A Best Friend’s Brother Rock Star Romance with a Second Chance

Click to expand Table of Contents

• CHAPTER ONE – ARIA
• CHAPTER TWO – DECK
• CHAPTER THREE – ARIA
• CHAPTER FOUR – DECK
• CHAPTER FIVE – ARIA
• CHAPTER SIX – DECK
• CHAPTER SEVEN – ARIA
• CHAPTER EIGHT – DECK
• CHAPTER NINE – ARIA
• CHAPTER TEN – DECK
• CHAPTER ELEVEN – ARIA
• CHAPTER TWELVE – DECK
• CHAPTER THIRTEEN – ARIA
• CHAPTER FOURTEEN – DECK
• CHAPTER FIFTEEN – ARIA
• CHAPTER SIXTEEN – DECK
• CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – ARIA
• CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – DECK
• CHAPTER NINETEEN – ARIA
• NEED MORE ROCK STAR ROMANCE TO BINGE?

CHAPTER ONE – ARIA

“Fuckbag!” I had really thought the worst thing I’d face tonight was the porta-potty. I was wrong. It’s actually seeing my boyfriend’s tongue down another girl’s throat. I throw my backpack on the ground and fling a pair of overpriced hot dogs at my boyfriend’s head.

“Shit, Ari,” Jake jolts upright, literally tossing the girl off him like a ragdoll. “I… uh… I… thought… you went for food.”

“Obviously, I did.” I tilt my head, letting my eyes shift their focus from the fumbling piece of shit in front of me to the poor confused alt girl in the corner of my tent. “Looking for this?” I ask, picking up a black lace bra with one finger and dangling it in front of me like it’s a rotten piece of fruit. She looks like she wants to melt into the floor. Good. I don’t need her sympathy, but watching her squirm is almost cathartic. Almost.

She reaches out and even though I want to throw it at her, I don’t. I do laugh out loud at the image of it smacking her in the face, though. I let her pull the strap off my finger, so she can put it on instead of having to keep herself wrapped up in that ridiculous 420 woven blanket Jake bought last night. It’s not her fault my boyfriend is an asshole. She probably had no idea he was even here with someone. I’m sure he didn’t tell her.

“Listen, I… I can explain,” he stammers like he’s having trouble finding the words.

I’m not having the same issue. “Fuck you.” I grab the dark blue backpack from the corner of the tent and throw it at him. “Get out of my tent.” The heel of my black leather boots digs into the soft dirt beneath my feet as I turn to leave.

“Aria, wait,” he says, reaching out and grabbing my arm.

The feeling of him touching me causes me to recoil and I stumble backward, ripping my arm away from his grip. “Wait? For what? There’s no explanation for why you’re running an Only Fans: Festival Edition from our tent. God, Jake. It’s our anniversary. How could you do this?”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak but I hold both hands up in front of me.

“You know what?” I shake my head, trying to force the image from sixty seconds ago out of my mind. “Don’t answer that. Just get out.”

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he asks, dropping the backpack down on the floor next to mine, which sends a cringe through my body. I don’t want anything of his touching anything of mine, ever again.

“Overreacting?” I gesture wildly at the disaster he’s created. “Overreacting?” I shout again, letting my hands fly forward like I’m trying to physically push the audacity out of him. “Jake, there’s a naked woman in my tent, your mouth was on her face and somehow you think I’m overreacting?” I glance at the alt girl again. She’s biting her lip, her eyes wide. “What about you?”

“You’re asking her?” he gasps as his mouth falls open like his jaw just came unhinged.

“Yeah,” I nod, keeping my eyes on her. “Something tells me girlypop doesn’t think I’m overreacting.”

He opens his mouth again. I don’t even care what he’s going to say. I’ve already stopped listening to the nonsense that falls out of his mouth.

“Actually,” she stammers, then looks Jake square in the eye. “I don’t think she’s reacting enough. You’re disgusting.” She grabs the rest of her clothes, slips them on quickly then looks back at me. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

She powerwalks to the tent opening and turns back just long enough to say, “Good luck, girl.”

“Bitches!”

I grip the red plastic cup in my hand tighter and feel the lukewarm liquid drip out onto my fingers. “Asshole!” I fling the beer at him. It smacks him square in the chest, soaking his t-shirt and splattering foam across his stupid face.

He flinches, rubbing his chest. “Aria—”

I cut him off mid-whine. “No! I am not letting you explain this! You think there’s a reason you’re sucking face with her while I’m gone for thirty minutes that would actually make it okay? You’re delusional.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry, Ari.”

My boots squelch in the mud as I stomp toward him. “You know what? I’m done. Take your apologies, your lame excuses, your stupid grin and get out. This thing…” I wiggle my finger back and forth in the empty space between us, “we’re done.”

“Fine.” He snarls as he grabs his bag off the ground and loops his arm through the strap. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Doubt it.” I snort, grabbing my own bag and hoisting it over my shoulder, turning back to the tent’s opening. My boots land heavy as I stomp over the puddle near the flap and almost slip, which I use as an opportunity to fling my arms wide. “Congratulations, Jake! You just won the festival award for Douche of the Year!”

Every step away from the tent takes effort as the muddy wannabe quicksand sucks at my boots like it’s trying to swallow me whole. After the day I’ve had, I kinda wish it would. I drag my hands over my eyes, trying to force the ache away. When I pull them back they’re coated in black. Of course they are. Oh well, a makeup emergency is not at the top of my list of priorities right now. Across the field I spot the food stands. My stomach growls on cue and since my ex-boyfriend is currently wearing my beer and my lunch, I decide to go grab something to eat. I catch my reflection in one of the merch table mirrors along the way and… holy raccoon that crawled out of a dumpster, got into a fight with a Sharpie and lost. I stare at myself, not recognizing the person looking back. Mascara streaked, eyeliner smeared, mud splattered across my cheeks like war paint from some kind of shitty festival apocalypse. Sigh.

“Jesus. Honey, you okay?”

I glance up and see the woman running the merch stand, mid-thirties, tattoos spilling out of both sleeves, vibrant red hair pulled back into a couple of messy space buns, looking at me like she’s deciding whether to offer me a hug or call security.

“I… uh… I’ll survive,” I mutter, trying to smile without revealing how close I am to losing my shit.

She squints.  “Nuh-uh. Not buying it.” Her hand disappears under the counter. She pulls out a makeup wipe. “Here. Use it,” she says, handing it to me across the table. “Get yourself cleaned up and you’ll feel human again… maybe.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it from her hand and looking in the mirror as I rub the damp cloth at the streaks and smudges

“Okay. Spill,” she says, leaning on the table.

I glance around, half-expecting him to crawl out of the mud like some kind of pathetic little festival zombie. “My boyfriend…I mean, ex-boyfriend,” I hiss, voice tight enough to cut glass, “I caught him with someone else. In our damn tent.”

She rolls her eyes. “Figures. Don’t sweat it, honey. He’s obviously an idiot. And you’re out here looking like a badass disaster, and honestly, it’s kind of working for you.”

I blink at her. “Working? Seriously?”

“Yeah. And don’t worry about him,” she says, lowering her voice. “If you want to get even, I know security.”

“Yeah?” I quirk my eyebrow at her. Getting even sounds pretty good right now.

She nods. “We’re just hooking up.”

“No shame,” I say, holding my hands up.

“Give me a description of your ex. I’m not afraid to tell him that jerk just stole a t-shirt from the booth.”

I stare. “Wait. What?”

She glances over her shoulder. “See? There should be ten, but there’s only eight. Someone took them and since your guy is such a piece of work I’m sure he’s involved.” One corner of her mouth quirks up as she locks eyes with me.

“Oh,” I say, shaking my head, laughing despite the anger still coiling in my chest. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Right?” she says, smirking. “Now go. Eat something. You’ll get through this day, honey. But if you want revenge, just say the word.”

I tuck the wipe back in my pocket, giving her a mock salute. “Noted. And thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She waves one hand over her head as she turns her attention to a small group of girls eyeing crystals she has dangling from a rope stretching the full length of her booth. 

The food stands are still half the field away and each step feels like a negotiation with gravity as the mud raises the stakes, infiltrating the seams of my boots. It squishes its way through the fibers of my socks and sinks between my toes. Gross. Somewhere behind me, the faint thud of music pulses through the field, bass rattling my teeth and reminding me that life is still moving, so I might as well keep putting one foot in front of the other too. The smell of grease and charred meat grows stronger as I get closer to my destination, mixing with the sticky sweetness of funnel cakes and the underlying funk of about twenty-thousand people who’ve been baking in the sun for days. Double gross.

I weave past groups of drunk teenagers waving overpriced glow sticks, dodge a kid in a death metal hoodie who’s sprinting across the field toward the pit with a corndog dangling from his mouth. 

My stomach growls again, apparently it’s the only part of me that’s still fully functional. Finally, I reach the food truck, a battered trailer with a faded neon sign and a line of sweaty, impatient festival-goers. The cook glances up, wipes his hands on a greasy rag, and raises an eyebrow. I nod toward the hot dog sign and hold up two fingers.

“Weren’t you just here?” he says, squinting at me.

“I worked up an appetite, what can I say?”

He shakes his head and says, “Gonna be fifteen.”

“Sure.” I dig into my back pocket, fishing for the change I stuffed in there after paying for the last round of hot dogs. Coins jangle against each other like tiny taunts. My fingers find a couple of pieces of wadded up paper. Bingo. I pull them out and drop the crumpled bills into his gloved hand.

“That’s only ten,” he says, unfolding and straightening the bills. His expression turning more annoyed by the second.

