“We kept the feather,” my mom said. “It's actually quite lovely.”
“It is,” he agreed. “The bird had style, I'll give it that.”
My mom looked at me through the screen, and her eyes were soft in the way they got when she was done being funny and wanted to check if I was okay without making a production of it. “We love you, sweetheart,” she said. “Call us if you need anything, okay? And try to get some rest. You look like you haven't slept in days.”
“I will,” I said. “Love you guys.”
“Love you more!” my dad shouted, already half off camera, and then the screen went dark and the kitchen was quiet again.
CHAPTER TWO
bodies, backbeats, and bills
SOREN
The guy's name was Connor or Carter or maybe Chris, and I had him bent over the cluttered dressing room couch with his jeans shoved down around his thighs and his hands braced against the armrest. He'd been hanging around after the first set, all dark eyes and nervous energy, and when he'd asked if I wanted company backstage I'd said sure without thinking about it too hard. That was how most of these went. Someone wanted to feel close to the music, I wanted to feel close to anything that wasn't my own head, and we both got what we needed for twenty minutes before going back to our separate lives.
I had one hand wrapped around his hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and the other coming down across his ass that made him gasp and arch back into me. The sound echoed off the concrete walls, mixing with the muffled bass thumping through from the main floor where the opener was still playing. My pulse was up, my skin was hot, and the whiskey I'd been drinking between songs sat warm and loose in my chest. This should have felt good. Should have felt like release, like connection, like I was present in my own body for once instead of just piloting it through the motions.
It didn't.
I kept moving anyway, kept my rhythm steady and my grip firm, kept making the right sounds in the right places because I was good at this and I knew it.
“Fuck, Soren, harder—” He was breathless, wrecked, exactly where I'd wanted him.
I gave him what he asked for. Snapped my hips forward and brought my hand down again, watching the way his back curved and his fingers clenched against the couch fabric. His skin was flushed pink under my palm, and I should have been more present for this, should have been feeling the heat and the friction and the way his body responded to mine. Instead, I was counting the minutes until the second set started, mentally running through the setlist, wondering if I'd remembered to text Talia back about groceries.
Another slap. Another gasp. The rhythm between us built toward the finish, mechanical and efficient, and I chased it because at least it was direction, at least it was motion, at least it was proof I could still make someone else feel good even if I couldn't manage it for myself.
The door slammed open before we could get there.
“Fucking hell, Soren.”
I looked up and found June Mercer standing in the doorway with her bass slung over her shoulder and an expression that said she'd seen this exact scene too many times to be shocked anymore. She wasn't angry, exactly. More like tired. Disappointed in the way people got when they'd already had this conversation twelve times and knew it wasn't going to stick.
The guy under me scrambled to pull his jeans up, face burning red, and I stepped back to give him room while he fumbled with his belt. “June. Hey. Didn't hear you knock.”
“I didn't knock.” She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe, completely unbothered by the fact that she'd just walked in on me halfway through railing some fan I'd met an hour ago. “You've got ten minutes before the second set, and you smell like a distillery. Are you serious right now?”
“I'm fine.” I grabbed my shirt off the back of the couch and pulled it on, ignoring the way my hands weren't quite steady. “Just blowing off steam.”
“Blowing off steam or blowing through your liver?” She looked past me to the guy who was now fully dressed and edging toward the door like he wanted to disappear through the floor. “No offense, sweetheart, but you should probably go.”
He didn't need to be told twice. He mumbled to me that it was cool and he'd see me around, and then he was gone, leaving me alone with June and the particular brand of judgment she'd perfected over the past five years of knowing me.
“You can't keep doing this,” she said once the door closed behind him.
“Doing what?” I reached for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the amp in the corner and took a drink straight from it, just to prove I could. “Having fun? Meeting people? Living my life?”
“Fucking anyone on two legs every time we hit a different city.” June pushed off the doorframe and walked over to me, plucking the bottle out of my hand before I could take anothersip. “And definitely not drinking this much before you have to play another hour-long set. What the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing's going on with me.” I tried to get the bottle back, but she held it out of reach like I was a kid trying to sneak candy. “I'm fine, June. I'm always fine.”
“Yeah, and that's the problem.” She set the bottle down on the floor behind her, effectively cutting off my access, and then turned back to me with her arms crossed again. “You've been 'fine' for six months straight, which means you're about three bad nights away from crashing hard. I've seen this before, Soren. I know what it looks like when you're spiraling.”
I wanted to argue with her, wanted to tell her she was wrong and I had everything under control and she was overreacting. But June had been there the last time I'd spiraled, had driven me to the hospital when I couldn't get out of bed and had sat in the waiting room for eight hours while they admitted me. She'd seen me at my worst, and she'd stuck around anyway, which meant she'd earned the right to call me on my garbage when she saw it.
“I'm not spiraling,” I said, and it came out quieter than I'd meant it to. “I'm just tired.”
