┏━━━━ •❃°•°❀°•°❃• ━━━━┓
chapter twenty-four
" I think we're alone now
There doesn't seem to
be anyone around
I think we're alone now
The beating of our
hearts is the only sound. "
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NOW PLAYING: "I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW" by TOMMY JAMES AND THE SHONDELLS (1967)

___________

JONAH: When you're interviewing a band, you're interested in talking to everybody. Because a good story can come from anyone. But you're also keenly aware that it's people like Billy, Daisy, and Aurora—maybe Graham, Karen—that the readership is interested in.

EDDIE:  Jonah probably asked me about two questions. His mind was definitely somewhere else when he was talking to me.

WARREN: I just remember those God damn sunglasses, man.

RORY: I was intimidated, yeah. Like I said, the recording studio felt like my little sanctuary, and then it was violated.

BILLY: I think it was Rory's idea to invite Jonah out for a night on the town with us.

RORY: I wanted him to see the band organically, not just when they were in the studio. I thought he would get a better sense of them as people that way—when they weren't working. But also... [Smiles guiltily] I wanted him out of that booth.

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AS SOON AS the band enters Joe's Piano Bar, the overpowering sounds of off-key singing and poor instrumentals slam into them full-force. Graham's eyebrows shoot up his forehead the moment Rory opens the door. The heavy oak had muffled the worst of it from the street, so once there is no barrier between them and the lousy vocalist, all of Rory's friends start to doubt her. She knows this because, as soon as she turns, she realizes that none of them are mirroring her smile.

"You sure about this place, Ror?" Eddie asks, his hands on his hips. His skeptical eyes shift to observe the people closest to the entrance. A few bikers hunkered over a table, enormous pints of beer in their hands. A group of drunk middle-aged women cheering on the performer. Most of the patrons are crowded at the bar, seemingly wanting to get wasted instead of listening to the singer's strained vocals for another second.

"Yeah!" she replies enthusiastically, looping her arm through his. "It'll be fun!"

Billy rubs the bridge of his nose. "This place brings me back to McNasty's."

"And that was fun!"

Graham casts her a doubtful look. "You sure about that?"

Daisy comes to Rory's rescue. She sashays to the front of the group, her enormous fur coat swishing as she looks at them, her expression bright. "Oh, come on, guys! Look at this crowd. I'll bet they haven't heard anyone carry a tune all night. We could help"—she waves a hand around nonsensically—"bring them some hope for the music industry or something."

Billy huffs a sardonic laugh. "I'm not performing, if that's what you're saying."

Daisy ignores him. Her coat almost swallows her whole, and since it's longer than her denim shorts, it looks like she's not wearing any pants as she heads straight for the bar, whooping as she goes.

"I like her idea," Karen says, following her toward the alcohol and pulling Graham along with her.

Rory side-glances at Jonah, but he's too busy observing the interior of Joe's Piano Bar to notice how touchy Graham and Karen have been. She's surprised that nobody else has, either, since something had obviously shifted between them after the Rollerball/Santa Monica day. Then again... a bomb could drop in front of Eddie and he wouldn't notice unless it had a pair of tits on it. She really shouldn't be that shocked.

Luckily, Jonah slinks off to sit by himself and observe, so Rory can take a breather. He won't be able to overhear any conversation from so far away. She also doubts he'll be able to read lips due to the dim lighting in combination with his sunglasses.

"Is he ever going to take them off?" Graham whispers as Rory squeezes into an open spot beside him.

The bar is sticky, so she tries not to touch it. "Maybe he has an eye defect and doesn't want anyone to know."

"Nah. I think he just thinks he looks cool."

"You guys are so judgmental," Karen says, knocking back the shot that had materialized in her hand. "He's been nice so far."

"Only because he wants to know all our secrets," Eddie says.

Karen pinches his arm.

After ordering drinks, the group claims a few tables near the front of the stage per Daisy's request. Her endless energy boggles Rory's mind. Even if doesn't involve any physical activity, it feels like a workout keeping up with her, and Rory wonders if she should have brought her inhaler.

