As if I’m not hanging by a fucking thread, the raw edge of desperation cuts closer to the bone every second I’m near her.
The truth is, I don’t know shit.
There was a plan.A direction.Now it’s all slipping through my fingers like sand, like her, and I’m fucking drowning in the possibility that I’ll lose everything again.That I’ll crawl back to my old dealer or wander into a liquor store and let it all go quiet.
One drink.
One hit.
One moment of stillness.
Underneath the bravado is a man terrified of his own patterns.And even more afraid of the way she’s looking at me right now—like she doesn’t see the man who used to make her tremble, only the wreckage I’ve left behind.
“I believe you,” she says.“I lovehimbecause he gave me life, but the more I dig into his business ...the more I realize he has no clue how it works.Worse, he doesn’t give two shits about the artists who trusted him.Honestly?I’m surprised anyone ever signed with him.”
I scoff, fire licking up my spine.“You’re not better than him.”
“Me?”
“Who tells a prospective client the owner has zero scruples?”
She shrugs like she doesn’t owe me shit.“Who said I wanted to sign you?”
I stare at her, stunned.“I’m Roderick fucking Wilder.Of course you want me.”
Her lips curve in something that’s almost pity—but not quite.“Listen, Rod—” She says my name as if she needs to rinse it from her mouth.“Can I call you Rod?Not that it matters.Point is, I don’t give two shits about you, but I care about my best friend.Cleo is praying her big brother figures his shit out.And getting back on stage?That’s not it.”
“She would want me to get my life back,” I snap, my voice rising before I can pull it back.“You don’t know me.I quit.I’m clean.Why can’tyougive me a chance?”There it is.
The crack in my voice, raw and bleeding.But it sounds like this isn’t just about music anymore.I don’t even know what I’m begging for.Her forgiveness?A chance to explain what I couldn’t years ago?Maybe I want her to let me try again—not just to play, but to be someone for her.
And, fuck, standing here in front of her like this—it breaks something in me.
Kit.
My Kit.
My mouth goes dry.My fists clench at my sides.
God, I want to drag her into me, slam our mouths together until she can’t remember why she hates me.I want to press her against the door she just locked behind us and remind her how we used to burn, how she used to need me like oxygen.I want her moaning my name, nails raking down my back, voice cracked open by need.
But more than that, I want her to look at me like she used to.Like I was hers.
I want to fucking kneel at her feet and confess every ugly truth, beg her to let me love her again.Let me prove that I’m not the same man who vanished into a bottle and forgot how to fight for her.
One chance.
That’s all I need.
One shot to show her I never stopped loving her—needing her.That I still ache in the places she once touched.That every lyric I ever wrote was for her.
And maybe she knows it.Maybe that’s why she hasn’t kicked me out yet.
Because this—whatever the fuck is between us—it’s still alive.It’s a live wire between our bodies, coiled tight with lust, fury, and a love old enough to be sacred.
I can feel it.
No doubt that she can too.
