You stare at the screen in disbelief, in shock and in anger, mainly directed at yourself because you were too damn polite to a room full of inebriated party-goers to verify that it was, in fact, just the bass reverberating through your leg. You check your watch. 2:53 AM. You log into the Pesterchum app on your phone to see if John's online, but he isn't. A little odd, you think, considering that the kid stays up all night. Or at least he used to when you talked a lot. Did he stay up to talk to you? He never seemed to mind staying up as late as you even though he'd always be like

"daaaaaaaaave, I'm tired."

"go to sleep then"

"i'm not that tired, dunkass. :B"

Maybe there was a reaso- "HEY!"

You startle and jump in your seat as Bro watches your graceful dance on the plush upholstery. You look at him with a scowl through your reflective shades. "Why the excessive volume?"

"You kiddin' me, little dude? I'm surprised you can hear at all after standing next to those speakers all night." You stare at him dumbfounded, shocked at the sheer stupidity of those words that just came out of his mouth. "Wow what are you serious that's like 60% of the job right there how could you even-" He cuts you off with his deep warm laughter, the one he uses when he knows something is bothering you and he's trying to drop mad hints at you to give it up.
"Tell me."

You look at him and let out a long, drawn out, almost mocking sigh. "John pestered me during the show." You stare down at the palms of your hands as the words slip out of your mouth. Bro obviously stiffens, knowing how much you care about John. "Shit. You didn't answer?" You sigh again as you think back to that moment when you felt the pulsating against your hip. "I didn't know if it was my phone or just my leg feeling the groove."

You sit in silence now, the eternally lit Manhattan streets whizzing past and into the distance around the car. You stare out and up your massive apartment building as you come to a soft halt right outside the front door. It's eerily similar to the pad you shared with Bro back in Houston, which you still think wasn't as much of a coincidence as Bro said it was. You grab hold of your gig bag and nod to the driver as you step out of the car into the icy weather, shake the door man's hand as you pass through into the heated lobby, and pause in front of the elevator and look back to see Bro catching up to you. You both enter the elevator.

You lean against the glass trimmed walls, the elevator beginning its quick ascent to the penthouse level. You stare down at your feet, your finger idly tracing the outline of your phone in your pocket, waiting and hoping for a message you know isn't coming. You glance over at Bro, who's still fiddling with that synthesizer app on his phone, allowing it to utter a soft electronic buzz or tone every so often. The elevator comes to a halt at your floor, and you pull your electronic key out of your pocket and place it in the access slot. The doors slide open to your darkened apartment, and you go through. You start to head for your room when you feel Bro's hand on your shoulder. Turning to face him, you see that he's taken off his glasses, and his bright orange eyes appear to be glowing against the light of the entrance hallway. This is what you recognize as his serious face, not something he pulls out often.

"Call him tomorrow, okay?"

You can't help but crack a smile as you feel tears well in your eyes. You nod at him. Bro's a doofus when he cares. You about-face and head straight for your room.

You wake up the next day to the feeling of hard plastic hitting the side of your head and Bro's voice yelling "Phone for ya, kid," as he leaves the room. In your sleepless haze you fumble with the handset until you manage to get it right-side up against your ear.

"Hello?"

"Good morning, Mister Strider." You recognize the voice as the downstairs receptionist.

"We have a visitor for you down here."

It takes you a moment to register her words.

"A visitor?"

"Yes sir, a Miss Rose Lalonde."