Once the man at the piano finally comes to the end of his set, his voice cracking on the last note, Eddie visibly relaxes. He massages his temples with a grimace.

"I have never heard someone butcher 'Hit the Road Jack' that badly," he says. "Or try to sing all the parts by himself."

"I feel like I should write an apology to James Brown on that guy's behalf," Karen agrees.

Warren scoffs, swallowing the last gulp of his drink. "Oh, come on."

"What, you think he was good?" Eddie asks.

"Well, no, but at least he's livin' life."

Daisy rummages through her pocket, pulls out two loose pills, and downs them with liquor. Then she hops to her feet.

"Do you know how to play 'Mustang Sally'?" she asks Karen.

"Yeah, why?"

"Great." Daisy grabs Karen's hand and drags her toward the stage. It's small and circular, barely big enough for the piano, and, thus, no room for Daisy. But that's no problem for her. She climbs up onto the piano while Karen takes a seat at the bench.

The microphone squeals with feedback when Daisy wrenches it from its stand. She spreads her arms wide, exclaiming, "Hello, Joe's! I hope you're all having a wonderful night. Now that the lovely gentleman before us has finished his... interesting twists on Motown, we're gonna play a little something for you."

The bar must not be known for harboring real talent, because nobody acknowledges that the acts have changed. But Karen starts playing anyway. Daisy sways her hips, imagining the brass instrumentals in her head, a captivating performer even without the bells and whistles of a full band.

Warren leans in and asks, "Where are her shoes?"

Rory realizes that Daisy is barefoot. She glances under their tables, but the cowgirl boots she'd worn earlier are nowhere to be seen.

"Maybe she pawned 'em for those pills," Eddie replies.

Billy shakes his head. "She's had those. I saw her take some earlier."

There's a hint of bitterness in his tone—he's obviously not fond of loose pills bouncing around in her pockets. He rotates his water glass on the table as if to expel some energy.

From the moment Daisy opens her mouth, the mood in the bar shifts. It's as instantaneous as if she'd shocked the customers to life with lightning—one moment, indistinct chatter had predominated the background. The next, it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Daisy holds everyone in a trance with her raspy vocals and her movements as fluid as water.

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GRAHAM: You have not seen anything until you've seen Daisy Jones dancing on a piano in a fur coat with no shoes on singing "Mustang Sally."

BILLY: I don't remember how I ended up on the piano.

WARREN: Daisy pulled Billy onto the piano.

BILLY: The next thing I know, I'm singing with her.

KAREN: Would Billy have agreed to get on top of a piano with Daisy Jones if Jonah Berg wasn't there? [Shrugs]

RORY: There was only one mic, so they had to share. And it made things that much better. It was very intimate—a piano is not that big, so they were close together, sharing the same breath.

EDDIE: This was not a cool bar. Most places by that point, if you sang a few bars of "Honeycomb", you'd get a "Oh man! That's you?" These guys had no idea.

RORY: And I remember asking myself, if Daisy had been with us since the beginning... if she had been there at McNasty's, would it have taken so long for big break? And then I felt guilty for thinking that. Because, of course, I think The Six is phenomenal on their own. But Daisy has that ability to suck you in—you know the one.

JONAH: They were magnetic. That's the only word for it. Magnetic.

WARREN: Then we got Rory up there, because we weren't going to let her not sing.

DAISY: I did not expect her to pick "Signed, Sealed, Delivered." But she rocked it.

GRAHAM: Just a few years ago, she wouldn't even sing for us. Now she was belting out Stevie Wonder in a piano bar full of random strangers. And those vocals are not easy.

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Rory gets the entire bar singing along with her rendition of "Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I'm Yours)" by Stevie Wonder. It feels just as infectiously joyful as singing at Billy and Camila's housewarming party had been. Endorphins course through her body, more potent than any drug, her veins fiery from the strength of her joy.

She never would have experienced this kind of all-consuming happiness if she hadn't run away. If Rory had made the responsible decision to listen to Mamá and stay in Hazelwood, she would be a shell of herself by now. Sucked dry, floating through the days like a ghost, her dreams crushed. She probably wouldn't have continued songwriting after Graham left. Her passion for music would be ripped away.

