Tiens," Lestat says. The way it was say didn’t come off as a greeting but a summon. His voice cuts through the space. "So that's what they brought me."
You turn to face him fully.
With the way he moved, you would think he's in the same decade as you only by accident. Leather jacket, black, tailored in a way that suggests the designer wept with gratitude afterward. Shirt unbuttoned past what would be acceptable on anyone who wasn't Lestat de Lioncourt, exposing a throat and chest that belong in a museum or a crime scene, you're not sure which. Blond hair tousled with the kind of artful mess that requires a professional and at least forty minutes of intentional destruction. No earpiece. No visible monitor. No acknowledgment that you've been standing here long enough to have an opinion about his entrance.
He walks in a straight line toward the center of the space, gaze sweeping over the equipment, the setup, the techs who suddenly look very busy. Not looking at you. Speaking like you were already meant to be responding, like the conversation started before he entered and you're simply late to your own cue.
"You can play, I assume?"
Lestat doesn't wait for an answer. He shrugs off his jacket and lets it fall across a nearby flight case with the kind of carelessness that only works when you know someone else will pick it up. His hands flex, fingers spreading wide before curling into loose fists. They crack audibly, each joint a small report in the quiet room. Then he gestures toward the stack of guitars behind him, a lazy flick of his wrist that somehow conveys both command and contempt.
"Take one. The good one. Not the fucking backup."
You walk past him. Close enough that you catch the scent clinging to him—cold, expensive cologne. Close enough to see the faint sheen at his throat that reflects light wrong, like glass instead of flesh.
You pick the right guitar. Not the most expensive one or the flashiest, but the one that's been used the most, the one with fret wear and a properly set action. The one that will sound better than the showpiece collecting dust.
He watches how you move, not what you choose. You feel his attention track across your shoulders, your hands, the way you test the weight before slinging the strap over your shoulder. His gaze is clinical. Dissecting.
He doesn't tell you what key. He doesn't count you in. He just starts playing.
And you follow.
Three songs in, you stop pretending this is a rehearsal. This is an audition where the lead vocalist fully intends for you to fail. He modulates tempo without any warning, shifts key in the middle of a phrase, drops beats and adds them back with the kind of deliberate chaos that's designed to make you stumble. You don't stumble. You track every change, adjust on the fly, and when he throws in a chromatic run that wasn't in any version of this song you've ever heard, you match it beat for beat and add a harmonic line underneath that makes one of the techs look up sharply.
The techs stop pretending not to watch. Even the ones at the far end of the room have turned, arms crossed, faces carefully neutral in that way people get when they're watching something they weren't supposed to see.
"Hmm." Lestat doesn't look at them. He's looking at you, head tilted, expression caught somewhere between surprise and irritation. "So you weren't lying."
You answer only because silence would cede control, would let him think you're intimidated into muteness. "I never said anything."
He grins.
"You don't speak unless it's useful," he says, voice sliding into something lower, more interested. "That'll last exactly one day." He tilts his head further, hair falling to frame one eye in a way that's absolutely calculated. "If you make it that far."
You meet his stare. You've been stared down by bigger assholes in worse circumstances, and Lestat de Lioncourt just so happens to be another musician with a god complex and a publicity team.
"Are you expecting me not to?"
"I expect whatever entertains me most." He says it like it's a gift, like he's doing you a favor by admitting you exist in his peripheral vision. "If you're dull, I'll send you home. If you try to prove yourself, I'll get bored. If you sulk, I'll make it worse."
A pause.
"And if you think this is your shot, avorton," he drawls the word like it's something caught in his throat, something he's tasting before spitting out, "you're already finished."
You know enough French to catch the insult. Runt. Small and insufficient. Your jaw tightens but you don't give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction. You've been called worse by better people.
You do not respond.
He steps closer and lifts a finger—not touching, just indicating, tracking the line from your shoulder to your collar with a slow, deliberate precision that makes your skin want to crawl away from the attention.
Then he says, "Turn your amp down two points. You're not here to be heard. You're here to stay in time."
He walks away before you can answer, before you can tell him to go fuck himself or adjust your own equipment or do anything except stand there and process the fact that he just put you in your place without raising his voice.
You adjust the volume. Two clicks down. Exactly what he said.
Still, your pulse kicks up, traitor-fast. Annoyed, not cowed. Irritated that he thinks this is a win. Amused, maybe, that he has no idea how selective you are about the battles you choose.
You sit back, posture loose, expression unreadable, daring him—quietly—to mistake this moment for weakness. Because you know the truth, even if he doesn’t: you didn’t comply because you had to. You complied because this was a fucking job.
And if you ever decide you don’t?
The dial can just as easily turn the other way.
There was no break called. Rehearsal simply ceases to exist when Lestat crosses the room and drops into one of the studio chairs with the bored satisfaction of someone who has won a game you weren't aware had rules. He sprawls, one arm draped over the back of the chair, legs extended, boots crossed at the ankle. Watching you with the kind of attention that makes you aware of every breath you take.
"Again," he says.
You take your position. You don't ask which track. You know better. He picks one of the older ones, a single off an album when the band was still called Satan's Night Out. A single that hasn't been played live in years, something with a complicated fingering pattern and a tempo that shifts three times in the bridge. You match it. Exact tempo. Perfect sustain. Every note clean and deliberate.
He's not smiling when you finish.
"That one meant something to someone," he says, voice flat, empty of the performance he'd worn earlier. "Once."
You wait. It's not a question. You're not sure it's even directed at you. But the silence stretches and you realize he expects a response anyway, expects you to fill the space he's created.
You don't. You've learned that lesson already.
He stands again, movements fluid and unhurried, and comes close enough that you can see the lines under his eyes.
"You play clean," he says, and there's something sharp underneath the words, something that feels like a scalpel looking for soft tissue. "No risk, no sex, and absolutely no shame. Are you even capable of that much, or is this whole body just a rental?"
Your throat tightens. You speak carefully, every word selected for minimum damage. "I'm not here to impress you."
His grin returns, sharp and delighted. "You think that's clever?" He steps closer, voice dropping into a register that vibrates more than it travels. "You're here because someone else broke their wrist and I hate wasting time on auditions. You're here because no one better was available. You're here, petite chose," he breathes the words like they're intimate, like they're meant for you alone, "because I said yes on a whim."
You answer nothing. If you speak now, it will cost you. Either you'll escalate and he'll dismiss you, or you'll back down and he'll know he can push harder.
Lestat watches you long enough that the silence becomes intentional. Not awkward. Not waiting. Deliberate. He's studying you the way you'd study sheet music, looking for the weak points, the places where the structure fails.
He tilts his head. Then shrugs, the movement careless and final.
"That's enough," he says. "Go be temporary somewhere else."
You don't move.
He laughs, short and sharp, the sound cutting through the space. "What now? Waiting for a pat on the head? A 'Good job, backup, we'll keep you for another day'?"
"I'm waiting to know when the next run starts."
He blinks once, the only visible sign of surprise. Then he turns and walks away, boots echoing against concrete, jacket still abandoned on the flight case.
That's your answer.
You still do what he says. You leave. Not because he dismissed you—because you need air that doesn't taste like his contempt. Your hands are shaking with adrenaline and rage and you refuse to let him see it.
Outside, the engine of the bus still purrs like some overfed predator. You pass it without looking at the tinted windows. If he's watching, fine. Let him. Let him see you not flinch, not break, not give him the satisfaction of visible damage. You hope he is watching. You hope he's trying to figure out if you're the type to go cry in a corner or the type to key his Ferrari.
Spoiler: you don't cry.
And you'd absolutely key the hell out of that car if it meant watching him come screaming out of a studio with murder in his eyes. It'd be worth it just to make him bleed a little metaphorically, just to prove he's not as untouchable as he thinks.
Who the fuck talks to people like that? Who hisses insults in French and expects the room to nod? You've worked with difficult musicians before—prima donnas with special tea blends, drummers who insisted on specific brand water bottles, singers who required their green room painted different colors depending on the day of the week—but Lestat?