“Uh, oh.” I grimace and pull my backpack off my shoulder, dropping it onto the small metal tray sticking out underneath the order window. “Sorry.” I rummage through my bag’s contents shoving boxer shorts, body spray and a vape out of the way. “This isn’t…” I flip the bag over to check the front pocket where my grim reaper wearing headphones should be hanging off the zipper. The one holding a glow in the dark skull in his hand.

It’s not there.

I pat the bag like it’s supposed to magically reproduce it.

Nope.

The bag is also dark blue.

I hate blue. My backpack is black. 

My chest tightens.

“Godammit Jake,” I hiss under my breath.

“Is there a problem here?” The guy asks, sliding the two hotdogs into red checkered cardboard and leaving them on the counter just inside the window.

“He… uh… he took my bag.” 

I look down at the hot dogs in the tray like they owe me answers. “I guess I can only get one.”

He scowls at me but then his face softens as he reaches into the tip jar and pulls out five dollars. “Problem solved,” he says, sliding the hot dogs through the window.

“Are you… you don’t…”

“Keep the line moving, huh?” he says with a wink. “Don’t worry about it. Enjoy the festival.”

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the tray and shoving the first hot dog into my mouth. I inhale it in no more than three bites, quickly followed by the second. If he took the wrong bag, I think to myself, then that means he’s got my wallet, my keys… and my car.

Shit.

I glance up and see a neon sign labeled Parking with a bold arrow pointing up. Guess I better go see if I’ve still got wheels or not. I suck in a deep breath, toss the cardboard tray into one of the trash bins and clench my hand into a fist around my backpack strap, trying to summon just enough will to survive the walk, and maybe—just maybe—plot a little revenge along the way.

I work my way past groups of people wobbling on platform boots, dodging spilled drinks and the occasional glow stick attack.

Finally, I see the lot. Rows of cars glinting in the fading sunlight, a sea of blinding metal. My chest tightens. I start sprinting, kicking up sludge, holding one arm up over my eyes like a shield. Every jostle of the bag over my shoulder is a reminder that my cheating deadbeat of an ex has my keys, my wallet and now he just might end up with my sanity too if he took my car.

I reach our spot.

It’s occupied by an eighty-one Honda.

Nothing against the ride, but it’s not mine.

My legs start to wobble, threatening to go out from under me as my stomach flips and my throat tightens. The festival noise all fades into the background as my mind races. “No. No. No!” I hiss, reaching out to balance myself by grabbing onto the hood of the car rudely occupying my parking spot.

The damn alarm goes off.

“Can this day get any worse?” I scream. “Actually, I take that back,” I whisper, glancing up at the sky. “I don’t really want to start a pissing contest with the universe here.”

A man in a neon tank top waves at me, beer in hand. “Uh… you okay, lady?” he yells over the sound of the car’s alarm.

“I’m fine! Totally fine!” I snap, voice cracking. “Just… trying to find my keys!” As soon as he turns and looks the other way I duck down and squat-walk around the minivan parked beside us and haul my ass out of that parking lot before someone decides I was trying to break into that car.

I stop running when I reach the gate and see the signs plastered all over the fencing. “No readmittance.”

Perfect. 

Stranded at the edge of a music festival with no wheels and no money with the most humiliating just-got-dumped story in festival history. I lean my head against the fence and slide down until my backside hits the ground. Think, Aria, I tell myself. Okay, I can request a rideshare and pay via the app.

I pull my phone out of my back pocket. Weak signal. Great. 

There goes my plan.

Tears well in the corners of my eyes, stinging as they try to force their way out. That’s when I decide to message the only number I know by heart. The message will go out when the signal decides to blip on the positive side.

I swipe the screen and tap Charlotte’s profile.

Need help.

Stranded at the festival.

Jake dipped with my car and wallet.

I’ll explain everything later. PROMISE!

PLEASE 🙏 send a ride share to pick me up. I’ll pay you back as soon as I get home.

Now, there’s nothing left to do but wait…

At least the breakup playlist isn’t terrible, I think to myself as Soul Collective breaks into one of my favorite songs from the stage behind me.

CHAPTER TWO – DECK

The bass rattles through the bus walls, shaking the table beneath my boots. I recognize the melody of my  favorite Soul Collective song as Nate licks grease off his thumb and Jax throws an empty pizza box at his head. I flick a peanut at Jax and pump my fist in the air when it pegs him right between the eyes. “You’re both idiots.”

“Dude, that was my slice.” He sounds personally betrayed, like Nate had just stolen his girlfriend instead of a cold piece of pepperoni pizza from the box we’d smuggled back to the bus from catering. Our riders are never crazy like some of the bands we’ve gone on tour with. Once, I actually saw someone demand a whole koi pond be built backstage for a two-night headliner event. To be fair, it was pretty awesome. We never ask for anything that elaborate, but pepperoni pizza was one of our non-negotiables.

“Finders keepers, man.” Nate smirks, drawing my attention to his beard. It’s more sparkly than usual. Stray pieces of glitter from the confetti bombs someone set off in the pit yesterday twinkle in his scruff, catching the light from the venue’s neon signs leaking in through the window. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s not my problem you fell asleep on the couch.” He laughs and flicks a finger in Jax’s direction. “I think you’ve still got some drool there, bud.”

Jax rubs one hand over his mouth and scowls at Nate from across the bus. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Tour always hits him harder than he admits.

They’re still going at it, but the sound of my phone vibrating and skittering across the table in front of me drowns out the rest of their little crashout. Charlotte’s name flashes on the screen. “Both of you,” I yell to get over the sound of their bickering. “Shut up! It’s my sister,” I add, holding my phone in the air as proof. Tapping the screen to answer the call, I put the phone to my ear. No way in hell am I putting her on speaker phone with these guys around. “Yo, sis. What’s good?”

“Nothing, actually,” she says, voice low and tense in a way that makes my stomach lurch. “It’s Aria.”

“Aria?” I echo. Her name hits me like distortion trying to push its way through a busted amp, punching at the bruise in my chest that never healed and dragging up every demon I’ve tried to keep buried for over a decade. I was the one who left, so why does it still feel tender under all the bullshit I’ve piled on top of it.

“Yeah,” she says. “We’ve got a problem.”

I jolt upright, boots hitting the floor beneath me as my blood turns to ice in my veins. “What happened? Is she okay?”

“Shut up and I’ll tell you,” she interrupts with a sigh.

“Shutting up… but… is she okay?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know much. I just got a text from her that said she’s stranded outside the festival entrance.”

I scoff and shake my head. “The festival? She’s here?”

Charlotte grunts something that sounds like equal parts annoyance and confusion. “It sounds like it. From what she said, Jake ditched her.”

Jake. “That bastard.” My fists curled in response to hearing his name. “He’s always been a little prick.”

“Sounds like this time he took it too far. He stole her keys and took the car, her wallet. Everything. I tried to call her back but she’s not answering her phone. It’s just going straight to voicemail.”

“That’s not good.”

“Nope. So obviously, I’m worried and she asked for help,” Charlotte explained with a long exhale. “I’d go, but I’m in Nashville. So I’m sending someone else.”

“Good.” I drag one hand down the back of my neck, nodding along with the conversation. “She shouldn’t have to sit there alone. It’s not safe, even with all the security. Did you call a rideshare?”

“No.”

“A taxi? Do they even have those out here?”

“No. I don’t think they do.”

“Okay, I give. Who’s the lucky driver?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re literally less than ten minutes away right now. No one else could get there faster.”

I rub my face, then reach for my hoodie strung over the back of the small sofa. “This is a terrible idea. You know that right? Aria hates me.”

“Do you blame her?”

Do I blame her? Nope. Not even a little bit. If I were her, I’d hate me too. But I’m not going to admit that to Charlotte. “Thanks, sis.” I yank the hoodie over my head and shove my arms through the sleeves. “Guess it doesn’t matter.”

Charlotte goes quiet, and I can picture the look on her face even without seeing it. Equal parts relief and suspicion. “So you’ll go?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m going,” I grumble, kicking an empty water bottle out of my path as I head toward the front of the bus.

“Is this like that time you finally agreed to play my mermaid game and I was so excited then you dropped the bomb on me that I had to agree to swap rooms with you for a week?”

“What?” My voice comes out squeaky. “No.”

“Deck—”

“Hey, my room was always hot as hell. Whoever installed that AC after the add-on did not know what they were doing.”

“Seriously? What is wrong with you?” She sighs so loud that I have to pull the phone away from my ear to keep the sound from tickling my ear.

“I’ll find her.” My voice comes out harder than I intend. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

“Promise?”

“Yep. Promise.” 

The line goes silent before I can respond, leaving me in the kind of silence that feels louder than the bass still thumping through the walls. I shove my phone in my pocket and glance over my shoulder. Nate’s halfway through another slice and Jax is watching me like he’s studying for the SATs all over again.

“What?” I snap.

“Nothing,” Jax says, but the smirk tugging at his mouth says everything. “Aria, huh? Are you going for the knight in shining leather look?” he laughs, shoving a handful of chips in his mouth. “Romeo on a rescue mission?”

“Shut the hell up,” I growl, yanking the label provided SUV keys from the hook.

CHAPTER THREE – ARIA

I stand at the edge of the festival grounds with my dignity in shambles at my feet. The black band around my wrist with yellow lettering saying, GENERAL ADMISSION PASS – ADMIT ONE feels like a joke. I’ve gone from having the time of my life watching some of my favorite bands with my boyfriend for our anniversary to… this. Ugh. Of course, when I saw East Divide on the schedule for Friday night I told Jake I had to work so we’d have to wait until Saturday. At least I managed to avoid seeing Deck this weekend. That might be the only silver lining to this disaster, but it’s a good one.