If she wasn't already sure, it's moments like these when she's certain that this is where she belongs. Right here, creating memories with her closest friends, sharing her love of music with the world.

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"A little to the left, Karen. Yep, that's perfect. Graham, tilt your chin...great."

The flash is blinding even for Rory, and she's not the one in front of the camera. Though pain shoots through her eyes from its power, she looks at each of her friends' faces in turn, examining their serious expressions with an immense sense of pride.

Though photos had been taken at the festival in Hawai'i, The Six has never experienced a professional photoshoot outside of their debut album's cover shoot. It had been over quickly and the stylist did something questionable to Graham's hair, so this one is already proving to be better.

The hair and makeup artists for Rolling Stone have a specific vision for the look of the magazine. As such, Daisy and The Six are decked out in full rock and roll style while staying as true to their personal tastes as possible. Karen looks cool in a leather jacket, her hair in its usual loose curls. Billy is in his signature Canadian tuxedo with a pair of sunglasses on his head. Graham and Eddie are in their beloved bell bottom jeans, patterned button downs keeping them on-trend. Several golden necklaces dangle around Warren's throat. And Daisy is effortlessly gorgeous in her cutoff shorts and sky-blue tank top.

Rory had been shocked when Jonah explained that there would be several photographs of her as well. She'd let the stylist iron her hair perfectly straight and paint her lips a lovely shade of brick red that matches her flowy top.

She tries not to fiddle with the large hoop earrings they'd given her, afraid that she's going to accidentally get her hand caught in one and rip off her earlobe. Thank goodness she's wearing jeans—she won't have to worry about crossing her legs to cover herself in a skirt or dress. A trillion possibilities of things going wrong run rampant through her mind. How is she supposed to pose? What if she looks awkward?

As if he can tell that Rory sweats where she stands, the photographer calls her over. Rory's heart freezes in her chest as the band disassembles from the white sheet acting as the background. She'll feel more comfortable in a group shot, but if she's alone...

"We were thinking of a few solo shots first," the photographer—did he introduce himself as Dennis earlier?—explains. "Like how we did with the others earlier."

Rory was getting her hair and makeup done when said solo shots were taken, so she didn't witness how each of the members were posed. Her cheeks are warm as she takes her place in front of the camera.

"Erm..." she trails off, looking around helplessly for some sort of direction, "what do you want me to do?"

Possibly-Dennis shrugs. "Be yourself?"

That is the worst piece of advice he could have given. Rory holds in a sigh of dismay and uncrosses her arms to appear less stiff. But she still feels self-conscious, so she holds her left forearm, shifting her weight onto one foot.

"Give us that pretty smile!" Graham calls.

The band is assembled around Dennis, wracking Rory's nerves even higher by staring at her. She follows Graham's order and smiles, but even she can tell that it isn't genuine. The universe goes white for a moment as Dennis snaps a photo anyway.

"Come on," Eddie says, "you can do better than that."

"Pretend Eddie just fell down the stairs," Karen suggests.

"Didn't he do that yesterday?" Warren asks.

"I thought nobody noticed," Eddie mumbles.

Warren snorts. "The house shook, from how hard you hit the steps, man. I think even the neighbors noticed."

As usual, her friends' bickering makes a wide grin spread across her face. The flashes become nonstop. Rory laughs, her shoulders relaxing.

After a number of standing shots, Dennis instructs her to sit on a bench and hold a guitar. The instrument is flashy—a gorgeous ruby red that gleams in the studio lights—and is meant to further push the rock 'n' roll theme. They try different poses: laying it across her lap, leaning against it with her hands on the neck, a closeup of her hands playing a few chords.

Then Dennis throws Graham into the mix. She relaxes even further once he's with her, grinning up at him as he squeezes her shoulders from behind. He makes her feel like it's a regular day. Like these photos aren't going into one of the most popular magazines of all time to be viewed by millions.

He makes sure to get a few shots of the trio of women. Rory longs for Camila in that moment, wishing she could also be a part of this shoot.