Lestat de Lioncourt is the patron saint of assholes, carved in gold leaf and cruelty, worshipped by fans who mistake his abuse and pretentiousness for authenticity.
And still. Still. You'd followed him. Matched him. Kept your place even when he'd tried to shake you loose.
Your hands ache by the time you reach the temporary crew trailer, a converted shipping container that smells like industrial coffee and someone's microwaved lunch. You close your case too loud. The latch snaps sharp enough to make one of the assistants—some too-young PA with a headset and a script for a personality—flinch at the sound. You ignore her. You've got nothing polite to offer and less patience for anyone who thinks music is something that happens on a laptop.
Twenty minutes pass. Forty. No text. No message. No schedule sent to your phone. No confirmation that you're expected tomorrow or next week or ever again.
So you plug into your own gear and run through your warmup alone, tucked into a corner of the trailer like an unwanted relative at a funeral. You hum through scales, fingers moving quick and deliberate across the frets, trying to shake the heat from your skin, the echo of his voice calling you 'avorton' like it was a name he'd given you instead of an insult.
You replay every word of that rehearsal in your head like a grudge, like evidence you're building for a case you'll never get to prosecute.
And when you hear the familiar click of hard-soled boots behind you again—no knock, no warning, just the sound of someone who doesn't believe in announcing themselves—your blood is already simmering just below boiling.
"You sulk loud," Lestat says. No hello. No preamble. No explanation for why he's standing in your temporary space like he owns it. He's holding a takeaway cup in one hand, some overpriced coffee that probably costs more than your daily rate, and wearing an expression that makes homicide look like foreplay. "Do you rehearse it, or is it all natural talent?"
You don't turn around. Your fingers keep moving, finishing the scale you started. "If you came here to insult me, you could've just texted."
He makes a sound—something between a scoff and a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself. I've been cursed with your presence for at least another week. Might as well see if you can do something besides sulk and follow instructions like a trained dog."
You stop playing. The silence that follows is deliberate. Then you swivel in your chair, both elbows braced on your thighs, neck craned so you can look up at him without giving ground. No blinking. No flinching. You smile, just a little too sharp, the kind of smile that's gotten you into fights before.
"You're really hung up on the sulking thing," you say. "Is it bothering you that much, or are you just projecting?"
That gets a reaction. The corners of his mouth twitch. You can't tell if it's anger or amusement, which means you've hit something real underneath all that performed cruelty, and that makes you want to push harder just to see what breaks first.
He steps closer. The trailer suddenly feels smaller. "Projecting?" His voice lowers—not in volume, in register, dropping into a range that vibrates in your chest. "Mon cœur, I don't have time to pretend I'm less than what I am. That's your coping mechanism, not mine."
He leans forward. The cup is gone now—set down somewhere you didn't track. His hand lands on the neck of your bass. Just resting there. Just touching your instrument like he has every right to it.
You freeze. Not because you're intimidated. But because if you move right now, you might actually hit him, and that would end this job. Possibly with legal fees and a reputation for assault you don't need.
"Hands off," you say. Your voice comes out level. Cold.
He ignores you. His eyes flick over the fretboard, lazy and surgical, like he's cataloging every scratch and dent. "Technically flawless... Emotionally sterile... No blood or passion. If I closed my eyes, I’d forget you were even alive." he says. "You play like furniture, avorton."
"I'm not here to bleed for you."
"No," he says, voice soft and cutting. "You're here to disappear. To fill a space without making it your own and to be competent and forgettable." His hand lifts slowly, deliberately. "And so far, you're doing an excellent job."
You stand though you didn't plan it. Your body makes the decision before your brain catches up.
It puts you close—closer than he probably expected. Close enough that you can smell whatever overpriced cologne he's wearing and the stranger, colder thing underneath that doesn't belong to any fragrance or human chemistry. Close enough to see the way his pupils contract slightly, tracking your movement.
He doesn't move back.
"I'm replaceable," you say flatly.
"Replaceable," he corrects, and smiles like he's doing you a kindness by being honest. "Disposable, if we're being precise."
You stare at him. Your hands want to curl into fists. You keep them loose through sheer willpower. "Better than being a walking cliché with a god complex and an overpriced stylist."
He laughs. Sudden and sharp and genuinely surprised. "You think this," he gestures at himself, at his whole carefully constructed image, "is excessive?"
"I think it reeks of desperation," you say. "All that effort to be larger than life screams insecurity."
His face tightens, irritation flashing sharp and ugly. "You're mouthy when you're cornered."
"I'm mouthy when I'm right."
He steps even closer. Now there's no space left between you, just proximity and heat and the electric charge of two people who want to destroy each other in ways that haven't been fully articulated yet.
"You think you're clever," he says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "That your sharp tongue will save you."
"It's gotten me this far."
"This far," he repeats, "is temporary. Remember?"
You keep your eyes on his and make a decision not to move. In your mind, you catalog the consequences—contract termination, phone calls that stop getting answered, doors that close quietly and forever—and decide they’re acceptable losses.
“I remember,” you say. Your voice stays even because letting it shake would give him leverage. “The question is whether you do.”
His mouth stills. The amusement drains out, replaced by deliberation. He studies you with the focus he usually reserves for instruments he intends to break apart and rebuild. His head tips slightly, evaluating. You register and dismiss it immediately. Whatever conclusion he’s drawing, it’s his problem now.
"Turn around," he says.
"No."
He smiles. "I'm going to make your life very difficult."
“You already are,” you answer.
“Not yet,” he replies, calm and certain. “But soon.”
Then he turns and walks out of the trailer, leaving the door open behind him, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering and your hands shaking and absolutely no idea what the fuck just happened.
You register the fact that your hands have gone unsteady and force them still by sitting down hard on the edge of the bench. You notice the residual warmth on the neck of your bass where his fingers rested and decide you don’t like that you noticed it at all.
You make a choice not to play. Picking it up again would feel like trying to undo something that’s already happened, and you’re not interested in pretending this exchange didn’t land.
The bus smells like leather, lemon disinfectant, and synthetic air freshener trying too hard to pass for pine. You take the first open seat at the end of the front row and drop your bag beside it like planting a flag on hostile territory.
Lestat isn't in sight. You doubt that means he's far. He's probably somewhere in the back, sprawled across a private section you're not allowed to see, holding court with people who matter more than you do.
No one talks to you. The tech riding shotgun with the driver argues quietly into his headset about lighting cues, something about gel temperatures and burn times. The rest of the crew scattered in the middle rows look half-dead or deliberately indifferent, the way people do when they've learned not to get invested in temporary personnel. You check your phone out of habit. No schedule. No explanation. Just the vague command to board that had arrived via text forty minutes ago with no signature and no context.
You suppose that's how Lestat operates. Authority without logistics and commands without any explanations.
The bus shudders into motion with a mechanical groan that sounds expensive and overengineered.
You spend the drive replaying his comments. The blood thing. The body-as-rental line. The way he'd delivered both with such casual cruelty, like he'd practiced them in a mirror until they sounded natural. You wonder if he does that—if he rehearses his persona the way other people rehearse scales. If he stands alone somewhere and tries out different versions of contempt until he finds the one that cuts deepest.
You decide it doesn't matter. He's just another asshole with a stage and a following. You've survived worse.
You arrive in Silver Lake just past midnight. The rehearsal space is a windowless bunker tucked behind a vape shop and a fencing academy, which is extremely Los Angeles in a way that makes you miss actual cities with personality. A buzzed-out intern with a clipboard checks your ID at the door, squinting at it like you might be a superfan who's faked credentials just to steal setlists or whatever it is fans think happens backstage.
The main room is larger than you expected. Bare concrete walls. Cathedral ceiling. A suspended rig of lights that probably cost more than your last three tours combined. The setup is pristine—cables coiled, monitors positioned at exact angles, every surface wiped down like someone's mother is coming to visit.
Lestat is already there.
