October 2025
It’s been nearly three weeks since the photos of Wes and those women were everywhere I looked. And ever since, paparazzi and reporters have camped out at the gate to the warehouse where we’ve been rehearsing. As a result, we’ve had to get extra security and it’s a pain in the ass to get to work.
As I exit my car, they hurl questions my way, pressing their bodies against the chain link fence, their words jumble together in a garbled cacophony.
But one breaks through. “How's it working with Wesley Hart?”
How do I feel about working with him? Are they fucking kidding?
Before I knew what happened, I was hesitantly excited about the rehearsal. To sing with him. To feel music the way I only do when we make it together. After Wes left the party, I did too. I got a small thrill flirting with Warren, but that was nothing compared to how every nerve in my body came to attention when Wes came to talk to me, every sensation roaring to life. The crash of the waves, the rasp in his voice, the feather light brush of his fingers on my neck, overloading my system.
I arrived here early, grabbing coffee for both of us on the way. The band and dancers trickled in, all in various states of being hungover from the night before.
Then I waited. Buzzing. Knee bobbing as my eyes were glued to the door. And I kept waiting up until the moment our choreographer told us we couldn’t keep burning daylight. We ran through the numbers without him, leaving an empty space where he was supposed to be. My mind had started to race. Where was he? Was he okay? Someone would have said something if something was wrong, right?
By the time we broke to get water, I was so caught up in my own head it took me a minute to feel the weight of the stares coming from all around me. Hushed conversations from groups all hovering over their phones.
I bolted for my bag, desperately sifting through my eyes, change of clothes, and my wallet for my phone. Something was wrong. I felt it in my gut. And I couldn’t help but remember the call I got telling me that Dad was in the hospital. How quickly someone could be torn away when there was still so much you wanted to do with them. And that was the root of my fear. I wanted more with Wes. A future.
No notifications. My trembling fingers flew across the screen, opening a browser and searching for whatever everyone else around me was looking at.
And there he was in the pool, glassy eyed, and ravenously kissing one girl then another. Their tangled limbs. Having the time of his life and making me look so stupid and desperate. I didn’t just look it; I felt it too.
When I got home, roses waited for me. Velvety petals crumpled on one side from lying there in the heat. A note scrawled on thick linen paper read,It wasn’t a threesome. I gripped the stems in my fist, expecting thorns to prick my skin,but of course there weren’t any. So I drove to his place and jammed the petals into the trash can outside.
Even though I told myself I expected this from him, it hurt. A knife he lodged in my back years ago twisted with a sharp shock of pain. Because that’s what he’s good at. Getting my hopes up as I forget how much it hurt the last time he let me down, only to do it all over again.
Now, headed toward the rehearsal space, I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with a camera. Give them a good shot. Let Wes know I didn’t fucking stutter.
“I feel bad for the women he was with that night if he fucks the way he acts. Selfish.”
I head inside, where Wes and his team are rehearsing. He stands at the center of what will later be a stage, but for now it’s an outline marked with white spike tape. All around him, dancers are on their knees looking up at him. I bet he loves it, standing over everyone like that.
“And take five!” our choreographer, Steven, says as he claps.
Dancers and band members disperse, rushing towards their water bottles and bags. Wes, on the other hand, heads straight for me. Shit. I’ve done my best to avoid him.
We’ve only managed two finale rehearsals since the incident. Neither of them were productive, and after I stumbled into a dancer instead of doing the correct choreography because the thought of Wes touching me made me nauseas, everyone decided it would be best if we took some time to cool off.
“Avery!” he shouts. I duck my head as he jogs toward me. “I was thinking that we could get dinner, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, but I think you accidentally blocked my number.”
His tone is light, but there’s a wary hesitance in his words. Like I’m some trapped animal ready to lash out at random. That is how I feel.
Trapped here.
I’m in too deep to back out now. Leaving the tour would mean disappointing fans, the people who have made my dreams possible. And after what happened with Jamie and my management team, I’m not sure I would recover from it. My career would be over, flaming out in a final lethal burst of self-righteous defiance.
I reel on him. Anger washed through my veins causing me to quiver with my inability to contain it. “Accident?” I scoff. “Avoiding you was and never will be an accident. Honestly, I want to thank you for reminding me that I know exactly who you are now. A person I don’t want anything to do with, unless we’re working together. I’m here because you gave me no other choice.”
Before he has a chance to respond, I’m storming away.
I find Kendal in the room she’s taken over for filming Wes and my interviews. A desk along one wall has become her workstation, cluttered with her laptop, hard drive, and other editing equipment. Currently, she’s adjusting the brightness of one of the studio lights pointed at the leather couch positioned in front of a seamless blue backdrop.
“Hey, could I get you to sit for a second to help me check the levels on the camera before we start?”
“Sure.”
Kendal goes back and forth between the camera and light three times. Once satisfied, she picks up her notes, starts the camera, and sits across from me.
