“You did.” He nods toward Sadie. “How’s it feel to be the good guy?”
I glare at him, then at the broken string. Hayden silently hands me a fresh pack without commentary. Sadie finishes her shots and slips out as quietly as she came in.
The show that night is louder. Hotter. The crowd rowdier, more hyped than yesterday. We hit the stage and sweat immediately. We’re in the mid-summer nights of June now, and the heat is present, even at night.
Lights in my eyes, guitars screaming, drums brutal in my bones. It should be enough to drown everything out. It usually is. But even with the roar of the crowd, with the music cranked to ten, with Luc pouring his entire soul into the mic three feet away from me, I’m hyperaware of one thing.
Her.
She’s in the pit for the first three songs, then side-stage, then up in the seats, then back in the wings. Every time I pivot, I catch a flash of her; black shirt, brown hair, those blue eyes, and the silver of her lense.
She doesn’t come as close as she did last night. My fingers fly over the strings. I lose myself in solos that go an extra bar longer than usual, push harder, bend notes until they almost snap. Luc throws me a quick, impressed look at one point, like he’s clocking the difference and cataloging it for later.
Lily’s somewhere out there too, I know, hands pressed to her chest when we hit certain songs. Larkin will be asleep on the bus by now, Marie humming a lullaby under her breath.
The life we built out of chaos. The life that makes all this feel less like a death march. And here I am, trying to wreck something new before it ever has a chance to be anything.
Old habits. Old ghosts. Old survival tactics. You don’t get hurt if you never let anything good stick around. That’s the way I’ve lived for so long that I just don’t know any other way.
When we come off for the encore break, I duck into the back hallway for a minute, sucking in air that isn’t saturated with fog and sweat. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, Sadie’s there.
She’s leaned against the wall, one boot braced behind her, camera hanging loose from her fingers. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Lips parted like she’s dragging oxygen back into her lungs.
For a second, I just look. She’s flushed from running the venue, a fine sheen of sweat at her temples, mascara smudged under one eye. Wrecked in a way that’s too honest for anything staged. Too real. My chest aches with it.
She opens her eyes and straightens immediately, spine snapping into place like armor. “Need the hallway?” she asks briskly.
As if we’re strangers. As if I didn’t crowd her against a trailer last night and tear at every defense she has.
“There are other hallways in this place,” I respond, taking a step back before she has to ask.
“Great.” She pushes off the wall and moves to pass me like I’m just another piece of gear in her way. Her shoulder brushes mine accidentally. My reaction isn’t.
“Sadie.”
Her name comes out sharper than I intend. She stops. Turns back slowly. Her face is neutral from the nose down. Her eyes are guarded. Professional. Closed.
“Yes?” her reply hesitant.
This is where a sane man would apologize. Say I was drunk. Say I crossed a line. Say it won’t happen again. The words sit heavy on my tongue. Ugly. Necessary. Terrifying. “I was out of line last night,” I mumble.
The sentence lands between us like something fragile I don’t know how to pick up again. Her brow furrows slightly, not softening, just… surprised.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” I continue, forcing the next words out before I can swallow them again. “I don’t get to corner you like that. Or make you feel like you owe me anything.”
She studies me for a long beat. Not forgiving. Not warming. Just listening. “I don’t need you to explain it,” she says finally. Calm. Steady. “I need you not to do it again.”
A nod would be easier. Silence would be easier. But I don’t give her easy.
“I won’t,” I grit out. The promise scares the shit out of me. That’s how I know it counts.
Her gaze lingers, searching my face like she’s deciding whether I mean it. Then she nods once. Sharp. Controlled. “Okay.”
She moves past me again, this time without touching me. I let her go. The disappointment doesn’t roll off her anymore, but neither does the distance. And somehow, that hurts worse.
We go back onstage. We finish the set. We bow, sweat-soaked and vibrating, while thousands of voices scream our names. It should be enough. It isn’t. Not anymore. No matter what I try to pretend.
After the show, the venue turns into a different kind of animal. Our crew tears the stage down with practiced speed. Cherry barks load-out times. Some of the VIPs get escorted backstage; radio people, label suits, a few contest winners, the usual. And then there are the others.