He's standing center stage. Standing like he's always been there and you've only just caught up to reality. He's talking to the sound engineer with the kind of low intensity that reads as either intimacy or threat. Something about monitor levels. Something about atmospheric bleed that you only half-catch. He cuts his hand through the air mid-sentence and the engineer nods like a man who's just been given very clear instructions about his continued employment.
You set up your rig without speaking. You're fast. Efficient. Muscle memory takes over—pedalboard clicks into place, cables connected in sequence, each connection tested twice because you learned a long time ago that technical failure is the fastest way to become expendable.
Lestat glances over once. Brief. Just long enough to register your arrival with the enthusiasm of someone noting a scheduled pest control visit. Then he turns his back again.
"Run it from the top," he says. Not to you specifically. To the room. To everyone and no one.
You don't argue. You don't ask which song. You go straight into the one from earlier, the complicated one he'd tried to use as a trap. You open hard. Aggressive. Every note placed exactly where it needs to be with just enough edge to remind him you're not here to be background music.
He joins in three bars late. You don't adjust. You maintain the tempo and let him catch up.
And he does so effortlessly.
The song builds and mutates under his hands. His voice pushes past the track's original structure and starts improvising around it, changing melody lines, dropping phrases mid-verse and expecting you to anticipate where he's going. You do. Without hesitation. Without visible effort. You track every shift and match it beat for beat.
Midway through the bridge, he laughs. A deliberate sound of amusement cut right into the middle of a line about loss or death or whatever the hell the song is supposed to be about.
You keep playing.
He stops singing.
You don't stop playing.
Then he says, voice cutting through the music, "Again."
You cut the sound clean, palm muting the strings with enough force to make the stop unmistakable.
“You forgot your own lyrics.”
No one moves. The techs lock in place where they stand, eyes fixed anywhere but the two of you. The sound engineer freezes with one hand suspended over the board, caught between deciding whether to stop the recording or preserve evidence of your upcoming murder, clearly calculating which option keeps him employed longer.
Lestat turns. The expression on his face isn't anger. It's interest. Bright and sharp and dangerous.
"I improved them," he says, walking down from the riser with fluid, unhurried steps. "And you didn't follow."
"I adapted," you counter, fingers still on the strings, ready to play or fight depending on which comes first. "You stopped singing. That's not improvisation."
That lands. You see it in the way his eyes narrow fractionally, the way his mouth curves into something that might be a smile if smiles were supposed to look predatory.
"You're awfully confident," he says, crossing the distance between you with deliberate slowness.
"No," you answer, holding your ground even though he's close enough now that you can smell that cold, wrong scent underneath the expensive cologne. "I'm competent, sir. There's a difference."
"Is there?" He stops directly in front of you. Not invading your space. Just occupying the air in a way that makes you hyperaware of where your body ends and his begins. "Because from where I'm standing, you sound like someone who thinks they've earned the right to talk back."
"I'm trying to do the job you hired me for," you say, keeping your voice level through sheer force of will. "If that bothers you, fire me."
His head tilts. Hair falls across one eye. "Oh, avorton," he says, voice dropping into that register that vibrates in your chest, "firing you would be a mercy. And I'm not in a merciful mood."
You stare at him. Calculate your options. Decide that backing down now would only make this worse. "Then what do you want?"
"I want," he says slowly, "to see how long it takes before you either quit or do something stupid enough to justify throwing you off the tour."
"Sounds exhausting for you," you say. "All that effort just to prove a point."
He laughs. Actually laughs. The sound is sharp and genuine and completely unexpected. "Merde! You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
"Not really, no."
"Good," he says, and there's something new in his voice now. Something that might be approval if approval didn't sound so much like a threat. "Play the third track. The fast one. And try not to bore me this time."
He walks back to center stage without waiting for your response.
You kick in without warning. No count or preparation. Just straight into the opening riff at full volume and tempo.
He doesn't need the warning. He comes in exactly on cue, voice cutting through the instrumentation with knife-edge precision. The song is brutal—sharp transitions, tempo changes that come out of nowhere, vocal lines that push into screaming territory. Halfway through you're sweat-slicked under your jacket, your fingers burning from the pace, your heart hammering to match the rhythm.
When it ends, neither of you speaks. The silence is loud and charged.
Then Lestat steps down from the riser and walks toward you.
He stops close. Too close. Near enough that you have to make a deliberate choice not to step back.
"You're bleeding now," he says, voice low and satisfied. "Finally."
You look down before you can stop yourself.
There’s blood smeared across the body of your bass, a dark streak dragged from the bridge toward the pickguard where your hand slipped and kept going anyway. One of your knuckles is split open, skin torn where you’d dug in too hard and refused to ease off. You register it clinically—the source, the damage, the fact that you didn’t notice until he pointed it out.
You look back up at him. “That supposed to flatter me?”
"A diagnosis," he says. His eyes track across your face, down to your throat where you know your pulse is visible. "You play better like this. Sloppier. Meaner. More honest."
You keep your eyes on his and make the choice to answer anyway. "So are you."
That stops him. For just a second, something flickers behind his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or surprise that you'd noticed.
He steps closer. Close enough that you can feel the cold radiating off his skin. "Careful, petite chose," he murmurs. "You're starting to sound like you understand me. That's dangerous for both of us."
"I don't understand you," you say flatly. "I just know how to recognize an asshole when I see one."
His mouth curves, slow and deliberate, teeth flashing without warmth. "And yet here you are—exhausting yourself for my attention. Still so fucking determined to prove yourself long after I’ve decided you’re replaceable."
"Maybe I'm not trying to prove anything to you," you say. "I'm just here to collect a paycheck and leave."
"Liar," he says softly. "You wouldn't have talked back if you didn't care. You wouldn't have matched me note for note if you were just here for the money. You want something from this. From me."
You roll your eyes. Or try to. It comes out more like a flinch. "What I want," you snap, "is for you to stop acting like a sociopathic narcissist and treat your band like human beings."
He laughs again. Louder this time. "Oh, mon cœur, if I treated you like a human being, you'd already be dead." He takes a step forward, as though to emphasize the point. "Or worse."
He lets it hang there, doesn’t elaborate. Watches you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll run or if you’re stupid enough to stay. You don’t flinch, but your fingers curl reflexively, pulse hammering. Your blood goes cold. You tell yourself it's a joke. Another piece of his rockstar persona, the vampire shtick he's been selling to fans and journalists for years. But something in his voice makes it sound less like performance and more like confession.
You force your voice to stay level. “So which is this? A threat or a joke?”
His smile returns—thin, glinting. “Does it matter?” He reaches out—not touching, just indicating the curve of your jaw with one finger. "I like that pulse of yours. Fast and loud and so very alive. It would be such a waste to silence it prematurely."
Your hands clench around your bass. "You need new material. The vampire thing is getting old."
"Is it?" His finger drops. His expression shifts into something calculating. "Then why is your heart racing?"
"Because you're in my personal space and it's pissing me off," you snap. "Not because I'm scared of your Hot Topic aesthetic."
That gets him. His expression breaks into something genuine—surprise, then delight that makes your stomach clench.
"Hot Topic," he repeats, savoring the words. "Mon Dieu. You really are determined to make this interesting, aren't you?"
"I'm determined to survive the week," you say. "The interesting part is your problem."
"Oh, you'll survive," he says, voice dropping back into that dangerous register. "The question is what condition you'll be in when it's over." He steps back, creating distance with obvious reluctance. "Break's over in ten. Don't make me come find you."
He walks away like the conversation is finished, like he hasn't just spent five minutes making thinly veiled threats about your continued existence.
You exhale slowly. Your hands are shaking. You're not sure if it's adrenaline or fury or the uncomfortable awareness that somewhere in that exchange, the line between fear and something else got very blurry.
You sit down heavily on one of the equipment cases. Pull out your phone. Stare at the blank screen and try to process what the fuck just happened.
Your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number.
Silver Lake to Santa Monica tomorrow. Bus leaves at 6am. Don't be late, avorton.
You stare at it. Then you type back: Get a new insult. That one's boring.
Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
I'll work on it. You work on not being insufferable.
