Overkill

02 | on + off

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," Mick complained before shaking his head. "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 grimaced in disgust and shoved him away with her foot as she sat sideways on a chair with her legs draped over the side of the armrest. It would have been less subtle to wear a giant neon sign on her forehead that read QUEER.

"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 was able to dodge it. Years of growing up together 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 her answer. "A draw."

Moxie slid back into a normal position, like a hetero heathen. "So... how was it? And be brutally 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. This is going to be a great summer."

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 more—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 just the right time to make them that much more impactful