Second to none, p.1
Second to None, page 1
Second to None
A HEARTFELT SECOND-CHANCE MM ROCKSTAR ROMANCE
ZARAH DETAND
Contents
Preface
1. Levi
2. Cass
3. Levi
4. Cass
5. Levi
6. Cass
7. Levi
8. Cass
9. Levi
10. Cass
11. Levi
12. Cass
13. Levi
14. Cass
15. Levi
16. Cass
17. Levi
18. Cass
19. Levi
Epilogue
On a Personal Note…
More Books by Zarah
Copyright © 2025 by Zarah Detand
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design: Zarah Detand, created using a combination of licensed stock photography (Depositphotos), customised layering and drawing techniques, filters (BeFunky), and Photoshop enhancements
Disclaimer
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All song lyrics in this novel are original works created by the author expressly for this story. Any resemblance to existing works is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Content Warnings
References to a character’s past alcohol abuse
Mention of a close relative’s cancer death (two years prior to the story)
Preface
#1
Los Angeles features heavily in this book. I wrote it before fires raged through the city, burning thousands of houses to the ground—not just those belonging to the rich and famous, who have the means to rebuild, but also those belonging to people who are left with almost nothing. My heart goes out to everyone affected by this catastrophe.
#2
Levi is British; Cass is American. When Cass is traveling, Levi might be too, but he lugs about an additional ‘l’ as he does it. He calls someone an arse, and even if Cass agrees, he’d think of them as an ass. Levi stores his clothes in a wardrobe, but he and Cass shared a closet when they were younger—and hey, Cass is still stuck in there. If Levi dreams in colour, Cass drops the ‘u’ before he does the same.
This is their story.
CHAPTER 1
Levi
Macclesfield, Monday, July 21st
I woke up to paws sauntering across my dick. Lovely. Then again, it was the most action I’d seen in months, so maybe I shouldn’t be complaining.
Next stop—my stomach. By the time my lids had come unstuck and my eyes were open, Alba was purring, kneading both the duvet and my chest in what Emily called making biscuits.
Seven on the dot, was it? My daily wake-up call had arrived. No need to set an alarm, really, although I still did.
“I'm awake,” I told my feline bed companion. “You can get off me now.”
She peered at me as though assessing the truth of my statement. To show I meant business, I tickled her chin. Graciously, she accepted my affection for a minute or so, purring, before she jumped off the bed to check for mice underneath. Places to go, things to do.
Yeah, me too.
One, wake Emily. Two, coffee. Three, pack the muffins I’d slaved over last night because apparently, store-bought birthday treats would lose my seven-year-old points with the other kids.
Hi. Levi Blake—former superstar, mentor of hopeful musicians, and aspiring baker. Nice to meet ya.
After I’d woken Emily again and shepherded her through all the usual morning things, we left five minutes behind schedule. As usual. She was no morning person, and with school holidays just around the corner, she clearly sensed that my grip on family discipline was slipping. Even the reminder that this was a special Monday since she got to celebrate her Saturday birthday with the class didn’t keep her from dragging her feet.
Man, at only twenty-seven, I was getting too old for this shit. Although in fairness to Emily, I wasn’t a morning person either. Ran in the family, didn’t it? My sister had been the queen of the snooze button who’d reigned over an empire of missed alarms, forever scrambling to get Emily ready before the daycare closed its doors. God, I’d give so fucking much to mock her just one more time, to mimic her frantic scrambling while she laughingly told me to shut my trap. ‘You try raising a child, Levi. Then we’ll talk.’
How about now, Jess? Can we talk now?
Fuck. I exhaled and released my impossible wish into the clear brightness of a summer morning.
Manchester, Monday, July 21st
Cosma.
Unusual name and the same cheeky confidence I’d had at seventeen—ready to take the world by storm and blissfully unaware of the price. She came highly recommended, though.
The second she opened her mouth, I got it. Fuck yes. This was why I’d stayed in the music business, despite everything: because once in a while, you found a voice that stopped you cold, reality melting away. Cosma had that kind of voice.
She finished on a long, sweet note, her timbre reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, and stood with her head ducked as I ended the recording. Alone in the dimly lit booth, equipment strewn around, she looked every bit as young as she was. Not quite so confident after all, was she? Five-foot something, with a cascade of dense, springy curls framing her pretty face. Baggy clothes that didn’t quite hide a slightly curvy figure.
They would want her to lose weight. If she took me on as her mentor, I’d fight tooth and nail that any change to the way she looked, talked, walked? It would be her call.
I pressed a button. “Brilliant, love. Thank you. That was amazing.”
“Yeah?” She fiddled with the ring on her thumb, glancing up through her lashes.
“Yes. You’ve got a voice to melt glaciers.” No wonder Jace had told me she’d be right up my street—I thrived where soul met pop, while he specialised in a blend of hip hop and R&B that didn’t truly suit her. “How about we grab a coffee? Or tea, if you prefer. Have a chat about your future.”