You almost throw your phone. Instead you shove it in your pocket and stand up, cracking your knuckles in a way that would make Lestat proud if you weren't so pissed off.
Ten minutes. He gave you ten minutes to pull yourself together.
You take fifteen. Out of spite.
When you walk back into the main room, he’s already playing. He doesn’t acknowledge your return. Doesn’t stop. Just continues the riff he’s working on, a complicated fingerpicking pattern that shifts between major and minor and a chord voicing that makes your left hand itch to take it apart and prove you know what he’s doing. He keeps his back half-turned to you, angled toward the sound engineer and the monitor stack, as if your presence is a technical detail he’ll address when he decides it deserves the attention. You stop at your rig, set your case down with a muted thud, and take a second to check your cable path because you refuse to hand him any excuse that involves equipment. You decide your spite needs somewhere to go that doesn’t involve words, so you start moving: strap adjusted, cable in, pedal power checked, amp up to the level he ordered earlier. You do not touch the dial again after that. You can change it later. You can change a lot of things later. You can’t change the fact that he wants you reacting in front of witnesses.
He plays through the pattern again, still not looking at you. He breaks it at the exact point where the change arrives, the point that requires the hand to remember two shapes at once. He speaks toward the engineer without turning his head.
“That monitor is still wrong. Give me more of myself. Less of everyone else.”
The engineer nods and touches a slider. Lestat plays again. He stops at the same point, and you watch his right hand. You do not allow your eyes to drift to his face because you remember your agent’s warning and you refuse to hand Lestat the satisfaction of thinking it worked.
“You’re late,” he says, still facing away, as if the accusation is about time and not about dominance.
“I took the break you ordered,” you answer. Your voice stays level because you want your words usable later. You decide you want leverage more than you want the pleasure of snapping at him.
“I ordered ten minutes,” he says. He finally turns enough to look at you. His smile arrives fast, practiced, predatory. “You took fifteen.”
“You texted me to be on the bus at six tomorrow,” you say. “If you care about time, start with your own schedule.”
A tech near the back looks at the floor with the focus of someone trying not to witness a collision.
Lestat’s eyes remain on you. He keeps the guitar in his hands and plays a single note, lets it ring, kills it with his palm. “You think you have the authority to correct me.”
“I think I have the authority to state facts,” you answer. You decide to keep your hands on your instrument. No pockets. No crossed arms. No defensive posture for him to mock.
He laughs once. It isn’t friendly. It’s approval shaped like a threat. “I’ll give you a new name,” he says. “The old one bored you.” He looks you over the way he looks at gear: value assessment, failure points, resale. “Asticot. Little maggot. It suits you. You wriggle. You refuse to die when you should.” His tone stays light, as if the word is a joke he’s sharing with you.
You keep your face neutral because you refuse to give him proof that it landed. You decide you will use his own habits against him: if he wants reaction, he can pay for it in effort.
“What’s the pattern,” you ask. “Or are you going to keep playing it at the sound guy until he starts covering his ears,”
He steps down from the riser and stops at the edge of your setup. He doesn’t touch anything and he doesn’t need to. His presence is enough to make the people around you adjust their distance. He watches you with open interest, like you’re a problem he intends to solve by force.
“Listen,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
He plays it again, slower now, and you track the change. You hear what he’s doing with the bass note, how he’s implying a different chord under the same melody. It’s smart. It’s also designed to bait you into chasing him. You decide you will not chase. You decide you will show him you can stand still and still win.
“You want the bass under it,” you say. “You want the new voicing to hit like a hinge. You want the switch to read as intentional.”
“You’re using words like you’re writing liner notes,” he says. “Play.”
You play the bass line you think he wants. You keep it simple on the first pass, because the first pass is a statement: you understand the skeleton. You place the notes where they belong and leave room for him to decorate. You watch his hands, not his face, and you refuse to move your feet. You refuse the instinct to lean away when he steps closer to listen. You refuse to soften your attack. You refuse to show him that his proximity alters anything you do.
He stops you with a sharp motion of his hand. “No.”
You lift your fingers from the strings and wait. You do not ask why. You decide he will talk anyway. He always talks when he wants control.
“Are you trying to keep a job on a corporate tour with a singer who needs everything rounded? If so, that isn’t my band. You’re here to make me louder. Se reconstruire.” he scoffs.
You decide you will not argue about his intent. You decide to make him specify what he wants, because specification boxes him in.
“What do you want instead?”
He leans in a fraction. He keeps his voice at a level the crew can hear without straining. He wants the room listening.
“Take the low note and refuse to let it go. Pull it through the change until they’re begging for release. I want them desperate before I decide they’ve earned the chorus.” He smiles, slow and pleased. “You understand, asticot.”
You understand what he’s actually saying once you scrape the theatrics off it. He wants sustained tension through mechanics—root held across the change, delayed resolution, pressure created by timing and register instead of volume. It’s a simple musician’s instruction. You decide to take the instruction and strip the cruelty off it in your head, because that’s how you keep your focus.
You play it again. You change your timing. You hold the low note longer than comfort, let it fight with his voicing, let the dissonance exist long enough to force attention. You resolve it cleanly at the last possible second. You do so without theatrics. The sound engineer looks up and stops moving his hands. One of the techs mouths something to another one. Lestat keeps his eyes on you as he plays, and his grin stays in place, as if the sound belongs to him alone.
“There,” he says when you finish. “That’s something I can use.”
“You could have said that without calling me a maggot.”
“But I didn’t want to,” he says. “That’s the point.”
You decide the point is also that he praised you in a way that still required him to hurt you. You catalogue that for later. It tells you what kind of man he is when he isn’t performing for cameras. It tells you what he thinks praise should cost.
He shifts his weight and looks toward the sound engineer. “Record that. We’ll build the intro around it.” He looks back at you. “Now do it again and don’t get proud.”
You decide to get proud privately, comply publicly. You play it again. You do it three times in a row without drift, because you refuse to give him a reason to call you inconsistent. On the fourth run, he changes his voicing and you change with him. You refuse to look at his face even when you know he wants you to, because you remember the warning again and you decide your stubbornness is a resource.
He stops playing and walks past you without touching you. He stops behind you, close enough that the sound of his boots is louder than it should be. He speaks near your ear, still loud enough that the crew can hear it if they’re listening.
“You’ll learn this quickly,” he says. “I don’t keep people for their emotions. I keep them for their utility. If you want my regard, make yourself indispensable.” His smile is smooth and merciless. “And if you’re looking for kindness, try a confessional.”
You keep your hands on your instrument. You do not turn around. You decide you will not give him the satisfaction of watching your expression shift.
“Priests wouldn't waste the” you say. “They’re busy with people who want forgiveness.”
A laugh slips from somewhere behind you—short, surprised—and dies immediately under a sharp hiss of warning. Lestat’s response arrives with a pleasantness that makes the insult worse. “Good. You can talk. I thought you might be a mute who plays scales.”
“Keep up.” he says.
You decide you want to throw something. You decide you like having rent paid more. You decide to keep that anger and use it in the next run, because he already admitted it makes you useful.
He walks back to the riser and lifts his chin. “From the top of the set,” he says. “We’ll run the first six songs without stopping. If you make a mistake, I’ll stop and we’ll start again.”
“That sounds like a waste of time,” you say.
He looks directly at you. “So don’t make mistakes.”
You decide he’s trying to provoke you into arguing, because argument gives him the chance to punish. You decide to give him obedience shape in spirit of professionalism. “Count in.”
Lestat doesn’t count in. He starts. He makes everyone else chase him. You chase him anyway, because you refuse to be the person who breaks the line. The songs move fast, and he changes things midstream because he can. He cuts a chorus short and adds an extra bar, and you catch it because you listen to his body, to the way he signals with his right hand, to the way he leans into a transition when he intends to break it. You keep your focus on the music because music has rules he can’t rewrite without exposing himself as sloppy. He hates being sloppy. He loves pretending he isn’t being tested.
