Moxie considered it a miracle whenever they made it through a rehearsal unscathed. They were lucky it wasn't a dress rehearsal because Mick would have definitely split his pants with that too-high, too-wide splits jump during the final song.

"God, I'm so sweaty. Could wring this thing out and fill up an entire bucket." He tugged at the shirt that clung to his chest. There was no reasonable explanation for why he was that sweaty.

"It might have something to do with you giving it five hundred percent when we only needed about eighty. Nobody likes an overachiever." That was a lie, but it made Moxie feel better about having her head only partially in the game. (Zac Efron wouldn't be angry, but he would be disappointed.)

His judgmental gaze slid down to meet her exhaustion. "Am I an overachiever or are you an underachiever?"

Droplets of sweat sprayed outward as he rustled his hair with a gentle shake and, rather disgustingly, landed on Moxie. She shoved him away with her foot.

"Do that again and I'm strangling you in your sleep."

He did it again because what else were brothers good for.

Moxie took off her shoe and threw it at him. Unfortunately, the bastard dodged it. Years of growing up under these exact circumstances wielded him some impressive agility.

It wasn't as if they had an elaborate show or anything with an entire army of backup dancers and pyrotechnics, but every big show required some sense of direction, which meant mandatory rehearsals. Roxanne Lum wouldn't have had it any other way.

The darling herself waltzed into the dressing room with a clipboard in one hand, her phone in the other, and her attention set squarely on both. The loose-fitting white tank she wore showed off the striking tattoo sleeves that adorned each defined arm, while her long waves framed her angular face perfectly. When her razor-sharp words weren't on display, most strangers found her aesthetic mildly intimidating, albeit still breathtakingly beautiful. Roxanne was more than a fan of that general perception of her.

"Question—" Moxie posed before Roxanne could say anything.

She barely lifted her head. "Yeah."

"Who do you think would win in a fight: you or Marty Thompson?"

Mick nearly choked on his spit. MARS' manager was notorious for his large stature and steely presence. Moxie considered herself fairly adept at maintaining her composure when meeting new people, but he was someone whose name could spin an entire lore about him.

Roxanne didn't hesitate. "Obviously me."

"What about you and Jenny?" MARS' assistant. Equally as impressive. Mostly scary, under the right circumstances, if the circumstances were named Kingston Maverick.

She took a second to consider. "A draw."

Moxie slid back into a normal position, like a hetero heathen. "So... how was it? Be honest."

"Good." Roxanne nodded thoughtfully. "We're getting better with every show. The confidence is there, but I don't think any of us are surprised by that. Everyone will love it."

When Roxanne was in business mode—which was most days now, something that the King siblings wanted to work on because she needed to rest—she became a woman of few words. Considering her head was lost in thoughts of how to make sure things would run smoothly on their tour that summer, that small comment alone was to be taken as high praise. Roxanne wasn't afraid of dishing out criticism when necessary. Her compliments always seemed to be delivered at the right time to make them more impactful

"Good to know we won't bore everyone with our subpar dancing skills," Moxie sighed, slinking back into the seat.

"Speak for yourself," Mick scoffed.

Roxanne spared her a bored glance. "Please at least pretend to be serious."

"I'm just saying."

"No, your imposter syndrome is just saying." Roxanne flicked her attention back to her phone. "Tell it to shut up. I have to check on some last-minute things and but I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing."

Moxie saluted her manager. "A shower and a couple of shots and we'll be back to normal."

"I'll catch you after, yeah? Don't make any bad choices." She stopped short to look at them. "I mean it. I don't want to see any headlines before the tour starts. We have enough to worry about as it is."

"Ay yay, captain." Mick saluted her.

Roxanne's eyes narrowed before she drifted back toward the door. "You two have been hanging out with MARS too much."

"Not enough, actually."

The door slammed shut.

It felt like there weren't enough hours in the day to get done what they needed to and even fewer hours than they needed just to find a way to keep their heads on straight, but Mick was somehow one of those people who always made it seem so easy, and everything about him was genuine. Moxie always admired that about her brother. The way he stormed through the world unapologetically and didn't trip on his own tremendous ambitions. He was admirable, if not slightly exhausting to look at. Moxie couldn't figure out how he did it so well. She often felt like she was secretly the younger sibling of the two.

He tossed her a bottle of water, cold to the touch and dripping against the light grey wash of her workout shirt,  before sinking into his seat. It was the same seat he had dragged around everywhere they went. The Kings didn't pack their tour riders full of much—although Roxanne was surprised by the recent addition of Capri Sun Hawai'i Cooler, courtesy of their friend Jun's influence—but that particular chair was a non-negotiable.

"What happens when that thing eventually falls apart?" Moxie asked.

If looks could kill, Mick would be an only child.

"That's so rude. Don't put such a thing out into the world." Mick rubbed the arm of the chair lovingly like it was a beloved pet. The only things it was missing was a beating heart and a conscious. "You're going to hurt her feelings."

"Her?" Moxie choked. "Since when was it a her?"

"Since just now."

"God, you need help."

Someone knocked at the door and Moxie called out asking who it was. Upon confirmation, they helped themselves inside. Their lifestyle meant they were essentially in front of a revolving door at all times of the day, even if all they wanted was to be left alone. Finding a moment of silence in a world that was constantly screaming required a certain extraneous amount of effort.