Dennis mixes things up by doing a few random group shots and testing the visual aesthetics. Some work better than others. To Rory's eyes, there is an obvious strain between Eddie and Billy, making them appear rigid when placed close to one another, but she doesn't know if it's noticeable to the untrained eye.

Then Rory and Warren are placed together. She tries not to turn as red as her clothing when he sits beside her. Dennis doesn't have to instruct Warren—he's as carefree as always, born to be a rockstar with fans adoring him, appearing natural in front of the camera. He throws an arm around Rory and smiles at her. She keeps her face slightly lowered, worried that looking directly at him will remind her of the last time their faces were inches apart. Rory glances up at him through her lashes, grinning without her teeth, shy again.

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JONAH: That photoshoot was fundamental when it came to the success of the article. Pictures are everything. If a person is flipping through a magazine, they're more likely to look at the photos, then read the article if they're interested. So choosing the right photos of the band could make or break the popularity of the piece. We wanted them to show the tight-knit relationships between the members—and how Daisy and Aurora fit into that mix.

RORY: I can't believe they included that one of me and Warren. I mean, I think it's so obvious that I like him. Thank goodness they printed it in black and white or else you would have seen how red my cheeks were. Or at least they felt that way.

WARREN: It's a great picture. One of my favorites, actually. You could toss out every other photo from that shoot and just keep that one, and I'd be happy.

[After a pause] Actually, wait. Keep that one and the one of Rory looking at the camera all serious-like. That solo shot. It's beautiful.

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Days pass in a flurry. The house remains mostly empty. The band spends all of their time at the studio, while Rory is tasked with three clients at once. Luckily, she's already worked with one of them and is therefore familiar with their style, but the other two require all of her attention.

It's a miracle she can squeeze in time to see Camila and Julia amid the chaos. Julia is big, now, a toddler with dark hair to her shoulders and a limited, yet adorable, vocabulary. She joyfully exclaims, "¡Tía!" every time Rory visits. Her high-pitched voice makes Rory's heart soar as she scoops her into her arms and smacks a beso onto her chubby cheek. Had it really been so long ago that Rory put her hand on Camila's round belly, marveling at the fact there was a human inside? Life is moving so fast.

On the rare occasions The Six aren't in the studio and she's not with a client, Rory is still drawn to the space like it's a creative beacon. Her best ideas blossom when she's there—or that's what she tells herself in the event someone finds her there. None of them know about her using it.

That is, until a voice interrupts her in the middle of testing out a few chords.

"Trying to steal some of our creative juices, huh?"

Rory nearly jumps out of her seat, her fingers skimming across the guitar strings to create the most horrendous note ever. She snaps her head up to stare at Warren with widened eyes. His unexpectedly hardened expression throws her off.

She flounders for words. "I was trying to get some feedback on this song, and Graham usually helps me, but he's busy, so I didn't know what to do, so I just came here because the studio helps me focus—"

"Chill," Warren says with a grin, uncrossing his arms. His tight-fitting Santana t-shirt makes the lean muscles in his arms pop as he straightens up from where he'd been leaning against the doorframe of the studio. Rory tears her gaze away with a thick swallow. "I was just teasing. I don't care that you're using our space."

"Thanks," Rory says. "But don't tell Billy."

Warren draws an 'X' shape over his heart as a promise that he'll keep her secret studio meetings to himself.

"So why are you here?" she asks.

"Eddie forgot his notebook." Warren grabs a small book from one of the chairs and waves it before slipping it into his back pocket. "He was trying to practice at home and realized he forgot it."

"Of course he did." He's easily the most forgetful member of the band—he regularly burns food if it takes longer than five minutes to cook.

"What're you stuck on?" he questions. "Maybe I could help."

"Oh." Her face warms. "No, that's okay, I—"

"What? You don't value my opinion as much as Graham's?"

"No! I just—"

Rory cuts her exclamation off when she notices the glimmer of amusement in Warren's eye. He's still teasing her, and she'd fallen for the bait. Again.

It isn't like Rory to be so wound up after years of learning to endure his jokes, but she can't help it. This song is frustrating her to no end. It's been a long while since she's experienced this large of a block, standing in the way of finishing the last verse like a boulder in her path.