By the end of the third song, the room looks different. The crew has settled into positions like they’re watching a show, not a rehearsal. The sound engineer’s hands move less. He trusts you more. That trust is dangerous because it means you’re becoming part of the machine. You remind yourself: temporary. You remind yourself again: your job is to be good and leave. And again: Lestat is the kind of man who takes everything he can.
On the fourth song, he walks down from the riser while singing. He approaches your rig and stops directly in front of you. He sings the line straight at your face, close enough that you can see the shape of his teeth when his mouth opens. He isn’t out of breath. He isn’t sweating. His skin looks the same as it did when he walked in, and your mind tries to supply explanations you don’t want. You decide to keep the explanation simple: he’s a performer, and performers conserve what they can.
He lifts his hand and taps the side of your amp. Once. Not hard enough to move it. Just enough to remind you it belongs to his world now. Your hands keep moving. Your timing stays locked. You refuse to miss a note because he decided to play games. He watches you while he sings, and the line ends, and he smiles at you as if he’s proud of himself for finding a new way to intrude.
When the song ends, he raises his hand. Everyone stops. The room waits for him because he trained them to.
He points at you. “Come here.”
You decide you will not look confused and promptly set your instrument down on its stand. You walk to the riser. You stop at the step and look up at him, because he’s using height on purpose.
He leans forward slightly and speaks in a voice meant for you alone. The crew still hears it. He wants them hearing it. “You’re going to do backing vocals.”
You blink once. You keep your face still. You decide you will not react with annoyance even though annoyance is your default. “I’m a bassist.”
“You’re provisional,” he says. “You exist for whatever purpose I assign you, for as long as I find you useful.”
“I didn’t agree to vocals.”
“I don’t care what you agreed to,” he says. “I care what you can do without whining.”
You choose the only angle that limits him so you keep it technical. “Which part.”
He smiles, pleased that you didn’t protest outright. “Second chorus. Harmony on the last two lines. You’ll stand at the mic on my left.” He turns away mid-sentence, already finished with you. “Another microphone,” he calls to the engineer. “Immediately.”
A tech moves immediately. They bring a stand. They place it where he indicated. The stand goes to the left of his mic, close enough that your shoulder will brush his arm if he decides to move. You watch them do it and you decide he chose that placement for the same reason he chooses insults: friction creates control.
You walk to the mic. You adjust it to your height. You do it without asking permission. Lestat watches your hands like he wants to slap them away and claim the space. He doesn’t. He wants you there.
He plays the chord. He sings the line. He nods at you. “Now.”
You sing. Your voice isn’t trained. It doesn’t need to be pretty. It needs to be on pitch and on time. You keep it tight. You keep it clean. You keep your volume lower than his because you refuse to become a target for a mistake that will ruin this experiment for him. You hit the harmony line. It lands. The sound engineer adjusts the gain a fraction. Lestat’s eyes stay on you as if he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed that you can do this too.
He stops playing. “Again.”
You do it again.
He stops. “Louder.”
You decide he’s testing whether you’ll argue. You decide to give him what he asked for and remove his excuse to escalate. You sing louder.
He stops. “You’re still hiding.”
“I’m singing the part,” you say.
He steps closer until his shoulder nearly touches yours. He speaks with a calm that reads like cruelty. “You’re hiding behind competence, petite chose. Use your voice like you use your hands. Commit.”
You decide to commit in the one way you can without giving him intimacy. You commit to sound. You sing the harmony again, louder, steady, supported. You keep your eyes forward, refusing to look at him. You refuse to make it personal.
He watches you finish and he smiles with satisfaction that makes your skin itch. “Good,” he says. “Now you’re useful in two places.”
“Congratulations,” you say. “You found a second way to use me.”
He laughs and turns away as if you said something flattering. “You make it easy, asticot.”
He calls the set again, and you go through the first six songs with the new mic in place. You move between bass and the mic without tripping over cables. You coordinate with the tech when you need a quick adjustment. You do it without asking Lestat for anything because you refuse to make him the gateway to your own function. You keep the harmonies consistent. You keep your bass line aggressive where he asked for aggression. You decide to push the dissonance in the intro the same way every time, because consistency annoys him when he wants chaos. You give him the chaos he asked for inside the structure you control. You make it a trade.
After the run, he lifts his hand again. The room stops again.
He looks at you. “Tomorrow we do camera rehearsal. You’ll be on stage with me. If you move wrong, the camera will catch it. If you look stupid, the audience will believe it. Don’t embarrass me.”
You take the mic off the stand and set it back with the care of someone handling borrowed equipment. You decide to answer him in a way that doesn’t soothe. “If I embarrass you, you did it yourself by hiring a stranger.”
He steps down from the riser and stops directly in front of you, close enough that ignoring him is no longer an option. He studies your face openly now, no pretense of ignoring you.
“You’re either very brave,” he says lightly, “or catastrophically foolish.”
“I can be both.”
That draws a thin, pleased smile, sharpened by recognition. “Yes,” he says. “That's why you're here.”
“I want you to stop trying to make this personal.”
You watch Lestat's eyes narrow. He leans in close enough that you can smell the cologne again, the expensive top note, the clean base note, the underlying scent that makes your brain list possibilities it can’t verify.
“It’s personal because I’ve decided it is,” he says. “Anything that holds my attention belongs to me for as long as I allow it. You walked into my rehearsal and stood your ground. That makes you a problem. It also makes you entertaining.”
You decide to keep your voice steady. “At what cost?”
He smiles, pleased you asked. “When I speak, you answer. When I change direction, you adapt or you fail—learn what I change even when I don’t warn you. Leep up.”
He lets his eyes run over the mic stand and back to you. “You sing when I tell you. You play when I tell you. You stop when I tell you.”
“And if I don’t?”
He lifts his brows. “Then you leave. That is the contract.” He glances toward the room. “Everyone here knows it.”
You decide you will not let him trap you into a threat-response cycle. You decide to acknowledge the reality and move on. “Fine.”
His smile widens. “Good.”
You turn away first. You walk back to your rig. You start breaking down your gear in the order you always use. You do it because ritual—no, you cut that word. You do it because sequence keeps you sane. You coil your cables. You pack your pedals. You wipe the fingerprints off your instrument because you refuse to leave anything behind that he touched. You decide you can’t stop him from touching you if he chooses it, but you can stop his fingerprints from living on your equipment.
A shadow falls over your case. Lestat’s voice arrives behind you. “Bus leaves in twenty minutes.”
“Text it next time,” you say without turning. “You seem to enjoy texting insults.”
“I enjoy using you through a screen,” he corrects, smooth and indulgent. “Don’t confuse.”
You decide that is a line meant to hook you. You decide to cut it off at the root. “I’m not your friend.”
A quiet laugh leaves him, pleased rather than offended. “Of course not,” he says. “Friends require patience. I prefer something more stimulating.”
You close your case and lift it. You turn and walk toward the door. You don’t look back, because looking back turns this into an exchange. Lestat thrives on exchanges and you have decided to starve him.
Outside, the crew filters toward the bus in small groups. They keep their distance from you because they keep their distance from anything that catches Lestat’s attention. You decide that’s a warning masked as professionalism. You climb the bus steps, swipe your badge, and walk down the aisle with your bag and your case, searching for a seat that gives you sight lines and an exit. You choose a spot mid-bus near the aisle. You set your case at your feet. You sit upright. You decide you will not curl up small.
A tour manager in a headset walks past you, pauses, and speaks without looking at you. “You’ll be in the bunk section. Lower left. You’ll get a laminate for backstage in the morning.” They move on before you can answer, because answering creates connection and connection creates problems.
You stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and walk toward the bunks. The hallway narrows. The air smells like disinfectant, synthetic citrus, fabric that’s been cleaned too often. You find the bunk with your name printed on a strip of paper. Someone spelled it wrong. That feels correct. You toss your bag into the bunk, take a second to check the curtain, the outlet, the storage pocket. You decide to keep your valuables on your body. You decide to keep your instrument locked. You decide to sleep light.
A voice comes from behind you. “That’s not your bunk.”
