Page 27 of The Jaded Notes

I can still hear the fucking lyrics to “Packed Train” echoing in my head like bullets.

She’s gonna hear it, and she’s gonna know. Fucking hell. She probably already has. It’s been number one on the charts for three weeks.

And the worst part? All the lyrics were true when I wrote them. Every twisted, angry, cruel line. The jaded notes… The brutal beats… All of them I stitched together to make her ache.

Why?

Because I loved her so hard it cracked my bones, and I hate her for surviving without me.

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes and scream from deep inside my soul. I’m a goddamn wreck. A storm that never ends.

And I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I begged for this life and invited Leon Baker into my world.

But when the show starts tonight, I’ll stand on that stage, take the mic, and pretend I’m still whole.

Because that’s what Cash Mayze does.

He performs.

Even when he’s dying inside.

The crowd cheers, but the high I usually get isn’t with me. My calloused fingers tremble against the mic stand.

The lights are too hot. My ears ring with a sickening harmony of feedback and high-pitched echo. My voice cracks on the second verse of “Stripped,” and I miss the cue in the bridge.

Bren covers for me without a glance. Cooper steps in on backup vocals where I falter.

I face the drum kit. Even Hawke looks at me like he’s watching something collapse in slow motion.

And he is.

Me.

Cash Mayze is fucking breaking down on stage, and the audience is too caught up in the haze and glitter of it all to notice.

Except the ones in the front. The ones close enough to see my pupils too blown, the twitch in my jaw, and the way I grip the mic like I might snap it in half.

I push through the set with a broken smile and a scream that’s more therapy than performance. The last chorus of our closer, “Your Torns,” hits, and I belt it out like it might exorcise something, but the demon inside me just laughs.

Applause roars when we finish. I don’t wait for the bow. I throw the mic down and run offstage with sweat dripping off me, my throat raw, and a hurricane caged inside my chest.

Tonight, I might be taken down by the nightmare thatruns my life. I need out. I need whatever fucking bottle I can find.

Where’s the closest bar?

I rip the in-ear monitors out of my ears and storm toward the back hallway, ignoring the shouts from the tech crew.

I ignore the “Great show, Cash.”

Fuck the concert. I just wanna disappear.

“Cash!” Cooper calls out to me.

I pause at the corner as I try to catch my breath.

“Hey, you little prick.” He jogs to catch up with a towel around his neck and his face flushed from the stage heat. “Don’t do this. Don’t just vanish again.”

I press my hand against the wall, steadying myself. “Not now, Coop. I can’t.”