Before her.
Before the sound she makes that feels like it was crafted for my bones alone.
And I know, with a clarity sharp enough to cut me open.
I meant every word I said.
I’ll drag hell with me before I let her go.
8
THE BOY IS NOT ALRIGHT
RUBY
Zane shadows me like a starving wolf.
Not figuratively or poetically.
Hell, not even romantically.
Literally.
We’ve been on the road for barely a week, headed for Vegas first, then Joshua Tree for the desert shots, before cutting north through Santa Fe, on to Red Rocks in Colorado, and eventually landing in Minneapolis for the cold-weather performance scenes.
The idea is for the band to combine live shows with the music video.
It’s clever, chaotic andexhausting.
Very “Zane.”
But every time I step away from him, I feel his gaze on the back of my neck, hot enough to brand.
Every time I breathe too far from his orbit, he’s suddenly right behind me, touching my waist, my shoulder, my hair—something—claiming me in quiet, unhinged little gestures that make the crew pretend they don’t see anything.
And maybe I should be irritated.
I’m not.
I’malive.
Jolted awake and wise enough to know this feeling is trouble wearing tattoos and manic silver eyes.
We’re done with one long shoot where I’m covered in sweat that is 60% mine, 40% Zane’s, and 100% not tax-deductible.
I need space. Just five minutes of air.
Five minutes where I’m not being stared at like I’m the last drop of water in his personal desert.
I duck around a lighting rig and slip behind a stack of crates.
Clipboard Carl is measuring something on a tablet.
Perfect.
“Carl?”
He jumps three solid feet. “Holy—Ruby, don’t sneak up on me. My chiropractor already hates my spine.”