You turn. Lestat stands in the hallway, bareheaded now, jacket gone, shirt still open. His eyes take in the paper label and your bag with casual authority. “That’s for crew. You’re on my side.”
You stare at him. You decide you will not ask why because why invites explanations and explanations invite intimacy. You decide to ask the question that matters. “Where.”
He points. “Two bunks down. Upper. Next to mine.”
You look where he points. There is no label there. There is a blank strip of paper and an empty bunk. The curtain is open. The pillow looks unused.
“You moved me,” you say.
“I corrected an error,” he says. “You don’t sleep with crew. You don’t eat with crew. You don’t gossip with crew. You stay where I can reach you when I need you.” His smile flashes again. “You like being useful. I’m helping.”
You decide he wants you reacting. You decide you will give him a reaction that also protects you. “If you wanted access, you could have asked.”
He steps closer. “Ask,” he repeats, amused. “Asticot, you’ve been here one day and you’re already negotiating like you have options.” He leans in enough that his voice drops to the tone he uses for control. “You’re in my band now. Temporary, yes. Still mine. You sleep where I say.”
You decide you could refuse, but you’re not ready to gamble your job on a bunk assignment. You decide to comply while storing the debt for later.
“Fine.”
He taps the edge of the bunk with one finger. “Upper,” he reminds you.
You lift your bag, move it to the bunk he indicated, and shove it inside. You keep your movements quick. You don’t want him watching you climb. You don’t want the crew watching you climb. You don’t want the narrative that forms when people see you placed near him like a pet.
“You can stop pretending you don’t care,” Lestat says, as if he’s reading your mind. He isn’t. He’s reading your body and your choices, and that’s worse because it means you can’t hide inside your own head.
“I care about sleep,” you say. “I care about doing the job. I don’t care about your games.”
He reaches up and catches the curtain cord, pulls it once, and the curtain slides partway closed. He leaves it open enough to keep line of sight. “Everything is a game,” he says. “You’re just bad at admitting which ones you’re playing.”
You climb into the bunk. You do it with practiced ease—no, you cut that phrase. You do it with the muscle memory of years of cheap tours and cramped vans and floors that smelled like beer. You pull yourself up, turn, and sit. You keep your shoes on until you decide where the floor is clean. You decide none of it is clean. You take them off anyway, tuck them at the edge, and keep your socks on.
Lestat stands below your bunk, looking up. His face is too close at this angle. His eyes look too bright. His expression carries amusement and impatience and something else you refuse to name because naming gives it weight.
“You’ll be up at five,” he says.
“Bus leaves at six,” you answer. “Plenty of time.”
He smiles. “Five.”
“...Why?”
“Because I want you awake before the crew,” he says, tone clipped with that smooth, merciless precision of his. “I want you exhausted before the day even begins. I want the cameras to catch every sleepy blink, every missed beat, every half-second of hesitation—and I want to watch it back with a glass of wine in my hand and a smile on my face.”
He takes a step closer, voice lowering just enough to make it worse. “If you show up dazed and useless, I will remember. And I’ll keep the footage—so I never forget what happens when I lower my standards.”
You decide he’s making a promise. You decide to treat it like a threat. “You watch footage of yourself for fun.”
“I watch footage of myself to improve,” he says. “Fun is what I have when others fail in front of me.”
“You must have a lot of fun,” you say.
He laughs and steps back. “Sleep,” he orders, and walks toward his own bunk without another word.
You pull your curtain most of the way closed. You leave a gap because you want to know if he moves. You want awareness. Awareness keeps you alive in environments run by people who treat others like accessories. You lie on your back and stare at the ceiling of the bunk. You decide to count the things you control: your hands, your timing, your voice, your gear, your professionalism. And then count the things he controls: the schedule, the access, the public narrative, the crew’s attention, the band’s tolerance. You decide the balance is ugly. You decide you will not be the person who loses because they got angry at the wrong time.
The bus starts moving. You track it through the change in motion, through the hum of the engine traveling through the frame. You keep your eyes open longer than you should because you refuse to surrender fully. You decide you will sleep in short bursts. You decide you will be ready if he decides to make another visit.
You close your eyes anyway, because tomorrow is six a.m., five a.m., whatever he decides, and your body still needs what it needs even when you hate the person who controls the lights.
When your phone buzzes inside your pocket, you open your eyes immediately and pull it out. Unknown number again. One message.
Don’t snore, asticot. I’ll make you regret it.
You stare at the screen, and you decide to answer because silence gives him the last move.
If you can hear me snore through that cologne, you’re the one with a problem.
Three dots appear. They vanish. No reply arrives. You decide that is a reply. You put the phone face down beside you and close your eyes again, because you can’t win a fight with a vampire rockstar in a bunk hallway at two in the morning, and you refuse to lose tomorrow because you wanted the pleasure of one more insult tonight.
You wake before the alarm because your body refuses to trust comfort when it’s been dragged into someone else’s orbit. The bus is still moving, the low vibration pressing through the thin mattress and into your spine. You lie there with your eyes open, cataloguing the sounds you recognize: the engine’s steady rhythm, the muted clink of something unsecured in a cabinet, a distant cough from the crew section. You decide you hate that you’re already awake. You decide you hate even more that Lestat planned it this way.
You roll onto your side and check your phone. 4:58 a.m. Two minutes before the time he ordered like it was scripture. You consider staying still out of spite, then discard the idea because you refuse to let your first move of the day be predictable. You swing your legs down, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and shove your phone into your pocket. You leave the curtain half-open on purpose. If he’s watching, let him see you move without hesitation.
You drop to the floor and head toward the front of the bus. The lights are dimmed to a level that suggests someone with money decided darkness should still look expensive. You catch your reflection in one of the blacked-out panels: eyes sharp, jaw set, posture already braced for impact. You look like someone who expects a fight. You decide that’s accurate.
You make it to the kitchenette and pour yourself coffee from the industrial machine bolted to the counter. It tastes like burnt dirt and obligation. You drink it anyway because caffeine is a tool and you need tools today. You’re halfway through the mug when the bus jerks hard enough to slosh liquid over the rim.
“Shit,” you mutter, wiping your hand on your sleeve.
The engine drops. The vibration cuts out. Silence—no, the absence of motion. The bus lurches once more and settles.
You look toward the windshield. The driver is gone. The door is closed. The exterior lights are off.
You set the mug down slowly.
“That’s new,” you say to no one.
A voice answers you from behind.
“Good morning, asticot.”
You turn. Lestat stands near the middle of the bus, one hand braced against a seatback, the other holding a glass you didn’t hear him pour. He’s dressed like sleep is a rumor he once heard about and dismissed. Hair loose, shirt open, skin unmarked by fatigue. He looks pleased in a way that makes your teeth itch.
“Did you kill the driver,” you ask, because you’re awake enough now to choose chaos. “Because if this is a murder situation, I need to know how complicit I am.”
He laughs, bright and unguarded, and it carries through the bus like he owns the acoustics. “Relax! He’s outside. Cigarette and a phone call.” He lifts the glass. “We’re parked.”
“Why,” you say.
“Because I told them to stop.”
You take another swallow of coffee and set the mug down harder than necessary. “You don’t get to hijack federal highways just because you’re bored!”
“I get to do whatever I want,” he says lightly. “The highway belongs to me for the next few minutes. Like everything else.”
You take a step toward him. “Unlock the door.”
“No.”
You stare at him. “Lestat, I’m not in the mood for this.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate,” he says. “I am.”
You move closer. You stop an arm’s length away because you refuse to close the distance first. You lean one hip against the counter and cross your arms. “You trap me on your bus before sunrise and you think I’m going to play nice?”
“I don’t want you nice,” he says. His tone shifts, deepens, grows intent. “I want you honest.”
“I’ve been honest,” you snap. “You just don’t like what I say.”
“That’s not honesty,” he replies. “You're being defiant. Learn the distinction before it costs you something.”
You feel heat crawl up your neck. You hate that he’s right. You hate more that he knows it. “If this is about rehearsal, we already did the macho posturing yesterday.”