Staring down the endless line of bodies in the distance, just on the other side of the fence, my whole face pulls itself down into a frown. Everyone else has someone with them and are still dancing and moving to the music, while I’m left out here with a growing puddle in my left boot and a shame hangover forming behind my eyes.

I glance around.

No friendly faces anywhere around for me.

Just the night and a security fence.

I let out a self-pitying sigh just as I see a pair of too-bright headlights pop over the hill in the not-so-distant distance.

Oh, no.

The low growl of its engine tries to pull me out of my mental spiral, but it’s no use. There’s only one person Charlotte would’ve called who’d show up in a Black SUV with windows as dark as my mood.

No way.

I scowl at the way too heavily tinted windshield as it creeps down the path, tires crunching through the gravel until it rolls to a stop right in front of me.

Don’t be Deck.

Anyone but Deck.

Not Deck.

The driver’s door opens and out steps Deck wearing a black hoodie and a pair of sunglasses at night just like the stupid song. My breath catches, and turns sharp in my lungs.

No.

No.

Nope. 

Ten years. Ten damn years without a word, and now he shows up like some walking cliche?

Absolutely not. My jaw clenches tight as I suck in a deep breath. His cologne travels on the air all the way from where he’s standing by my apparent rescue vehicle, smelling like a thousand bad decisions wrapped in nostalgia and the faint scent of leather. I blink slowly, taking in the hoodie. Not just any hoodie, band merch. His band. Their new tour design, no less. Thick white lettering runs down both arms displaying the lyrics to one of their biggest hits. But what almost takes me out is the silver permanent marker autographs scattered around the band logo centered in the middle of his chest. My lip stings as my teeth sink into it, trying to fight back my laughter.

He catches my expression and glances down. I can tell the second he realizes what he’s done because his entire face turns bright red as he pulls at the collar like it’s suddenly choking him. “Shit. I grabbed the wrong one.”

“Planning on selling me a limited edition beanie too?” I ask, keeping my voice flat, arms still crossed.

He winces. “It was supposed to be the Amaryllis one. You know, vintage… cool. This one, uh… the crew must’ve missed it.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t wear my own merch on purpose,” he squeaks. Yeah, his voice actually squeaked. I’d be lying if I said my petty little heart didn’t enjoy it.

“I’d hope not.” My gaze drops back to the signatures. His name’s there. Centered. Like he always has to be. “When I asked for a rideshare, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, finally.

“I know.” His hands disappear into his pockets as his jaw tenses. “Char called and said you were… stuck.”

Of course she did.

I look past him at the SUV. I could get in, settle into the heated seats. Ride back in silence and get the hell out of here tomorrow after I can contact my bank. Or I could stay here, alone, mud up to my knees, praying for someone decent to stop. 

Or worse, Jake might come back.

I huff out a breath, stepping forward and opening the passenger door. “Thanks,” I say, tossing myself into the seat.

He nods, face unreadable. “Yeah. No problem.” He drags one hand down the back of his neck and shakes his head like he’s trying to figure out how we wound up here together too.

The door thunks shut beside me as he slides into the driver’s seat, behind the steering wheel. Inside the SUV is a stark contrast to the outside, warm and comfortable. A pine-scented air freshener hangs from the rearview mirror, swaying with every breath of the heater. The seats are that soft, expensive kind that stick to the backs of my thighs. They’re absolutely going to make that horrible squawking noise when I peel myself off them later, but for now… it feels good.

He shifts in his seat, starts the car again, and we both let the soft rumble of the engine fill the silence between us.

I notice his hands on the steering wheel. Calloused, but steady. He drives like he does everything—controlled—like he never wants to show how much he’s paying attention.

The hoodie stretches across his shoulders when he adjusts the rearview mirror. The lyrics lining his arm glow a soft green in the barely there lighting from the dashboard. 

My throat tightens. I look down at my boots, caked in drying mud. My knees are wet. My phone’s dead. My pride’s in pieces.

“You okay?” he asks, not looking at me.

“Peachy.”

He lets that sit.

But the tension still doesn’t ease. It just settles in. Basically it lives here now. This is just how it is and how it’s always going to be for us.

“This was a terrible idea,” I admit under my breath. Getting in this car. Letting him see me like this… wrecked, completely humiliated, and my pride obliterated.

But I don’t have any other options, so I focus on the road ahead. The windshield’s fogged slightly at the corners. It matches the inside of my head.

Fuzzy.

His sideways glances keep poking at me.

That pull… the one that’s always been there between us. It’s still there, like a constant static between us.

Yeah, this is a bad idea.

I rub at the corner of my eye where mascara has crusted and dried. “Is this part of your gig now? Picking up stranded girls off the side of the road?”

“Only the ones who used to steal my hoodies,” he says through a smirk.

I turn my head just enough to glare at him. “Not that one,” I say, waving my finger up and down toward the self-autographed cotton billboard he’s wearing.

He doesn’t return the look, but I catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth when he says, “Smartass.”

I should’ve stayed on the side of the road. I should’ve hitchhiked back home. Anything would’ve been preferable to this.

But I’ll survive one ride.

One night of being trapped in a moving vehicle with my old ghosts.

It won’t be half as bad as this day’s already been.

Right?

He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other perched on the gearshift in the center, which is unnecessary since this is an automatic. Classic Deck. Always trying to maintain the image of control while spiraling inside. He’s not fooling me. I know he’s just as uncomfortable as I am. Otherwise, he’d be trying to make small talk. And he knows as well as I do—small talk isn’t gonna fix anything.

A bright flash hits my eyes and makes me squint. I jerk back on instinct.

Deck swears under his breath. “Stupid cameras.”

My pulse kicks hard. “Do you think they got a clear shot?”

He doesn’t answer, just drives faster, looping around the back of the venue toward the security checkpoint. He rolls his window down just enough for the guard standing outside the booth to see his face and the badge he holds up.

“No need for the badge, Deck. You’re good.” The guard nods to another stationed inside. A loud click follows, and the electric fence gates slide open, granting us access.

He leaves the window down as we roll through. Tour buses line the area, and another row forms a barricade between them and the outer fence.

“So this is how you manage to have some privacy, huh?”

He nods, letting his eyes shift to focus on the makeshift barricade. “It’s all strategic.”

The bass from the main stage vibrates through the seats. Deck taps the steering wheel, and even though I try not to, I glance over and catch the tight line of his jaw and cringe internally at the flip my stomach does in response to seeing him again.

Damn it.

I swallow the words I want to say and flinch at the taste of way too many bitter memories. “I’m sorry,” I say finally.

“For what?” he asks, glancing away from the road for a split second to look at me.

“I didn’t know she was going to send you. I thought she’d just call a rideshare and I’d send her the cash after I got back home and could transfer the funds.” I shake my head at myself. “I should’ve stayed put and waited. Hell, if I hadn’t spent my last fifty bucks on the stupid drinks and hotdogs I was bringing back for us to share, I’d have cash. I bet that lady selling crystals by the food trucks would’ve given me a ride into town.”

He snorts a laugh and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying not to. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, pulling us into a tight alley between a few of the tour buses.

I unbuckle as he brings the vehicle to a stop, but I don’t move.

“You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.

I don’t look at him. “You weren’t supposed to come.”

“You called.”

“Actually, I called your sister,” I remind him. “She’s the one who called you.”

“She was worried,” he says, and the look he gives me sends a flutter straight up my spine.

Stop that, I snap at myself.

I open the door and let the sound of my leather boots hitting gravel ground me. No. I refuse to consent to the butterfly feeling. We’ve already tried this once and it didn’t work. I’m not willing to go through that heartache again.

I slam the car door behind me. 

Not again.

I didn’t survive Jake just to let my heart trip over Deck.

Absolutely not happening.

CHAPTER FOUR – DECK

The second the door clicks shut behind us, three pairs of eyes swing my way then land on her.

Aria steps in behind me, boots leaving faint, muddy prints on the bus floor. She looks like hell. Beautiful, obviously. But mascara-streaked, wild-haired, and clearly running on fumes.

“Aria,” I say, nodding toward the guys. “You remember Jax? The one sprawled sideways on the couch with a bag of chips that looks suspiciously like the ones I had stashed in my bunk’s overhead cabinet.”

“Hey, Ari,” Jax says as I snag a throw pillow and launch it at his head. He dodges, and it bounces off the back of the couch, hitting Bobby, who’s sitting at the so-called dining table, which is actually just a mini booth like you’d find in an RV.

“That’s Bobby,” I add.

He lifts his hand in a salute, then goes right back to logging into his game.

“You’re right,” Jax says, holding up the chip bag in greeting. “I did raid your stash while you were out playing leather-clad prince charming.” He stands, slugs me in the shoulder, then wedges himself between me and Aria, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her deeper into the main area of the bus. “You don’t wanna hang out with him. He’s still trouble.”

“Some things never change,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at me. 

He laughs.

Aria bites the inside of her cheek, probably to keep from laughing at me herself, because something tells me she hasn’t forgiven me for leaving yet.

I grab the half-empty chip bag from Jax and dive onto the sofa. “I’d rather be trouble than boring and too slow, like you,” I chuckle, popping a chip into my mouth.

Nate stomps into the kitchen and yanks the mini fridge open, rummaging. “Don’t we have anything worth eating on this damn bus? It’s all protein and flavorless garbage.”

Jax squints at him and wrinkles his nose. “You okay?”

Bobby laughs without looking up from his screen where he’s fighting off a horde of demons. “He’s just pissed he ran out of his cookies.”