And, no, she can't have Warren help her with it. Because it's a love song. The artist had been looking for sappy, lovestruck lyrics and a sweet melody to accompany them. And in order to draw out all of the lovestruck sap within her, Rory had poured her heart out into a song about Warren and all of the complicated things he makes her feel.

"Who's the song for?" Warren asks.

"Jean & Dean," Rory replies.

"The couple that just renewed their vows for the millionth time and won't stop yelling about how much they love each other?"

"That's the one."

Rory had written the song from two perspectives: one from Jean, and the other from Dean, similar to her style of "Heartstopper". Each person is begging the other to kiss them, but they're both waiting for someone else to make the first move. It's a heart-wrenching, gut-twisting song sweet enough to give even the most hard-ass person alive a toothache.

Sensing her nerves, Warren sits on the sofa adjacent to her chair. His proximity only makes things worse. Every nerve becomes attuned to his brown skin, to the scent of marijuana and cigarettes that clings to him, as she calculates the distance between them. If she moved her leg slightly to the right, their shoes would touch.

"Rory, come on," he says, forcing her to look him in the eye by ducking his head every way that hers does. He wears a gentle smile that gives her butterflies. "You're crazy talented— the best songwriter I know. What you think is a ... a mountain is probably just an ant hill."

He thinks that she's doubting herself again. That she's losing faith in her skills as a songwriter and feeding into her old insecurities that she wasn't good enough for the field. It's almost better this way. At least then she doesn't have to admit the real reason she doesn't want to play for him.

But his words. The best songwriter I know. Coming from a guy in a band with Billy Dunne and Daisy Jones, that means a lot.

It means the world.

"Okay." Rory draws in a breath and grabs the guitar she'd set aside when he appeared. Her eyes are downcast, locked on her thumb that strums the song's tentative instrumentals. As she plays, Warren nods along, then starts patting a drum beat on his lap to accompany her guitar once he gets the hang of the rhythm.

She starts to sing, briefly interjecting to mention which part is sung by whom, and forces herself not to think about the nerves flooding her stomach. It's easy to get lost in the music like she always does. Soon she's at the last part of the chorus and flicks her gaze up to gauge Warren's reaction to the song. He's still patting a steady percussion beat, but his eyes are locked on hers, and she stumbles on "With your lips a hair's breadth away / Can't think of nothin' to say / Except a plea to feel 'em pressed to mine" before regaining her composure.

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RORY: The song was about him. I think he started to realize it toward the middle, because I could feel his stare getting more intense even though I pretended not to notice. And I glanced up at him...

WARREN: I'll never forget how she looked. Her long hair over her shoulder, so focused on the song. The drum beat I made up on the fly wasn't even registering in my mind anymore. All I could think about was her. Her and that beautiful voice I could never get enough of. How she was basically begging me to kiss her.

RORY: You could've cut the tension with a knife.

∴━━━ ✿ ━━━∴

Rory's voice fades out, her guitar strings continuing to vibrate and pour music into the room until she places her hand on them to cut the sound off.

"So, yeah," she says, a little breathless, "aside from that part where I'm stuck, it's almost done. I just... can't seem to find the right words to put in the last verse."

"Screw that verse," Warren replies.

Rory's brows crease. "What?"

"I think it's perfect how it is. Rory, you wrote a beautiful song. It doesn't need anything else."

"Thank you." There go those butterflies again.

Warren reaches out a hand and places it on her knee. Her breath hitches. She darts her gaze from his fingers splayed across her jeans to his biceps to his mouth to his eyes, so warm and dark, still trained on her.

"You are so talented," he says, more sincere than she's ever seen him. "I wish you could see yourself how I see you."

She can't keep the question inside. "How do you see me?"

Warren tucks her hair behind her ear. The warm-tinted light above illuminates the side of her face.

"Like you're a beacon of light that I can't look away from. I wouldn't want to even if I could, because I can never get enough." He pauses, and Rory clings onto his every word, scarcely daring to breathe lest she misses a syllable. "I know Billy wrote that song about Camila but... you're my morning sun."