There were few people in the music industry more talented than Lana Bridgette. She was beauty and grace and could hold a tune like no other, much like a siren casting the entire world under her spell. It was criminal how little recognition she received, even after being nominated for a slew of awards for her debut album, but Moxie tried her best to offer her support where needed, and not to speak over her friend and new touring mate. Their experiences jumping into the deep end of the music industry were completely different.

"Mick, are you nursing your chair again?" Lana sang as she danced into the room. Her long locs were swept over one shoulder as she lowered herself onto the other end of the sofa where Moxie was sitting. "You know what anthropomorphizing does to your sister."

"Use smaller words, eh."

Lana giggled.

As much as Moxie loved being in the company of Lana, their opening act had finished her rehearsal almost a couple of hours ago by that point, so Moxie wasn't sure why she hadn't left yet.

"Are you getting excited yet?" Moxie asked.

Lana glanced over at her with a crooked smile. "Like I haven't already been this entire time?"

"Yeah but," Moxie shrugged, "there's wide-eyed-great-unknown kind of excited and then there's the erratic-butterflies-about-to-throw-up kind of excited, you know?"

She laughed a fluttery little sound that took flight. "Maybe a little bit of both?"

"And you, unsurprisingly, still look better than either of us do." It was an undeniable truth. The King siblings looked like zombies. Even when she first walked off the makeshift stage for rehearsals, Lana didn't look the slightest bit winded.

"Did Rami text you guys about the party?" Lana asked.

"You know," Mick rubbed a hand towel across his face, "for someone who spends most of his time hanging around the outskirts, Rami always seems to be the one alerting everyone about going to a party."

"It's because he knows his friends love it," Moxie answered. "Sans Stevie. Unless Bash is involved."

"What does she even do at them now that she doesn't have to pretend that she's there for any other reason than to try and see him?"

Moxie shrugged. "Feed her insatiable need to beat everyone's ass at beer pong?"

"Yeah, that'll do it."

She glanced back at Lana now furiously typing away on her phone, confirming their attendance with the eldest MARS member. Moxie had a sneaking suspicion Lana harbored a quiet crush on the drummer but didn't want to pursue anything because A) she had no idea how he felt, and B) she didn't want to risk creating any awkwardness amongst their network of friends.

"You owe me a drink," Moxie demanded.

Lana held out her pinky. Some promises could never be broken. Not that Moxie ever cared enough to collect.

Moxie had no idea how anyone could master the art of turning it on and off at will. Not when it mattere. She wanted to believe she was good at it—she could confidently say she fooled a lot of people more days than not—but it was more that she was a better actress than she realized, and living under the illusion of control wasn't the same as possessing those skills because they were skills. Nobody was ever born prepared to live a life like this. It had to be practiced and rehearsed every single day, and, if they were lucky, they somehow found a way to do it without drowning. Pretending she was good at turning it on and off wasn't the same thing as actually being to do it.

Somehow, people in her industry always found a way to throw a party even when there wasn't something to celebrate. Exhausting. Moxie showed up. Mostly because Mick loved it. Free booze was always appreciated.

When they walked through the front door of a house too big for its own good, Moxie felt her defensive walls fortify themselves against the onslaught of heat, sweat, and smoke. She was old enough and had spent enough years trekking through these kinds of places to know when to sidestep to avoid being jostled by some big dude with a mismatched-sized brain and lack of respect for women, or when to hold her breath so she didn't inhale something she had no interest falling victim to. It was almost comical how she once expected the rich and famous to be more poised when it came to their debauchery, but minimalism and subtlety weren't things they ever found in places like this.

She gave some of these people the benefit of the doubt that they weren't all godawful because she wanted to believe in the best in people. Hell, MARS was slated to be at the party, so it had to be a somewhat cool crowd. And even if it wasn't, what did it say that Moxie was there herself?

Without warning, Lana pulled her hand out of Moxie's grip, as they had walked into the party together, and launched herself at Rami Mansour who appeared seemingly out of thin air.

"How long have you been standing there?" Moxie feigned being frightened.

Rami lowered Lana carefully. "Something something, my movement is so slow that it's imperceptible."

"They really peaked with that one, huh."

"Age of Ultron is severely underrated for James Spader's performance alone."

"Right?" Mick agreed enthusiastically, nearly bouncing on his feet. "Plus, that opening group shot is one of the sexiest things I've ever seen, which is saying a lot because Aaron Taylor Johnson is literally in th—"

Rami, everyone's favorite ally, nodded thoughtfully. Even he wasn't delusional enough to deny the attractiveness of one Aaron Taylor Johnson. Facts were facts.

"Do you agree?" Mick asked a few seconds later.

Moxie had to pretend she was paying attention, then decided she didn't really care. "The MARS cinematic universe is the only MCU I care about."

Unfortunately for everyone and their riveting conversation about the MCU, and before Moxie could ask which other MARS members were present so she could find herself a good pong partner, there was a loud crackling noise, followed by a quick dispersing of the crowd on the far end of the room. For the first few seconds, Moxie couldn't figure out who from that particular vantage point. Then, a messy head of blonde hair popped up with a brilliant, showstopping smile on her face and Moxie felt all the air rush out of the room. What little of it there was, at least.

God, she was kind of pathetic sometimes.

"Shit," she muttered under her breath.

"Language."