“I always eat a sleeve of those cookies on our off days,” Nate grumbles, glaring over his shoulder at Bobby. “And you know what? We’ve never had a bad show.”

“Coincidence?” Jax laughs, not even trying to hide it.

“I don’t think so,” Nate says with a snarl. “But I guess we’re gonna have to find out, huh?”

“Dude,” I groan, rolling my eyes and throwing my head back against the sofa. “Check my bunk.”

“You stole my cookies?” Nate growls, peering at me over the fridge door.

“No,” I say, doing my best to hide my amusement. “I bought my own two stops back, but you can have some if you’ll stop acting like a little bitch.”

Aria chokes on her own spit at that one.

“That’s Nate,” Jax explains, nodding toward the kitchen area. “The one throwing a fit over cookies and wearing shorts he hasn’t washed since we started this tour.”

“They’re my lucky shorts,” he fires back.

“We know!” me, Jax, and Bobby all yell back at him.

“And they stink,” Jax adds, pinching his nose and pitching his voice about three octaves higher than usual.

“Hi, Aria,” Nate says with a casual nod before turning his attention back to us. “If I washed them while we were on tour it would ruin the effect! They’re bringing us good luck.”

“Nightmares are more like it,” Bobby mutters. “I have to sleep in the bunk under you.”

“Are you hungry?” I ask, suddenly realizing she probably hasn’t eaten in a while and since that jerk took her wallet, she probably couldn’t have gotten anything even if she wanted to.

She nods once, then tilts her head. “Actually… is it cool if I borrow your shower? I feel like I just crawled out of a ditch and it’s gross.”

“You kinda look like it too,” Jax mutters under his breath, giving her a once-over. “Still hot, though.”

My jaw clenches tight as I kick him in the shin.

“Ow!” he laughs, rubbing the spot where my boot connected.

“Shower’s back there,” I say. “Just past the kitchen, on the left.”

Jax bends his leg in and out at the knee like he’s trying to shake the sting. “You need clothes? I don’t see a duffel bag or anything.”

“Uh… yeah, actually,” she stammers, rubbing the back of her neck like she’s embarrassed. “He… uh… My ex kinda took off with all my stuff.”

“Sorry,” I say, getting up off the sofa and heading to my bunk. “I should’ve thought about that.” I grab a T-shirt I know she’ll approve of, then with two wide steps land back in the main area of the bus. “I don’t think any of my pants will work,” I admit, shoulders slumping forward.

“I’ve got some shorts that might,” Jax says, jogging back to his bunk. He rummages for a second and pulls out a pair. “Drawstring waistband. Basketball chic.”

“Seriously?” she asks. “You don’t mind?”

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.” He tosses them her way. “And don’t worry,” he adds. “I actually wash mine, unlike Nate.”

She catches them, and for the first time since I pulled her off the side of the road, I see it. A real smile. Small and fragile, but real. My heart stutters behind my ribs.

“Thanks,” she says, then lifts the T-shirt I handed her. Not just any shirt. The black one with faded red letters from that band we used to blast on repeat in the backseat of my clunky old sedan. She’d always sing the harmonies under her breath. She pauses, fingers brushing the graphic, then tucks it under her arm.

“Also,” I add, pulling my hoodie off and tossing it toward her, even if she does think it’s lame. “The bus gets cold.”

She catches that too. “Thanks,” she says again, quieter this time, as she heads toward the back of the bus.

“Try not to clog the drain with all that hair,” Nate calls after her. “Frank gets grumpy when he has to pull hairballs out.”

Aria flips him off without turning around.

And somehow, just for a second, it feels like old times .Totally messed up. Loud and complicated, but still… right.

The second Aria disappears behind the bathroom door, the mood on the bus shifts. That’s the thing about Aria. Once she gets under your skin, you never forget her. Not even after the better part of a decade.

Ask me how I know…

Jax kicks his feet up on the ottoman and grabs the open chip bag, dumping the rest of its contents into his mouth. “So…” he says as crumbs fall onto his chest. “When exactly were you gonna tell us she was the one you wrote the song about?”

I freeze. “What?”

“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out,” Bobby laughs from the kitchen.

“Jesus,” I mutter, dropping back onto the couch, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t exactly plan this reunion.”

“Sure didn’t look like it,” Nate says. “But I’m going to bed before this second chance romance turns into an after-hours type of scenario.”

I stick my leg out as he tries to move past me. He stumbles and throws a jab in my direction, but I dodge just in time.

His fist connects with the frame of the sofa instead. “Damn it,” he hisses, catching himself with his other hand against the wall as he forces himself upright. I hear him grumble something about getting even later as he retreats to the bunk area.

The shower hisses behind the closed door as I pull my phone from my pocket and catch my reflection in the black screen. I’m an idiot, I sigh to myself as I tap it awake.

Bobby finally saves his game and disappears into his bunk. Jax is halfway through a horror movie and a half-eaten protein bar, grumbling something about protein farts.

“Gross,” I groan, moving to the booth in the kitchen to put some distance between me and the expanding green cloud hovering around him.

The shower’s still running. A steady, rhythmic sound that should be soothing.

It isn’t.

I scroll, just to distract myself. Something to pass the time. Anything to push down the knot of anxiety forming in my stomach.

99+ notifications.

Nothing new there.

Group texts.

Missed calls.

Tags.

Mentions.

One stands out though.

Megan: ANSWER YOUR PHONE.

I swallow hard and tap open our message thread.

There it is.

A blurry, zoomed-in shot posted by some asshole lurking near the checkpoint when I rolled the window down for security.

“Damn it.”

A clear shot of me and Aria, hunched in the passenger seat. Her wild hair and smeared mascara in full view. She’s not going to be happy.

The caption’s worse though.

Deck Kingston—off the wagon AGAIN? Is his mystery girl a new fling or HIS DEALER? Sound off in the comments.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan as I scroll through the comments.

DecksGirl4Life: Prolly his dealer tbh

My grip tightens around the phone. Not because I’m in the post. I’ve been tagged in worse, but because they’re aiming all their vitriol at her.

Aria.

The girl who used to make me ramen when I was too depressed to make my own food. The one I’ve thought about every single night since leaving. The single person our biggest chart-topper is about. And some faceless troll hiding behind a stan account thinks they have the right to judge her?

My jaw clenches as tight as my fist. I want to throw the phone across the damn bus, but I also want to rip open the reply box and fire back.

One by one. Line by line.

But I don’t.

Because I’ve learned the hard way that feeding the fire only makes it burn hotter. And Aria doesn’t deserve to be collateral damage in another one of my PR nightmares.

Still, bile rises in my throat.

I look back down at the screen. Her face, haunted and human, staring back at me.

And I’ve put her there. I didn’t mean to, but I did because of a million stupid micro-decisions. Rolling down the window. Not keeping my damn ballcap pulled down like I was supposed to. Getting strung out in the first place.

My stomach twists.

I asked her to trust me for one ride.

And already, the world is sharpening its knives.

A notification pings the band group chat, echoing across the bus.

Megan: WTF IS THIS?

“What’s going on?” Jax asks without looking away from the TV.

“It didn’t take them long,” I sigh, turning my phone so he can see. He pauses the movie, squinting. “Dude. That sucks.”

“Yeah, the comment section’s a dumpster,” I snap, already typing a reply to Megan.

Me: It’s not what it looks like.

Megan: It never is. But now we’ve got the press calling, emailing, and the label breathing down our necks. Again.

Me: So what do we do?

Megan: We spin it. You’re not relapsing. You’re dating.

Me: Are you serious?

Megan: Try me.

Me: I’m not relapsing anyway. She’s an old friend and got stranded at the festival. I’m just helping her get back to town.

Megan: How sweet. Do I look like I care?

*attachment loading*

Jax: I don’t think she’s cares, bro.

Me: Go back to your stupid movie.

Megan: She’s your girlfriend, until the end of the tour. Smile for the camera. Be seen A LOT! Then let her “break your heart” publicly after the tour and we move on.

Me: That’s messed up.

Megan: What’s more messed up? Doing that, or letting them spin another “Deck  spirals into self-destruction” article and pinning her as your dealer?

The sound of the bathroom door opening makes me jump. My phone slips out of my hand and clatters to the floor.

Aria steps out, steam curling around her like smoke as she scrunches her wet hair in a towel. She’s wearing my hoodie, sleeves pulled over her hands, and Jax’s oversized shorts rolled down twice at the waist to fit. She pauses when she catches my expression.

“Okay, what happened?”

I hesitate.

She notices.

“What. Happened?” she repeats. 

“You two lovebirds got spotted,” Jax laughs.

“What?” she asks again, color draining from her face.

I scoop my phone off the floor and turn the screen toward her.

She doesn’t even blink. “Great.”

I wait for her to freak out. Yell. Tell me I’ve made everything worse. She doesn’t. Instead, she just sighs, drops into the seat across from me and buries her face in her hands.

I drag a hand down the back of my neck, trying to figure out how to say it without making it sound worse than it is. “It’s not just the photo,” I mutter. “The PR team already saw it. And they’re… spinning it.”

Her head snaps up. “Spinning it how?”

I exhale hard through my nose, because the words taste like acid. “They don’t want the relapse rumors sticking. So their genius idea is… we fake-date. Smile for the cameras. Hold hands in the right places. Pretend this is some big reunion story until the tour ends.”

Her eyes go wide, then narrow. “You’re kidding.”

I shake my head. “I wish I was. But the label’s breathing down our necks, Megan is already fielding calls, and if we don’t play along, they’re gonna spin it their own way. And that way doesn’t end pretty for anyone.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s how this industry works,” I say, sharper than I mean to. My hands ball into fists against my knees. “They don’t care about the truth, Aria. They care about the story that sells and me slipping back into a downward spiral with my dealer is a hell of a lot juicier than the truth.”