Raw hope flashed across her face before she masked it. “Sounds good.”
Like all true Brits in their natural habitat, we talked about the weather on our way to the coffee shop. Yeah, it’d been an unusual drought—could really use some rain, couldn’t we? Weeks without so much as a drop. Her parents made her water the balcony plants every evening, a chore she griped about just like any normal teenager who lived at home. Well. Not that I’d really know because at her age, I’d covered three continents in as many days.
The café was one of those that drew a sizable day crowd of people working on their laptops, the space humming with quiet conversations and the clacking of keyboards, plants and bookshelves livening up the bright interior. Like many here, I was a regular, so people tended to leave me alone.
Cosma and I grabbed two high chairs by the ledge that ran alongside the window front, overlooking Lever Street’s red-brick buildings and its mix of freelancers, artists, and young professionals. Maybe it was hometown bias, but I’d always preferred Manchester’s creative scene to the more polished, sprawling vibe in London. Manchester felt authentic, tied to its industrial past and working-class roots. Settling in nearby Macclesfield hadn’t been a choice, not when Emily had needed stability and I did too, in a way. But this suited me.
I took a sip of coffee, then turned to smile at Cosma. “All right, love. So here’s the deal: I think you’ve got what it takes. I’d be honoured to work with you—help you develop your own image and sound, something that’s you. Not some narrow little box people might want you to fit into.”
She hitched in a breath, eyes opening wide. “You want to sign me?”
“Strictly speaking, it’d be the label that signs you. I’d have to get them on board first, but…” I let one side of my mouth quirk up. “Not to be modest, but I hold a certain sway.”
“I bet,” she muttered, a hint of her earlier cheek breaking through. Hmm, a fan of my old band? She seemed a bit young—our fan base had been firmly grounded in their teenage years or even older, and she’d have been eleven or so when we’d announced our indefinite break. Maybe she’d done her research. Which, smart. I liked that in a potential protégée.
“Indeed,” was all I said. “So the way it works is that I pitch you to our A&R team—”
“A&R?” she asked, then rubbed her nose. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“No, that’s good. Asking questions is good. Keep ‘em coming.” I gave her an encouraging nod. “A&R stands for Artist and Repertoire. I’d pitch your talent to them, and if you sign, I’d be your creative advisor. Means I’m essentially your mentor. I guide you through the creative process, like songwriting and selection, vocal coaching. But I’m also there to help you navigate the business side of things, make sure you don’t feel isolated or overwhelmed.”
She twisted a coil of hair around her finger, then let it spring back as though it had a life of its own. Her expression warred between happy disbelief and caution. “I… That sounds great. Really. I mean, just… yeah. That’d be amazing.” She raised her gaze to meet mine, direct if a little hesitant. “Can I ask you something, though?”
“Of course.”
“Why did you decide to get out?” She con tinued quickly, as if I might not know what she was talking about. “After Neon Circuit broke up—”
“Went on hiatus,” I corrected with a small grin just as a woman walked past us on the street and did a double-take at my face—then smiled and kept walking. I liked how at this point, it was a common reaction. Yes, people still recognised me; of course they did. I signed the occasional autograph, had fans come up and tell me how much the band had meant to them. But it was mostly chill now, slightly nervous excitement rather than stadium-level screaming and hysteria. It was… nice, kind of. The reminder that we’d had such an impact.
“Sure, yeah.” Cosma arched a brow, and yep, there it was—a playful air of healthy scepticism. It would serve her well. “A hiatus. Like, five years and running?”
Just about, yeah. Five years for Neon Circuit, almost six since Cass and I had fallen apart. I probed at the edges of the thought like tonguing at a loose tooth. After we’d ended, we’d tried to keep working together for another awful year because that’s what we’d promised the others when it had all started—that it wouldn’t affect the band. But of course it did.
“Yeah.” I exhaled and made sure to keep the strain out of my voice. “What’s the question?”
“After Neon Circuit went on hiatus”—Cosma emphasised it, slightly mocking but sweet about it—“you’re the only one who didn’t release a solo album. Why?”
It was true. Even Jace had recorded one LP before he’d decided his social anxiety wasn’t suited to a solo career and retreated into the background. Me, I’d just been so tired that by the time my demons had settled and tentative buds of creativity finally unfolded, I was yesterday’s news.
“Good question.” I considered Cosma over the rim of my cup. How honest did I want to be with her? I didn’t have many secrets left, really just one. Cass. But I’d made a deliberate choice to steer clear of the limelight—no interviews, no social media unless it served my artists.
“But not one you’re going to answer?” she asked with a cheeky smile, and yep, I liked her.
“No, I will. Just trying to decide what to tell someone starting out in the music industry.”
“Give it to me straight?”
