And if you ever feel anything close to that for me,
you know where to find me.
—Brandon
I fold it for the hundredth time
and slide it back into my purse.
One week later,
and I still can’t fucking let it go.
On the main level at Soundwave,
the elevator doors start to close.
Tenner Killjoy slides in without glancing at me, deciding I’m either a nobody. Or worse, a fan.
The problem with artists like Killjoy?
Viral on TikTok, viral in their own heads.
Light mustache. Razor-sharp jawline.
Eyebrows too perfect for a guy who doesn't care about eyebrows.
Raymond signed him last year after a few of his songs blew up.
Now he’s the bass bumping in cars for boys
and wet dreams for girls.
Somewhere between floor two and three,
his eyes finally clock me.
“Ayy, Allie.” He pulls me in for a one-arm hug,
touching me as if I’m part of the package deal.
I’m already steering away before the hug lands.
I do it so well, they never notice.
He doesn’t know his touch makes my skin crawl. And I don’t know how to tell him without putting it in a fucking contract.
I don’t wanna seem cold…
or like—I’ll bite your hand off.
Even if I will.
He’s still a Soundwave artist.
“Damn, didn’t see you.
“Lil’ thing slid in all quiet.”