She nods at first, then stops and tilts her head narrowing her eyes at me. “Wait. Did you just say they think I’m your dealer?”

I wince. “Yeah.” The word scrapes out of me like gravel. “That’s what they’re going with.”

Her mouth falls open. “Unbelievable.”

“I know.” My voice comes out low, rough. “You didn’t sign up for this. None of this is fair to you, but the press doesn’t give a damn about fairness. They’ll tear anyone apart just to get clicks. If we don’t absolutely destroy their narrative, they’ll run with it until it buries us.”

“You know what? Whatever.” She leans back and crosses her arms. “Let them talk. I don’t care what people online say about me. I’ve been called worse by better.”

I sit forward, resting my elbows on the table. “You shouldn’t have to care. But this? It’s not just about a few trolls in the comment section. They’re already dragging your name through the mud. It’s only gonna get worse when the tabloids start digging. What about your photography career? It won’t take much for them to start connecting the dots.”

She snorts out a laugh.

I forgot she did that. That laugh used to be my whole mission some days. Getting her to let it slip, just once, because it meant I’d broken through all the walls she built to protect herself.

“I don’t think you can call taking pictures of drunks during karaoke night at Bottom’s UP a career,” she says, still laughing under her breath.

Something about the way she says it makes my gut twist. Like it’s a joke now and she’s made peace with the fact that the dream… just isn’t there anymore.

“You were gonna shoot album covers,” I say before I can stop myself. “VIP packages. Festivals.”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, well. Life happens.”

But I know what that shrug means. It means I happened.

I left.

And somewhere in the fallout, she stopped chasing the thing she used to light up over. All because I thought cutting her loose would protect her from the wreckage I was heading straight into.

“Shit, Aria,” I murmur, my voice low. “I didn’t know.”

She looks away. Not mad, not even sad. Just… resigned. Somehow, that’s worse than if she was yelling at me for ruining her life.

She brings both hands up to cup her face. “Fine.”

I blink. “What?”

She glances up through her dark lashes. “You need this. Your band needs this. And if I’m already on the bus, already in the photo and it’s kind of my fault since you came to pick me up, the least I can do is help bury it.”

“Aria—”

I run one hand through my hair. “Look. I know this is a mess. I didn’t mean to drag you into it.”

She doesn’t answer.

“But if you’re willing to play along, even just for a little while, just long enough to let the rumors die down, then let me give you something in return.”

That gets her attention. “Like what?”

“You still know how to use a camera, right?” I remember the way she used to treat that thing like an extension of her own body.

She nods slowly. 

“Then shoot the band,” I say. “Full access. Rehearsals, shows, downtime. Real behind-the-scenes stuff. Build your portfolio.”

She blinks. “You’d let me do that?”

“I want you to do that,” I tell her. “If you’re gonna get sucked into my PR nightmare, then the least I can do is make sure you walk out of it with something that actually helps you too.”

She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to decide if I’m being serious or if this is some other kind of spin. “I can’t,” she says, shaking her head back and forth. “I don’t have my camera and that asshole took off with my cash and my cards. I couldn’t even buy a disposable one if I wanted to.”

“We’ll get you one at the next stop.”

“No,” she says, firmly. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Then let the label do it,” I say, tugging out my wallet and dropping a black piece of metal on the table. “If they want to spin the headline then they can put it in as a tour expense.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Is this blackmail?”

“No!” I say, adamantly. “You don’t owe me anything,” I add, holding her gaze. “You don’t have to play along. But if you do, I want it to be on your terms too. Not just mine or the labels.”

“Okay.” She lifts her chin, just slightly. “But this is just a business transaction wrapped in a lie and a nice little PR twist.”

I nod. “I know.”

“And when this is over, I walk away with a hard drive full of content and a new client list?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll play along,” she says finally, voice muffled by her palms. “But only for a few weeks. Then I’m out.” She watches me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I press my lips together to keep from reacting. Part of me wants to argue and ask her to stay longer than that. I nod, instead. Keep it casual, I tell myself. “Cool.” I lean back and cross both arms over my chest. “That works perfectly, since I don’t even like you.”

“Great.” She shrugs and it feels like every ounce of oxygen just got sucked out of my body. “I’m immune to you.”

“Is that so?” I feel the corner of my mouth twitch up.

She nods. “Got you out of my system a long time ago. So,” she says, stretching her hand across the table like she’s closing a deal, “do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” I say, gripping her hand before I can second-guess myself.

It should feel simple.

Clean.

A handshake over a mutual arrangement.

But her skin is warm against mine.

And this lie?

It’s already starting to feel too damn real.

CHAPTER FIVE – ARIA

Jax is passed out with one hand in a bag of trail mix and the other down his pants. Bobby’s snoring under a hoodie like a human burrito, and Nate mumbled something about “eight hours or bust” before knocking out cold with his sunglasses still on.

Which leaves me and Deck.

Again.

He’s watching me from the other side of the booth when his phone vibrates. “And here we go…” he sighs, sliding me the phone across the table.

An email from someone called Megan is open on the screen. I scowl at the subject line. “Fake girlfriend itinerary?” I say while scanning the bullet points.

“Wait until you get to the catering bit,” Deck says, amusement tugging at his voice. “Apparently we’re supposed to get caught holding hands at the buffet.”

“Romantic,” I deadpan.

“Hey,” he says, grinning, “holding hands at catering is sacred.”

I don’t look up. “If I remember correctly, I held your hand in the cafeteria lunch line and you used the distraction to grab the last brownie.”

He laughs. That soft, throaty kind of laugh that used to feel like home.

“Deck?” I ask, pretending to still be reading the screen.

“Yeah?”

“Where the hell am I supposed to sleep on this thing?” I ask, throwing my hands out wide to take in the entirety of the bus.

“You can have my bunk,” he offers.

“Just like old times,” I say. “Do you remember when I used to stay over at your house for a sleepover with Charlotte?”

He lets out a loud laugh. “Do I remember? My back still yells at me about all those nights I slept on Old Lumpy.”

“I forgot about the name you gave it.” I cover my mouth, trying to soften the sound of my laughter to keep from waking the other guys. “Her room was too small to share.” 

“I remember,” he says. “That’s why I would sleep on the couch downstairs and you two would take over my room like it was one of those early aughts MTV specials.”

“You always loved those specials.”

“Still do,” he admits, standing and stretching. “There’s something comforting about watching them now. Like opening a time capsule, or something…”

I used to think those nights were harmless, just crashing at my best friend’s house despite her obnoxious brother. But hindsight’s a bitch. I was naive and stupid, thinking those nights were the safest I’d ever felt when I was burrowed into his sheets, wrapped in the sound of his music echoing from downstairs, pretending not to listen while he worked on music he hadn’t shown anyone yet. Back then, I told myself I was in love with him.

It was just a phase.

“If I’m sleeping in your bunk then where are you sleeping?” I ask, suddenly way too aware of how defined his abs are under that tight t-shirt.

“On the sofa, of course. It’s not as bad as Old Lumpy. Unless…” He pauses and glances over at me, and I immediately feel the heat rising through my cheeks. “Did you have something else in mind?”

I shoot him a look, then stand and start toward the bunk area being careful to step around all the snack wrapper landmines strung out across the floor. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Right…”

The bunk area isn’t as grimy as I expected it to be, but it does smell like drug store body spray, feet, and at least one snack that rolled away in the middle of the night to rot in some dark corner.

Deck pokes his head in behind me, smirking.

“Do you guys ever clean?”

He nods and starts to open his mouth.

“Don’t lie,” I cut him off.

He shuts it just as quickly.

I beeline for the bathroom to brush my teeth, then double back when I realize my toothbrush is still in the bottom of my bag, probably on its way back home to Oak Valley by now. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

“There’s some in there,” he says, pointing at the cabinet hanging on the wall above the toilet.

I open the door and I’m greeted by a package of disposable toothbrushes with covers and toothpaste included in a little pouch, travel deodorants, and mini-mouthwashes. As I grab one of each from the shelf, I notice the design on each one’s label is the same. “Your band logo?” I snort. “Seriously? You have a whole damn travel hygiene line. What’s next? Signature body spray?”

He shrugs and tries to look away before I notice his face changing color so fast it matches the bright red on my fingernails.

“Wait… that’s not a bad idea,” I add. “Did you smell that?” I ask, pointing back to the bunks. “Someone has some issues.”

He groans. “That’s definitely Bobby. I pitched branded earplugs last week and they turned me down, but they gave the green light to the branded magnetic letters so fans can spell out our lyrics on their fridges?” His entire face twists in a scowl. “I don’t get it.”

Jax snores and it echoes through the bus like a foghorn.

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, but the earplugs are actually a good idea. I’d buy them right now.”

He laughs and shakes his head. But when he looks back at me, he sighs. “I missed this.”

I swallow hard and turn back to the mirror and start brushing, partly because I need something to do and partly because if I don’t, I might say something I can’t take back. That’s a risk I can’t afford.

No, I have to just let the moment pass. Along with the glint in his eye that makes my knees weak. Another issue I can’t afford, especially not with the deal we reached only a few minutes ago. If I’m going to fake date Deck until the tour ends, then I have to keep my heart and my hormones out of this. But standing here, using a toothbrush with his damn band logo on it, feeling his eyes trace every move from two feet away? There’s nothing fake about how fast my heart is beating.

I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth, then place the cover over the toothbrush and slide it into an empty slot in the holder on the sink. “Thanks for the essentials,” I say lightly, like my chest isn’t caving in on itself. “Five stars for product placement.”