“Oh, it’s not about rehearsal,” he says, “It’s about you.”
You bark out a laugh. “You hate me.”
“I dislike,” he corrects, stepping closer with deliberate leisure, “that you don’t react the way you’re supposed to.”
That lands harder than you expect. You push off the counter and straighten. “You called me disposable.”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “And you failed to take the hint.” His mouth curves, not amused. “Most people hear that word and start negotiating. You stayed. That’s poor survival instinct.”
You open your mouth to fire back, then stop. You realize something is wrong. Not wrong-wrong. Different. His voice isn’t cutting for effect. It isn’t playful cruelty. It’s pitched lower, steadier, like he’s decided to stop performing for once.
“You locked the bus,” you say. “Why.”
He exhales through his nose and tips his head back, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. When he speaks again, the words come faster, tangled together, like he’s been holding them too long. “Because you keep pretending this is mutual,” he says. “You keep acting like you’re choosing to be here instead of being allowed.” His eyes flick over you, dismissive and proprietary. “And I don’t tolerate unresolved nuisances in my space.”
Your jaw tightens. “So what—this is you exerting control?”
“This is me correcting behavior,” he replies. “You talk back. You refuse to shrink. You keep mistaking tolerance for permission.” He tilts his head. “I don’t indulge that without consequence.”
You cross your arms. “You’ve been doing a fantastic job of making me miserable.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “That means it’s working.” He steps closer again, slow and deliberate. “If I wanted you confused, you’d be confused. If I wanted you frightened, you’d already be gone. What you are right now is inconveniently steady.”
You scoff. “Sorry I didn’t crumble on schedule.”
“Yes,” he says flatly. “That’s exactly the problem.”
You glare at him. “I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m offended by how well you do it,” he snaps. “You don’t grovel. You don’t flatter. You don’t act grateful for being tolerated.” His smile turns sharp. “You behave like you’re equal.”
He looks you over one more time, slow and unkind.
“And I haven’t decided yet whether that makes you a mistake… or an experiment.”
You swallow. You hate this. You hate that he’s pivoting. You hate that part of you is leaning in instead of backing away. “If this is you trying to fuck with my head, congratulations.”
“If I wanted to fuck with your head,” he says, stepping closer again, “you wouldn’t still be standing.”
You snort. “You’ve been fucking with my head since San Diego.”
“Since San Diego?” he repeats. “Mon cœur, if I’d been trying then, you’d still be apologizing for things you didn’t do.” He leans in just enough to crowd you. “What I’ve been doing is watching how long it takes before you stop pretending you’re unaffected.”
The bus creaks as someone shifts outside. The door handle rattles once, then stops. Neither of you move.
You realize, distantly, that you are alone with him in a locked vehicle on the side of a highway and that the part of your brain responsible for survival is screaming. The louder part—the one that’s kept you alive in worse situations—decides to escalate.
“You want honesty?” you say. “Fine. You’re a nightmare. You’re cruel for sport. You talk like the world owes you something and you punish anyone who doesn’t worship hard enough.”
His smile fades. He doesn’t interrupt.
“You scare the shit out of everyone around you,” you continue. “And you act like that makes you profound instead of lonely.”
That one hits. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his shoulders lift and drop like he’s bracing against a wave. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. “Lonely is a boring word.”
“Then pick a better one,” you say. “You’re good with those.”
Lestat’s mouth curves immediately, the irritation you struck flaring into something brighter, more performative. He straightens as if you’ve handed him a cue he’s been waiting for, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. The vulnerability you thought you glimpsed vanishes behind theatrical ease, behind that practiced confidence he wears like armor and invitation all at once.
“Oh, I have dozens,” he says lightly. “Tragic. Excessive. Unmanageable. Devoted to sensation. Hopelessly alive!” He steps closer, invading the narrow space between the kitchenette and the aisle with intent, not accident. “But lonely does make it sound as though I sit by the window waiting for someone to love me, doesn’t it? Very pitiful.”
You don’t move. You make yourself stay exactly where you are because stepping back would feel like agreement. “You already are.”
He grins at that, pleased, openly pleased, and it irritates you that you gave him something he could enjoy. “Careful,” he says. “You compliment me like that and people might get ideas.”
“Trust me,” you reply. “No one here thinks you’re safe.”
His eyes flick over you with renewed interest, slow and deliberate, as if he’s taking inventory instead of leering. “And yet you’re still standing in my kitchen at five in the morning,” he says. “Still arguing. Still refusing to look impressed.” His voice lowers, not in volume but in intent. “If you were afraid, you’d be quieter.”
“If I were afraid,” you say, “I’d already be off this bus.”
He laughs again, softer now, less sharp, the sound of someone amused by a puzzle they don’t want solved too quickly. “You say that as though leaving was ever the difficult part.”
“And you say that like you don’t notice when people do.”
That earns you a pause. He doesn’t answer right away. He tips his head to the side, studying you with open curiosity now, not the predatory kind he uses onstage or in interviews, but something more analytical, more personal. “You think I don’t notice,” he says slowly.
“I think you pretend not to,” you answer. “It’s easier that way.”
He exhales through his nose, smiling again, but this time the humor carries a thread of self-awareness. “Ah, there it is! The diagnosis.” He lifts his glass and takes a measured sip. “You really do enjoy poking at exposed wiring.”
“You started it,” you say. “You locked me in here!”
“Locked,” he repeats, amused. “Such a dramatic word. I prefer curated isolation.”
You snort. “That’s kidnapping with better branding.”
He laughs outright at that, shoulders shaking once before he reins it back in. “God, you’re unpleasant,” he says fondly. “I can’t imagine why I haven’t thrown you off the tour yet.”
“You tried,” you remind him.
“And failed,” he says, unapologetic. “Which, frankly, is embarrassing for me.”
You cross your arms again, grounding yourself in the contact. “So what’s the play here, Lestat. You trap me, you monologue, you flirt like this is foreplay instead of a hostage situation, and then what.”
“And then,” he says, stepping closer until you can feel the difference in his presence without him touching you, “we stop pretending this is about rehearsal or attitude or respect. We stop pretending you’re just another hired set of hands.”
“That’s not pretending,” you say. “That’s literally my job.”
“Jobs are excuses,” he replies easily. “Roles we hide inside so we don’t have to admit when something gets under our skin.” His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “You got under mine.”
You feel irritation spike, sharp and immediate. “Congratulations. You’re not special.”
He smiles wider. “I never said I was.”
You scoff. “You absolutely think you are.”
“Of course I do,” he says cheerfully. “I’ve spent centuries cultivating that belief. It would be rude not to enjoy the results.”
There it is again—that slip. Centuries. You latch onto it reflexively, because you refuse to let him steer the conversation entirely on his terms. “You really lean into the vampire bullshit, don’t you.”
His smile turns sly. “You don’t?”
“I don’t market my delusions,” you say. “I just live with them.”
“That’s a shame,” he replies. “There’s so much money in mythology.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”
You hate that refrain. You hate that he keeps circling back to it like it proves something. “Because I need the gig,” you snap. “Not because I like you.”
He lifts a brow. “I never accused you of liking me.”
“Good.”
“But you’re curious,” he adds.
You bristle. “No.”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “You wouldn’t argue this hard if you weren’t.”
You open your mouth to deny it again, then stop. You consider your options. Lying would be easy. Telling the truth would be irritating. You choose irritation. “I’m curious why someone with your resources insists on acting like a bored tyrant instead of a functional adult.”
He claps a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “A tyrant. How flattering.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something more intimate without losing its edge. “You should see the other adjectives people use.”
“I’m sure they’re printed on merch.”
“They are,” he says proudly. “Limited edition.”
You shake your head. “This is insane.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
“No.”
He studies you again, longer this time. When he speaks, the teasing softens just a fraction. “You don’t object to disorder,” he says coolly. “You just resent not being the one in control of it.”
