Page 96 of The Jaded Notes

“Business thing, my ass.” He plucks at his strings. “Paris is personal for you.”

Bren shifts, jaw tight. “If you’re thinking of doing something reckless, don’t. She won’t even come to the concert. And if you do something stupid, she’ll quit talking to me.”

The name doesn’t fall between us, but it doesn’t have to. Every one of us hears it anyway. Livianna.

I twist the mic cable around my hand until it bites. “I said it’s nothing to worry about.”

Hawke climbs onto the riser, his drumsticks clicking against each other like warning shots.

His gaze flicks to me and stays there, steady and searching. “Just remember, Cash. If you burn it down tonight, we’re all standing in the flames with you.”

Their eyes hold too much knowing, but I don’t give them anything. Not the truth. Not the crack in my ribs every time I imagine her in this city, breathing the same air. Maybe walking past the very walls that are about to vibrate with my voice.

“Look, you pricks. My ma’s in town on a photoshoot, and I’m meeting up with her after. Now let’s finish fucking soundcheck.” I growl and shove my aching down where it can claw at me later.

The rest of rehearsal drags. Every chord feels stretched across my ribs. Every lyric feels like it’s daring me to expose too much in front of them.

Once we’re cleared, the crew swarms the stage, angling lights like blades and setting up the pyrotechnics that will erupt during the show.

Hours later, when the arena swells with bodies and the roar of anticipation rattles the steel bones of the stadium, I stand in the shadows at stage left. The air already tastes of sweat and electric fever.

Bren flexes his fingers around the neck of his guitar. “This is it, guys. Paris.”

The crowd chants our name. “Mayhem! Mayhem! Mayhem!”

The rhythm is a war drum. Cooper grips my shoulder like a tether—a silent reminder: don’t vanish on them, not tonight.

The house lights dim. The arena explodes in screams.

And then it’s me. The mic burning in my hand, the spotlight carving me open, and thousands of strangers waiting for my first word to ignite them.

I drag the stand forward, lean in, and let the silence stretch until it’s almost unbearable. When I finally tear my voice from the marrow of my chest, the sound that rips out isn’t just a song; it’s an anthem of determination. Exactly what my time in Paris is all about.

The second the first riff smashes through the speakers, the audience detonates. Thousands of bodies heave, their every shout a current jolting through my veins. We play set after set while I try to shake the binds that hold me down.

I hold the mic tighter, mouth pressed close, and the words fly out of me like they’ve been trapped in my throat for years.

Tell me you love me when the night is young.

Tell me you hate me when the morning comes.

But darlin’, don’t pretend you aren’t dangerous.

Cuz your love for me was traitorous.

Just like roses, your lilies have thorns.

Your promises rot in the hands of the man with horns.

Our love decomposes.

And our chapter closes.

The concertgoers howl it back, thousands of broken voices echoing mine. It should feel like power, but all it tastes like is blood.

Bren’s guitar shreds fire beside me, his jaw locked like he’s grinding down his own demons.

Cooper thunders his bass in sync with my pulse. His eyes cut toward me every few beats as if checking that I haven’t slipped too far.