My blood ices.
“What the hell?” Lucas mutters from the kitchenette.
Nora looks up sharply. “Was that…?”
“Yeah.” I’m already heading for the door. “It’s dear old Dad.”
25
NORA
Just Another Flavor of the Month
We’re parked outside the final venue in Detroit—last stop, last show. The engine is off, but I can still feel the faint echo of the road in my bones. The kind of silence that only comes after weeks of noise. No laughter from the pods. No drumstick tapping. Just the occasional creak of the bus settling and the low thud of gear being unloaded outside.
I curl deeper into the corner of the front lounge, knees pulled up to my chest, the hem of Max’s hoodie covering half my hands. It still smells like him—like cedar and old vinyl and something I can’t name but crave anyway.
Melody is asleep in my lap, a perfect little comma of purring fur. One of her paws is hooked into the front of my sweatshirt, claws barely grazing the fabric like she’s anchoring herself to me. I drag my fingers over her ears, soft and slow, and try not to cry.
Because I don’t want this to be over.
The tour—this messy, loud, wonderful whirlwind—has become home in a way I never expected. I made friends. I found rhythm. Ilaughed until I cried at DeShawn’s terrible impressions, learned the difference between “bad soundcheck” and “total meltdown,” and got weirdly good at brushing my teeth in a moving vehicle.
And Max…
God, Max.
He’s leaning against the counter in the kitchenette, sipping coffee that’s probably cold by now. He’s watching me the way he sometimes does, like I’m some rare instrument he’s still figuring out how to tune. It makes my breath catch, that look.
Outside, Detroit hums like any other city. But in here, everything feels suspended. Like time’s holding its breath.
Talking about Melody and making plans about her future gives me a bit of comfort.
But the moment is shattered by a loudbangagainst the outside of the bus, followed by slurred shouting that slices through the quiet like a blade.
“Maxwell! I know you’re in there, dammit—don’t you ignore me!”
Max goes rigid.
Lucas pokes his head out from the kitchenette, eyes wide. “What the hell?”
“Was that…?” I start to ask, but don’t finish—because Max is already moving.
“Yeah,” he says grimly. “It’s dear old Dad.”
A ripple of dread sweeps through me.His father.
I rise too, heart pounding. “Should I—?”
“Stay here,” he says, already moving for the door.
But I don’t stay.
I follow him.
By the time I reach the door, Max is already outside, striding into the harsh afternoon light toward the man staggering at the edge of the parking lot.
He looks wrecked—nothing like the polished PR photos I’m used to, all crisp suits and perfectly styled hair.