He chuckles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I step around him and pad barefoot toward the bunks, pulse still hammering. None of this means anything, I remind myself. It’s all fake.

As I pull back the blankets on Deck’s bunk and hoist myself up into it, I glance over my shoulder and see Deck grabbing some spare blankets to use on the mini-sofa. “Do you still talk in your sleep?”

“Do I still do what?”

“You used to mumble,” I say, eyes on the ceiling. “Mostly nonsense. Sometimes lyrics.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hmm… guess I’ll have to wait and see, huh?”

“Guess so,” he says with a wink. “Oh, if you need to charge your phone there’s a power bank beside you.”

I look to the side and see a cordless charging bank plus two ports with different types of cords. One has the correct adapter, so I reach for my jeans and pull my phone from the back pocket. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a half-cocked grin as he walks away, heading toward the living area.

Silence. The kind that isn’t heavy, just… uncomfortable. It’s cut short by the sound of a dozen missed messages and calls from Char lighting up my notifications as my phone powers back on. I tap to turn the sound off before it can wake the guys and scan through them as I nestle deeper into Deck’s bunk, tucking my knees to my chest and trying not to breathe too loudly.

Charlotte: Are you alive? Both of your phones have been silent for too long. I’m feeling a certain type of way about it

Deck’s phone dings from the living room and I hear him curse followed by his sister’s name whispered under his breath. I bury my face in Deck’s sheets to cover the sound of my chuckle. Horrible idea. The smell of his cologne still clings to them. My chest clenches tight. Focus, Aria, I tell myself as I let out a long exhale and start typing out a reply before she decides to send out a search party.

I’m on the bus. It smells like ass here, but I’m alive.

That’s not the same as being okay. Are you okay?

I am. It’s just…

…

It’s been a weird day and I’m on a bus with a bunch of rock stars and one who apparently refuses to wash his shorts on tour, so that’s… GROSS!

Nate’s so gross.
But it’s DECK!
They might know him as a rock star but we both know he believed in Santa Claus until he was sixteen.

I’m not sure we should’ve told him.

We shouldn’t have. He’d probably still believe in him.

Imagine the fun we could’ve had with that!!!

Imagine the fun YOU can have NOW!!!

Give it up. That ship sailed.

Are you telling me something did happen?

It was a long time ago and it obviously didn’t mean anything.

I wouldn’t count on that…

I shift slightly and something crinkles under my elbow. I reach back and find a photo tucked between the edge of the mattress and the wall—a printed one, folded and soft at the corners.

It’s us.

He’s wearing the same band t-shirt I’m wearing now, his guitar in hand and I’m perched beside him on some makeshift backstage step with oversized sunglasses on and flashing a peace sign. I remember the night I took this with a cheap tripod I got at the dollar store. The way his hand brushed my back when he leaned in to whisper something stupid just to make me laugh. The faint memory of how the tequila felt, turning my blood almost hot in my veins. Deck was grumbling about lame candids, but I insisted we needed memories. I didn’t realize back then that I was trying to freeze something to keep it… us… from changing.

Guess that didn’t work out.

I fold the photo and shove it back where it came from. My phone vibrates again.

I KNOW you brought your tripod. If you don’t get some behind-the-scenes content for me to overanalyze, I’m disowning you.

I found an old photo in his bunk.

Of????

I’m going to bed.

You’re emotionally constipated. Drink water.
And text me if he’s a dick.

Deal.

Don’t forget to drink some damn water.

“Damn it,” I hiss under my breath. “How does she always know?” I slip out of the bunk like a criminal trying to escape. Quiet, a little guilty and still slightly wired. I can’t actually remember drinking anything other than energy drinks or booze since walking through the gates of the festival, despite all the water stations set up, so I pad toward the tiny kitchen area in the dark.

Deck’s sprawled out on the mini-sofa, one arm flung over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the world.

I grab a water bottle from the mini fridge and twist the cap as quietly as possible.

“You find everything you need?” His voice is low. Rough. That kind of sleepy rasp that makes my insides go all fuzzy and stupid.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Water acquired. Mission accomplished.”

He shifts a little, lets his forearm fall so he can look at me. “What?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I hesitate.

“Come on,” he groans. “I know that look. What is it?”

“I found something… in your bunk.”

He sits up straight. “What?”

“The photo of us.”

He blinks slowly. “I didn’t think you’d find that,” he finally says, softly.

“You kept it,” I say, not quite a question.

He walks back into the bunk area, retrieves the photo and hands it to me, his thumb grazing against my fingertips. “It was a good night. You made it feel like we weren’t just some struggling local band playing to mostly-empty bars.”

I look away quickly because there’s a lump in my throat and it’s climbing higher than I want to admit. “Well. You made me feel like I wasn’t just some tagalong with a camera and no clue what I was doing.”

“You weren’t.” His smile is faint but sincere. “You were the only one who saw it before we even believed it ourselves.”

Silence stretches between us, broken only by the low hum of the engine pushing the bus down the road.

My eyes sting, definitely from the smell in the bus and not because I’m fighting the urge to start bawling. No. I got cheated on in front of thousands of people. Sure, they didn’t know, and I’m fully aware they didn’t even notice, but I noticed. It was the most humiliating moment of my life. If I can get through that without shedding a single tear, then I can definitely reminisce with an old friend over a silly memory without losing it.

I clear my throat. “I should probably get some sleep.”

Deck grins. “You’re afraid you’re gonna get sentimental, aren’t you?”

“Excuse you,” I scoff. “I’m not a crier.”

“The Notebook.”

Damn it. “Listen, I was already upset because my goldfish had just died.”

He chuckles, the sound low and warm as he takes another step toward me. “Poor Goldie,” he says, clearly trying not to laugh harder.

“You’re a jerk.”

The warmth coming off his body threatens to swallow me whole as he reaches around me to pull a water bottle from the fridge for himself. “For what it’s worth,” he says, unscrewing the cap and lifting the bottle to his lips, “you could’ve called me.”

I nod, swallowing the rest of whatever I want to say. “Thanks for being there tonight.”

“Any time,” he says.

And, damn it! I believe him, which is exactly why I turn and walk back to my bunk… his bunk.

“Aria,” he says, stopping me mid-step.

I glance back at him over my shoulder.

“You deserve better than that. Don’t ever forget it.”

I nod and whisper, “Thank you,” because it’s all I can manage.

Not Deck, I yell silently at myself as I crawl back into his bunk, pulling the sheets that still smell like his cologne up around me. Don’t fall for him.

Not again.

It’ll never work.

***

The sheets still smell like him. Which is rude, honestly.

Because I wake up warm, slightly disoriented and stupidly content, until I remember this isn’t my bunk.

Isn’t my life.

And I’m fake-dating my ex, who is now a household name, like it’s some kind of fever dream fanfic gone rogue.

I throw the blanket off and sit up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. No way am I staying here long enough for nostalgia to start flooding in.

“Sorry,” a voice says.

“Jesus, Deck!” I screech, slapping one hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

He grins like the smug bastard he is. “Morning, sunshine.”

“I will literally kill you.”

He tosses something into the bunk. A single-serve pack of donuts, but not just any donuts. The ones I’d get from the gas station every Saturday morning, still hungover and needing the coconut flavored crunch to soak up what was left of the night before. “Peace offering?” he chuckles, holding a box of cereal.

My eyebrows knit together as I reach out to pick up the package of what’s basically pure sugar. YOLO, I think to myself as I pop one into my mouth. “You remembered?”  I ask, already regretting the softness in my voice. I jam another one in my mouth to shut myself up.

He just nods as he tilts a box of cereal up, dumping its contents straight into his mouth. “Why are you looking at me like that,” he says around a mouthful of toasted oats and multi-colored marshmallows.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to bite me.”

I flip him off as I crawl out of the bunk. “Please. You wish.”

“You used to bite me all the time.” He grins, smug as hell.

“Past tense. Sit with that.”

He flicks a marshmallow at me. I catch it midair and pop it into my mouth.

“Anyway,” he says, tone shifting just slightly. “Our next stop’s coming up in like twenty. It’s an off day for us, so I thought we could hit a store before soundcheck and preshow rituals start up again. We’ll have five stops in five days after we get back on the road tomorrow, so…”

“A store?” I blink. “What? You need more sparkly pants?”

“Nah. I’m all good there.” He gives me a lazy smile and rolls his eyes. “But you do need a camera.”

That knocks me off balance. “Deck, I… uh…”

“Don’t argue. You said last night you didn’t have one and that you’d let the label pay for it.”

“I know what I said,” I sigh, letting out a long huff for extra dramatic effect. “But it just doesn’t feel right. You know I don’t like handouts.”

He leans against the door frame, letting it hold up his body weight. “It’s not a handout. You’re doing me a favor and letting you shoot me and the band is the least I can do. But it doesn’t work if you don’t have a damn camera.”

“I don’t know, Deck.”

“I want to see you shoot again,” he says quietly. “Like you used to.”

That pulls a full-body ache out of me. Because I remember how that felt. Shooting him mid-song, lens fogged from sweat and stage lights, fingers twitching to catch the exact second he lost himself in a solo on stage.

Then he left.

I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re pushing it.” I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch up at the corners. “Fine. But I’m picking the camera. I don’t want some flashy overhyped thing. Just something simple and capable.”

“Obviously.” He tilts his head, letting his gaze roam over me. One of those deep, Deck looks that sees way too much.

I stare back at him just long enough to fight away the swarm of nerves building in the pit of my stomach, then shake my head to set those same nerves loose. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet you’re coming with me.”