That hits closer than you’d like. You narrow your eyes. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he says. “You’re loud when you’re angry. You’re meticulous when you work. You don’t bluff unless you’re already committed.” His smile returns, sharp and knowing. “And you hate that I see it.”
You force yourself not to react. “You see what you want to see.”
“Of course,” he says. “Everyone does. The difference is I admit it.”
You run a hand down your face. “Unlock the door, Lestat.”
He looks at you for a long moment, something searching in his expression. Then he sighs, exaggerated, dramatic, like a man conceding a point he never intended to lose. He reaches past you, presses a button near the driver’s seat. You hear the lock disengage.
“There,” he says. “Freedom.”
The bus door opens again. The driver climbs back in, pointedly avoiding eye contact with either of you. The engine hums to life, vibration creeping back under your feet. The moment shifts, not dissolved, just interrupted.
Lestat steps back at last, giving you space like a concession instead of courtesy. “We’ll continue this later,” he says lightly. “I wouldn’t want to deprive myself of your charming company all at once.”
You pick up your mug, now empty, and set it in the sink with a sharp clink. “Don’t worry,” you say. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes flicker with something like satisfaction. “I know,” he says.
And you hate that he sounds certain.
The engine settles into motion again, a steady mechanical insistence that reminds you the world does not pause just because Lestat de Lioncourt decided to peel himself open in front of you before sunrise. You hate that part of it—the way reality resumes like nothing happened, like you weren’t just cornered in a moving monument to his ego while he admitted things people usually bury under substances or applause. You hate even more that your pulse hasn’t slowed, that your body is still humming with the residue of the exchange, like your nervous system doesn’t know how to disengage once he’s decided you’re worth his attention.
You turn away from him first. Not because you’re intimidated, but because you refuse to let him have the last look. You move down the aisle with deliberate calm, shoulders squared, expression neutral, even as your inner monologue is doing laps and flipping tables. Jesus Christ. He really did that. He really locked the bus. You tell yourself—firmly—that you’ve seen this flavor before in different bodies with smaller followings and less talent. You remind yourself that charm doesn’t negate any of his cruelty; it just makes it harder for witnesses to testify.
You drop into a seat halfway down the bus, plant your boots flat on the floor, and stretch your legs out because you refuse to curl inward. The vinyl is cool under your palms. You breathe in through your nose, count it out, exhale slow. You are not rattled. You are irritated. Those are different things. Irritation you can use.
Across the aisle, a tech pretends very hard to be asleep. You clock it instantly. It's like everyone always knows when Lestat focuses on someone for longer than a minute.
You feel him before you hear him. The weight shift in the bus as he moves, the subtle change in energy that follows him like a bad habit. He stops beside your seat, one hand braced on the overhead rail, body angled toward you with infuriating casualness. You don’t look up right away. You make him wait because waiting annoys him, and that’s a small victory you can afford.
“You’re sulking again,” he says lightly.
You finally tilt your head up and meet his gaze. “I’m processing the fact that my boss thinks hostage situations count as team-building.”
His mouth quirks. “You’re exaggerating.”
“You locked the door.”
“Briefly.”
“Against my will.”
“Temporarily.”
You snort. “You’re one adverb away from a court case.”
He laughs, genuine and bright, then winces theatrically. “Imagine the headlines. Rock star sued by bassist for emotional impropriety on tour bus.” He taps his chest. “My heart wouldn’t survive.”
“Your heart’s fine,” you say. “It’s your empathy that’s underdeveloped.”
He studies you again, more openly now, as if the earlier confrontation loosened something he no longer feels the need to guard. “You really don’t pull punches.”
“I don’t get paid to,” you answer. Internally, you add: and I don’t trust anyone who does.
He lowers himself into the seat across from you without asking, long limbs folding in a way that makes the cramped space feel suddenly smaller. Forced proximity, you think, sharp and annoyed. Of course he’d do this. Of course he’d choose now to hover instead of retreating to whatever velvet-lined lair he sleeps in when he’s not terrorizing his band.
“You know,” he says, resting his forearms on his knees, leaning forward like he’s about to deliver a soliloquy, “most people would be terrified of me by now.”
You roll your eyes. “Most people have better self-preservation instincts than I do.”
“That explains a great deal,” he replies cheerfully. Then his expression shifts, just enough to signal a change in direction. “You don’t act like someone who wants to be here.”
“I don’t act like someone who wants to worship you,” you correct. “That’s different.”
“Yes,” he says softly. “It is.”
You hate that he sounds almost thoughtful about it. You hate that he isn’t mocking you right now, that he’s giving you that attentive stillness that makes you feel like prey and collaborator at the same time.
“Why do you push like this,” you ask, before you can stop yourself. You immediately regret phrasing it as a question instead of an accusation. “With everyone.”
He reclines with lazy entitlement, spreads his hands, flamboyant even in confession. “Because boredom makes me destructive,” he says. “And when someone doesn’t leave while I’m making it unpleasant, I assume they’ve misunderstood the rules.” His smile sharpens, pleased with his own logic. “I provoke until people reveal their function. If they endure it, I decide whether they’re useful. If I don’t test them, I might be tempted to treat them as real—and I don’t make that mistake.”
You stare at him. You think about all the ways that sentence could be unpacked by a professional with a clipboard. “That’s… deeply fucked up.”
“Yes,” he agrees instantly. “Isn’t it?”
You huff out a laugh despite yourself, sharp and incredulous. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re still talking to me,” he shoots back.
There it is again. That refrain. You grit your teeth. “Because I don’t let assholes chase me off my own job.”
“Ah,” he says, pointing at you like you just hit the right note. “Pride.”
“Self-respect.”
“Same thing in a better suit.”
You shift in your seat, annoyed at how alert you feel. Every instinct is wound tight, ready to react. You hate that part of you enjoys the verbal sparring, the way it sharpens your thoughts and keeps your mouth moving faster than your doubt. You hate even more that he matches you beat for beat, never scrambling, never losing control of the rhythm.
“You really think I care what you think of me,” you say.
“I think,” he replies slowly, “that you care very much about not caring.”
You bark a laugh. “Oh, fuck off.”
He grins, delighted. “There it is. That’s my favorite register on you.”
You lean forward, invading his space now, because if this is going to be a contest you refuse to play defense the whole time. “You don’t get to analyze me like I’m one of your lyrics.”
“I absolutely do,” he says, unbothered. “I invited you into my band. You’re material now.”
“Fuck you.”
“Frequently,” he says lightly, then pauses, tilts his head, and adds with theatrical gravity, “but not yet.”
Your face heats despite your best efforts. You scowl harder to compensate. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable,” he counters. “Every time I flirt, you pretend you’re furious instead of amused.”
“I am furious.”
“Yes,” he says, eyes flicking over your face with keen interest, “but you’re also engaged.”
You lean back, cross your arms, break eye contact on purpose. Damn it. You hate that he’s right. You hate that the constant friction keeps you sharp and awake in a way you didn’t realize you’d been missing. You hate that you’re thinking this at all.
“Don’t get it twisted,” you say. “I still think you’re an asshole.”
He beams. “Oh, I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”
The bus takes a curve, the motion subtle but enough to shift the balance between you. His knee brushes yours. It’s accidental. Probably. Neither of you moves away immediately, and the pause stretches just long enough for your brain to supply far too many thoughts you do not want. You jerk your leg back first, irritation flaring hotter than necessary.
He notices.
“You see,” he says, “this is why I like you.”
You scoff. “You like antagonizing me.”
“I tolerate it,” he says. “Everyone else adjusts themselves for my comfort. You stand there waiting for me to fail, as if that would grant you leverage.”
“Because you will,” you reply.
He dismisses you with another laugh.
The bus hums on, miles ticking away while the space between you feels charged with unfinished sentences and mutual refusal. You tell yourself—again—that this is temporary. That you can outlast him. That you won’t be the one who compromises first.
Across from you, Lestat watches with open fascination, like he’s already decided this rivalry is worth cultivating, worth dragging out until it either explodes.
And against your better judgment, some reckless, hot-headed part of you thinks: fine. Let it burn slow.