She sounded like she meant it, so I nodded. “All right. How much do you know about Neon Circuit?”
“I wasn’t a fan or anything—I was just a teensy bit too young. But you guys were huge, and I did my research when Jace Everett contacted me about my demo.” She tilted her head, intelligence sharp in her dark eyes. “Five guys who got picked through an online competition and put into a boy band. I think you were my age when it started?”
Yeah. So bloody young.
We’d been an internet-first band, taking over social media before we’d ever done a proper show or appeared on TV. Some poor intern must have sifted through thousands of auditions to narrow it down to a couple hundred hopefuls, of which fifty had been sorted into a dozen distinctly different groups and put through a heavily documented bootcamp. We’d been the fun, pop-with-an-edge boy band that didn’t take itself too seriously, and something had just… clicked. Between the five of us, yes, but with our audience too. Through weeks of one group after another being voted out, our fan base had grown bigger and more devoted—to the point where our celebrity mentor seemed nearly as overwhelmed as we were.
Our fans had made us. And the label had leaned on that, on our sense that we owed them, to run us ragged. But that was then.
I nodded and waved for Cosma to go on.
“Right,” she said. “So, like, four albums in five years that broke all sorts of records.” Something like longing crept into her tone. “You guys filled stadiums, travelled the world, that sort of thing. But now it’s only two of you that still make music—Mason Callahan’s doing some folksy indie stuff and seems pretty chill about it. And then there’s Cassian Monroe, obviously.”
Obviously.
Released from the logic of a boy band that required sharing the spotlight, he shone bright like a supernova, his appeal reaching far beyond our original fan base. Sex symbol, two Grammys, a regular top spot among the most-streamed artists in the world. After the end, I’d mainlined news about him for months, a bitter replacement for sharing a stage, a tour bus, a bed. It had been a sad, lonely time. For the sake of my own sanity, I’d forced myself to go cold turkey, to quit Cass just like I’d had to quit drinking.
I cleared my throat and managed a smile. “That about sums up the facts, yeah. What it doesn’t account for is how bloody young we were. The crazy pressure we were under—an album a year, for one, do promo and travel and perform. But also how we were asked to fit into these neat little categories. The heartthrob, the bad boy, the sensitive one…”
“The funny one?” Cosma supplied quietly, nodding her chin at me.
“The funny one, yeah.” That had indeed been me—the joker, the mischievous one, the token Brit who drank tea not coffee, all bright green eyes, artfully dishevelled hair, and charming accent. I sent her a lopsided smile. “Not the gay one, though. No room for that in a boy band.”
She blinked, then opened her mouth on a small “Oh” that blended surprise and understanding. My sexuality wasn’t a secret, but I’d never felt the need for a public announcement. Only someone who dove into the murky depths of the usual gossip rags would know.
“Yeah.” I paused for a mouthful of coffee. “When you’re the face of a massive franchise, people tend to forget you’re human. They treat you like a commodity. Essentially, it was a non-stop rollercoaster for five years—so when it ended, I needed a break. Needed to be myself, too. Find out who that even was, you know?”
She made a quiet noise that showed she was listening, attention glued to me while all around us, people were busy with their own lives.
“Then some family stuff forced me to take a long, hard look at my priorities. Turned out I missed music, missed the creative side of it—but I didn’t miss fame. So this?” I wiggled my fingers at her. “Mentoring talent, helping with songwriting and production? It’s the perfect gig for me.”
Cosma was silent for a second, sipping her tea with a tiny crease between her expressive eyebrows. “Is that why… What you said earlier, the thing about people wanting to fit me into some box and how you’d want to help me find my own voice instead. Is that why?”
“Yeah. Even when people love you—especially when people love you—the music business can chew you up and spit you back out in pieces. If you decide to walk this path, no one can really protect you from that.”
“Not even you?” she asked.
“No.” Jesus, it was a good thing my bosses weren’t listening right now. As far as elevator pitches went, this was the ‘brutal truth’ edition. “But.” I held her eyes, dropping my voice. “If you choose me as your mentor, I will be in your corner. I know how isolating fame can be, so if you need to hear a friendly voice at three in the morning? You call me. I’ll remind you to take breaks. I’ll remind you that it’s okay to push back sometimes, and that you need to stay sane to stay passionate.”
She stared back at me, straightening her shoulders as she drew a deep breath and swallowed. Her voice wavered just slightly. “Okay. Okay. I’m in.”
Joy warred with worry, as always when I took a new talent under my wing. “Then welcome to my family, Cosma.”
Her smile was wobbly but true.
‘I owe you, bro.’ I sent it before starting the drive back home. By the time I arrived, Jace had responded.
‘And don’t you forget it, mate.’
Mate? Three years in London, and he thought himself a proper Brit. Nope. Can take the man out of America, can’t take America out of the man. I parked the car and replied on my way to the house.