“Only because I want a camera.”

“And because you missed me.”

“Delusion looks good on you,” I say, tugging at the neckline of his old t-shirt because it’s suddenly suffocating me. “Do you think the label could spot me a few bucks for a change of clothes too?”

He nods. “I planned on that.”

“Good,” I say, forcing my way past him to claim the bathroom first. “I’ll be ready in five.”

CHAPTER SIX – DECK

Aria disappears into the bathroom wearing my shirt like it doesn’t wreck me. Doesn’t she know I still remember what she feels like in my arms? I run one hand through my hair and try not to show just how much having her here is causing me to unravel.

This is fine.

This is totally fine.

This was a terrible idea, but I can’t even regret it. If I hadn’t agreed to the PR charade then she’d be getting off the bus today and going home and I’d probably never see her again. But I did agree to it, so she’s not leaving today. She’s here. On the bus. Wearing my old t-shirt like no time has passed at all.

Except it has.

I’m mid-internal spiral when the bus slows.

The bathroom door creaks open and Aria steps out, still wearing my t-shirt but she traded Jax’s basketball shorts for the same pair of black denim shorts she was wearing when I picked her up. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the damp spots decorating them where she must’ve used a wet cloth to wipe away the caked on mud. “Missed a spot,” I say, failing to keep my amusement to myself.

“Shut. Up.” She growls as she brushes past me with her hair pulled up into some messy twist.

I don’t say anything else, just nod toward the door.

“Let me guess,” she says, one brow raised. “Ten minutes to get ready and you spent all ten pacing?”

“No.”

She scoffs like she still knows me well enough to know I’m lying as she makes her way back to the bunks. “I just need to get my shoes.”

I watch her disappear behind the curtain, but I still can’t shake the feeling of wanting to be near her. So, I follow as the bus pulls into a lot and comes to a full stop.

A low groan erupts from Nate’s bunk. “Why is the sun yelling?

“It’s called morning,” Jax mumbles, voice gravelly with sleep. He has one foot sticking out from underneath his blankets as he lifts the arm covering his eyes just enough to squint at the small windows on the opposite side of the bus like they personally offended him. “She’s a cruel mistress and I did not consent to this. I had a dream that I was running a food truck. Impastable Regret. Garlic knots were the top seller until everyone started paying in demos, instead of cash.” 

“Sounds like your dating history,” Bobby adds from his bunk. He’s still got the covers over his head but he’s not one to miss an opportunity.

“Rude,” Jax grumbles. His expression twisting with disapproval.

“But accurate,” I add, chuckling under my breath as I glance up at Aria who is sitting on the edge of my bunk, one leg dangling off and the other tucked up in front of her on the bed as she ties the laces of her black combat boots. “Are you about ready?”

She finishes tying the knot and looks up with a crooked grin. “What’s the rush, rock star? Afraid I’ll come to my senses and bail?”

I shoot her a look, one brow lifted. “You already signed the fake-girlfriend contract. No take-backs.”

“Don’t make it weird,” she says, hopping down and brushing past me headed toward the front of the bus.

“Too late.” Jax calls out. “Dude’s always weird.”

My face twists into a scowl as I glance back over my shoulder at the annoyance still coccooned like a human burrito with one arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight. “Come on,” I say with an exasperated sigh. “Before Jax tries to charge us for garlic knots.”

“Tempting,” Jax mutters, dragging a pillow over his face. “But you’re safe, for now.”

Before I can tell him not to quit his day job, the door opens and Devon steps in. “Five minutes. Keep it low profile.”

“Aria,” I say, gesturing toward the man standing at front of our bus who’s built like a retired linebacker with permanent don’t-fuck-with-me face. “Meet Devon. He’s our head of security, my friend and has the patience of a monk, unless you’re a paparazzo, in which case he turns into a not-so-polite wrecking ball.”

Aria brushes her hands down her shorts. “So you’re the reason Deck hasn’t been hauled off to some fan’s basement yet?”

He cocks one eyebrow at her as he falls into his default mode, assessing the surroundings for threats. “Something like that.”

“Not for a lack of trying,” I laugh, tugging a trucker cap over my head and grabbing a pair of heavily tinted aviator style sunglasses from the overhead compartment. “That’s why I have to go incognito.”

Devon grunts his approval. “Stay close. If someone clocks you, we’re out.” His voice is like gravel as he adjusts his earpiece and connects it to the system. “This is Lockjaw. I have EastOne and we’re en route.” He glances at us as he falls back, always staying just a few paces behind so he can scan the area and watch for threats. “Remember keep it tight, in and out. No lingering, no selfies, no bullshit.”

The sound of the bus door opening causes me to glance over my shoulder just as Jax pokes his head out, wincing in the bright sunlight. “Bring me back one of those little impulse buy plushies from the checkout lane.”

“Get your own stupid plushy!” Devon yells back without ever losing his focus.

“Bonus points if it’s got the city logo on it!”

Aria’s eyebrows crash together as she glances at me. “What’s that about?”

I laugh and shrug my shoulders. “He collects them. Has one for every tour stop so far.”

Luckily, we don’t have to walk far. The shop I saw on Google Maps is just a few blocks away nestled between a vape boutique and a tattoo studio with neon script that reads Therapy’s cool, but have you tried a tattoo? in the window.

Aria shades her eyes and gives the shop a once-over. “Okay but if this place tries to sell me a pastel pink camera with built-in ring light, I’m walking.”

I smirk. “Damn, there goes my plan.”

She elbows me in the ribs as we step inside. The bell above the door jingles, and the blast of cold air hits me first. The place is narrow but high-end. Exposed brick, reclaimed wood shelving, high-def screens looping promos for mirrorless rigs and prime lenses. Not the dusty kind of mom-and-pop shop we used to hit back in the day. The pang of nostalgia hits as I scan the building, no polaroids taped to the wall. No handwritten SALE signs. Just digital price tags and trendy dance music playing overhead. Aria takes one step inside and goes still. This is the Aria I remember. The one who used to spend hours lying on the floor with the latest edition of the Rolling Stone, flipping pages and daydreaming about seeing her work in print someday. 

Devon posts up by the entrance, scanning the street with his arms crossed. I hang back with him as Aria gravitates toward the mirrorless cameras and runs her fingers over a matte black one like it’s holy. Her fingers twitch like she’s already itching to get her hands on it.

“That’s the one?” he asks, keeping his eyes forward. He doesn’t have to say it but I know he’s asking if she’s the one I wrote our biggest hit about.

I nod. “That’s the one,” I admit. The one who still gets under my skin in ways I thought I was immune to.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Devon coughs softly from the doorway. A signal. I follow his line of sight. A woman’s standing across the street. Camera phone raised. Zooming in. “Did we get clocked?”

“Probably,” he says. “She started following us about three blocks back. You’ve got two minutes, maybe.”

“Copy.”

I cross the store in a few broad paces, turning my attention back to Aria. “Pick one.”

“I’m narrowing down,” she says, holding up two lens options. “This one’s good in low light. This one’s better for movement.”

“Did you already find the body you want?”

She nods.

“Then we’ll take both of these too,” I say, signaling the clerk to ring us up. “You’ll need a bag big enough to carry the extra attachments too. Do you see one you like?”

Aria squints at me like she’s trying to decide whether to yell at me or go with it. I let out a sigh of relief as she chooses the latter. “That one,” she says, pointing at a matte black sling pack. “Modular, lightweight, enough space for the lenses, extra battery, and a few personal things if I need it.”

“We’ll take this too,” I say, grabbing it off the wall and handing it to the clerk. “Going to need,” I turn back to Aria, “Two? Extra batteries.”

She nods.

“Got it,” the clerk says. He doesn’t blink at the total. The label probably won’t either, but Aria’s face turns almost green when she sees the cost.

“Are you sure?” she asks, keeping her voice low almost like she’s embarrassed.

“Yeah,” I say, barely looking at her. Because the second I do, I’ll lose time again. “I’m positive.”

Devon’s already shifting closer, body angled to block anyone coming into the store from getting a clear line of sight. His voice is quiet when he says, “One minute.”

Aria turns toward me, cradling the camera body and lenses like she’s holding something sacred. “I’ll make this count,” she says, serious now. “I’ve got something to prove here too.”

“I know,” I say, meaning it way too much. 

The clerk bags everything fast as I tap the black card against the reader. Devon taps two fingers against his thigh, our silent move now signal. Once Aria has the bag in her hand, we move fast out the side door to a waiting blacked-out SUV. I hold the rear door open and wait for her to climb in. Devon jogs around and hops into the front passenger seat as I slide in next to Aria. “Now,” I say, letting the door close beside me, “Unless you plan to keep wearing Jax’s shorts around the bus, we probably need to get you some clothes of your own.”

“That almost sounds like you’re jealous.” She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch at the corners.

I smirk. “Maybe.”

Our driver’s already pulling us into traffic, head on a swivel. “I’ll swing through a place that won’t make the internet suspicious.”

“Nothing high-end,” Aria says quickly, adjusting the camera bag in her lap like it’s shielding her from all the attention she doesn’t want. “I’m not trying to show up looking like a kept woman.”

“You could never be a kept woman,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.

She hears it anyway, but doesn’t say anything. Just glances out the window like the city’s suddenly more interesting.

“So what exactly are we calling this? The tour documentary?” I ask, trying to break the tension hanging between us. “Something like humanizing the wild frontman?”

“I like the human part,” she admits, glancing back at me with something I don’t recognize in her expression. “I’m not sure the rest of it fits anymore.”

