Leomond Serengie. He's got it all...fame, fortune, power...all because he's got a pretty face and a voice that could shatter hearts and glass. While he's revered for his angelic, almost innocent voice, his songs are never like that. They're fast, they're sensual, and you'd either be really bold or really dumb to play them in front of your parents.

That's why it's playing at this strip joint he's at right now. And his so-called 'friends' are teasing him for it. He hates hearing his own songs, for some reason. While he's dragging down another shot of whiskey, a new face steps on the stage—and holy hell, Leomond's staring hard.

Imagine what else got hard...

Snapping back to reality though, the person flowed against the pole that was like liquid magma, their legs clutched against that piece of metal that almost made Leomond want to be that metal. But something else dawned on him—

—this song was them. Sure, Leomond wrote, composed, and sung it...but this was undoubtedly them. Every beat, every riff, every goddamn look in their eyes was a testament to the song he wrote. He had to have more.

When the song was over, and they started collecting their crunched up bills, Leomond stood up, shocking both his friends and himself. He walked towards the stage, sliding them a crisp hundred bucks, and a card—his business card.

"Please fucking call me."