Now he's the one looking at her lips, and Rory can feel her heartbeat thrumming against her ribcage so hard her blood roars in her ears. She clings stupidly onto the guitar, not knowing what to do with herself.

Or what to say, apparently, because she asks, "Is that the drugs talking, or you?"

Warren's thumb smooths across her cheek. "It's all me, hermosa."

He kisses her, answering her plea in the song.

And, oh—Rory's heart could burst.

She responds in kind. Once he feels it, he changes the pace. Warren kisses like he lives—enthusiastically, passionately, and a little wildly. His gentle hand against her face juxtaposes his searing mouth as he steals her breath away. The hair above his upper lip is a strange yet not unwelcome sensation. If anything, the slight scratch makes her feel more alive, sure that this is real and not a dream.

He rescues the guitar from her death grip and sets it aside somewhere. It occurs to Rory that there is far too much space between them. She briefly stands, disconnecting their lips for a split second so she can slide into his lap. It seems like that was still too much time apart. Warren practically yanks her down against him, his hands gripping her hips while her fingers explore his curls.

It's months or even years of tension finally snapping at once. Rory is no longer embarrassed. Warren's eagerness spurs her on, his mouth opening to deepen the kiss. Her heart sings with the thrill of the moment. It repeats a chant of finally, finally, finally, turning her thoughts into fog.

But a flashback from last week shoves its way to the forefront of her mind. Eddie's voice asking, "How many drugs've you guys had?"

It's enough to make her wrench herself away with a firm, "Wait."

Warren freezes, his expression morphing into concern. "What's wrong?"

"I don't—I can't have this be because you're, like, high or something," Rory says. "So if you're not even going to remember this in a few hours, I'll just ... go."

He shakes his head, pulling her back in so they're chest-to-chest, that smile she adores so much lighting up his face. "Rory, I promise you, I am stone-cold sober."

Rory matches his grin and leans in again. Everything that Warren does makes some inner part of her say yes. Every press of his mouth, every slip of his tongue, every part of her that his hands explore. She allows herself to get lost in feeling instead of letting her mind race. Díos, if he keeps kissing her like this, she's going to die.

But then his lips trail to her neck and a squeak emits from her mouth—a completely involuntary sound that makes him stare at her in bewilderment.

"Sorry," she says, "your mustache tickles."

"Oh, this thing?" Warren asks, burying his face in the space between her neck and shoulder and shaking his head from side to side, rubbing his facial hair all over the sensitive skin and making her squeal with laughter. But her giggles just as quickly turn into sighs when he starts to suck a mark against the side of her throat.

Yes, this is definitely how she dies. She should have someone start writing her eulogy now.

"I know we're gonna to go on tour when we finish the album and stuff," Warren mumbles between open-mouthed kisses on her skin, "but I wanna take you on a date. Like, several. A lot. So many."

It's funny having him be the one fumbling over his words for a change.

"I wanna go on several dates with you, too," Rory replies. "Or, like, a lot."

Warren playfully pinches her side for her mocking tone, but she can feel his smile even if she can't see it.

"I promise I'll be good to you, querida mía," he says, drawing back and shifting so they're eye-to-eye. "I've waited far too long for this to mess it up."

∴━━━ ✿ ━━━∴

RORY: He took me out for dinner that night.

WARREN: My Aurora. My morning sun. Still one of the best speeches I've ever given, honestly.

________

a/n:

FINALLLYYYYYYY RAAHHHHHH

i have been waiting SO LONG to publish this moment and i'm so excited that it's finally here! let me know your thoughts on the kiss because i'm always curious about your thoughts!!!

also, book fans will recognize the piano bar scene (though i added much more to it) and some book quotes in this chapter. i will be adding a lot more book moments, especially as the aurora tour kicks off! and some things will be different from the show because i'll choose the book moments instead. you'll see when the time comes. if you haven't read the book and are confused about any changes, just know that's why.

as always, thank you for reading!!

— kristyn

TRANSLATIONS:

Querida mía: My dear

( word count: 5.0k )