It’s not a dig, but it lands hard because she’s not wrong. The wild frontman? That version of me got eaten alive a long time ago. What’s left is a little quieter and a whole lot more guarded.

We pull into the lot of a downtown boutique. Indie enough to fly under the radar, curated enough for her to find something fast. Devon scans the storefront from the front seat, jumps out and jogs to the door. He disappears inside, but he’s not gone for long. When he reappears, he gives one quick nod and reaches out to open the rear door. “Fifteen minutes,” he says. “If we’re not back in the car by then, I’m dragging your asses out myself,” he says as I hop out of the backseat.

Aria slides out next, brushing past me in a blur of bare legs that makes my insides run hot. As soon as her feet hit the pavement, she turns and gives him a little salute. “Yes, sir.” She pauses just outside the store’s entrance, catching her reflection in the window. “Ugh,” she grunts. “I was not emotionally prepared to see myself like this.”

I chuckle. “You look good.”

She shoots a glare in my direction that leaves me feeling lucky to still be standing. “You’re not allowed to say that.”

“Says who?”

“Says common sense, Deck,” she sighs, rolling her neck. “Compliments from you are dangerous.”

I hold the door open for her. “So is being this close to you again. But here we are.”

She doesn’t have a comeback for that, so she just lets out an annoyed little huff and walks inside.

And I follow, because I always fucking do.

The store is cool and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos humming beneath my skin. It smells like cedar, new fabric and something vaguely floral that makes my nose itch. Aria’s already moving through the first rack like she’s on a mission with her fingers combing through hangers with sharp, practiced efficiency. “You always shop like you’re casing the joint?”.

She doesn’t even glance back. “I’m actually shopping like a woman who doesn’t want to be mistaken for a bleeding heart in your t-shirt.”

I wince. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She holds up a pair of ripped black jeans, studies them, then tosses them over her arm. “It’s a tragic thing. There’s a difference.”

I can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth. “You’ve still got it.”

“What?”

“The ability to roast me alive with five syllables or less.”

She grabs a pair of denim shorts and adds them to the stack over her shoulder then finally looks at me, one brow arched. “You deserve it… most of the time.”

That’s fair.

She shifts down the aisle and grabs a few tank tops, followed by a corset style top I think I’m going to like way too much and a cropped moto jacket. She moves fast and it makes me wonder what she’s running from. 

“What about shoes?” I ask.

She glances down at her combat boots, lifting one foot and wiggling it. “These have survived music festivals, three breakups, and one apartment fire. They’ll survive a tour.”

“Of course they will.” I smirk. “They’re as stubborn as you.”

She shoots me a look, then nods toward the dressing room. “I need to try these on.”

“Sure,” I say, flopping down in one of the two leather covered arm chairs just outside the fitting room trying not to look like I feel like a total creep sitting here.

A second later, her voice floats out, muffled through the door. “No peeking.”

“No promises.”

“Still a menace, I see.”

“Still you,” I say before I can stop myself.

Silence.

Then the door creaks, opening halfway. She steps out in a leather skirt I hadn’t seen her pick up. Simple, black, corset style ties decorating either side. And a vintage inspired shirt twisted into a knot at her waist. The kind of effortless hot that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t have to.

I forget how to breathe.

Her eyes narrow. “Say anything cheesy and I’m turning this into a hostage situation.”

I raise both hands. “I didn’t say a word.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“Oh, I was absolutely thinking it,” I admit, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “You look—”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t. I just needed to check the three-way mirror before I decide.”

I nod. “Copy that. You look… functional. Very practical. Like someone who could professionally judge people through a lens.”

“Now that’s a compliment I’ll accept.” She turns, checking herself in the mirror and I watch the way she fidgets, just slightly. Just enough to catch. She doesn’t see what I see. She never has.

“You’re beautiful,” I say.

“I said don’t say anything cheesy,” she groans as she studies her reflection.”

I stand and take a step closer. “Turn around.”

She spins slowly, and when she faces me again, her expression softens just a little. “It’s not me,” she says, voice quieter now as she glances back at her reflection in the mirror. “But maybe it could be…?”

“It already is,” I say, too fast.

She freezes. I see the moment she registers it then files it away in that steel trap brain of hers.

“I don’t know,” she says finally. “I’m just going to finish trying the other stuff on then we can go.”

I just barely reclaim my seat when a tiny voice pipes up beside me. “Are you…” a kid asks, maybe eight or nine, baseball cap crooked on his head, denim vest covered in patches with our band logo on them. “Are you Deck from East Divide?”

Devon, always on duty, repositions himself in front of me and nods toward a woman scouring the boy’s clothing. She’s distracted as she flips through a stack of pants piled on a shelf, probably looking for his size.

I shake my head. “Nah, man. I get that a lot though.”

The kid looks disappointed. 

I lean forward, tipping the brim of his hat back just enough to see his eyes. “That’s a sick cap,” I say. “Are you in a band?”

“Not yet.” He grins, all teeth except for the two he’s missing in front. “But I’m learning drums.”

“Respect,” I say, pulling the hat from his head and reaching out to take the permanent marker Devon just pulled from his back pocket and is handing me. I flick the cap over to sign the underside of the brim where no one, including his mom, will see it until later. “Keep practicing, alright? Don’t stop. One day, maybe we’ll be on tour together.”

He gasps and his little jaw falls wide open. “I knew it!” he whisper-squeals. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone!”

I ruffle his hair and stand, eyes locked with Devon’s as I hand him back his ballcap.

“We need to move,” Devon says without raising his voice.

“Ari, I think our carriage is about to turn into a pumpkin again,” I call out.

She opens the fitting room door just a hair and peeks out.

“I’m going to let them swipe the card, so you can finish shopping in peace. Meet us out front when you’re done.”

“Okay,” she says, softly. “Are you sure?”

“Ari, we’ve already been over this. Get what you want.”

The sales attendant is halfway through folding a stack of crop tops when I catch her eye. “The woman in fitting room four,” I say, already pulling out the black card from my wallet and handing it to her. “Anything she wants, just put it on this.”

The girl’s eyes widen, but she nods quickly, taking the card and tapping it to the reader like it might self-destruct if she holds it too long.

Devon appears at my side like a damn ghost. “We’ve got a problem.”

“Again?”

He nods. “Same woman from before in the parking lot.”

“Fan or press?”

“Doesn’t matter. Either way, it’s an invasion.”

“Facts.” I reach out to retrieve my card as she finally hands it back to me, shoving it into my wallet as I follow Devon out through the main doors and along the sidewalk to our SUV idling at the curb.

My favorite song by one of our support acts for this tour hits me as soon as I open the door and climb into the backseat. Devon slides into the front, his bulk blocking the window until Aria appears a couple of minutes later, bag in hand and her face unreadable. “What’d I miss?” she asks, sliding in beside me as Devon opens the door.

“Tiny drummer recognized me,” I say, flashing her a grin as I close the gap between us in the backseat. “We handled it though.”

Her brows lift. “Handled?”

I shrug and tilt my head to the side. “I may have given him an autograph to get him to keep quiet.”

“You bribed a child?” she asks, her voice raising at least an octave.

Devon doesn’t even try to stifle his laugh from the front seat.

“I inspired a child,” I correct, tapping my chest. “Big difference.”

She sighs as she settles into her seat.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“But you were thinking it,” I say, watching the way she clutches the seatbelt as she pulls it across the front of her like armor.

She shakes her head as the buckle locks into place. “Do you always do that?”

“What?”

“Just… maneuver the situation?”

“When I know what I want, yeah.”

“And what exactly is it that you want, Deck?” she asks, turning to look at me.

I catch Devon’s smirk in the rearview mirror. “I could make a wager on that.”

“Don’t start,” I sigh, throwing my head back against the seat. “I just wanted you to be able to shop in peace without a media circus.”

Her expression shifts into one I can’t read as she locks her eyes onto mine. “You sure that’s all?”

The oxygen feels like it’s been sucked from my lungs as I hold her gaze. I can’t tell her the truth. She’s already made it clear this can’t be anything more than a business arrangement between us, so I lie. “Uh huh.” It’s not even a word, but it’s all I can manage with this pressure building inside my chest.

“As long as we’re clear on that,” she says, turning her attention back to the world outside the window.

CHAPTER SEVEN – ARIA

I don’t know what I expected a night off to look like for a bunch of rockstars, but this definitely wasn’t it.

No groupies.

No rooftop parties.

No burning down hotel rooms or setting fireworks off in a bathtub, although something tells me Jax has definitely tried the latter.

Just four mostly average dudes, in various stages of dishevelment, crammed into a tour bus living room, arguing over fast food.

“Curly fries are superior,” Jax insists, jabbing a finger in Nate’s direction. “I will not hear any arguments.”

“Ha! They’re just a gimmick,” Nate fires back.

Jax shakes his head, holding one of the fries in question up in front of him. “They’re elite,” he says, bouncing his hand so the spiral cut potato bounces with each syllable before cramming it in his mouth.

“Why are you all arguing over fried potatoes?” I ask, toeing off my boots and dropping onto the small couch between Deck and the back of the mini-booth in the kitchen area.

“Boredom,” Bobby deadpans from the mini-booth where he’s playing a video game with Devon. He’s technically off-duty, but I’m starting to think he never really turns it off because he hasn’t taken his eyes off the guys since they started bickering, but he did grunt an approval of curly fries.

Nate snorts and holds up both fists in Jax’s direction. “Fight me.”

“I will,” Jax says. “But only after you admit that crinkle cuts are god-tier.”

“Absolutely not.”

Devon raises his hands like a referee calling a timeout. “Alright, children. Truce. Everyone knows the best fry is a waffle fry with buffalo ranch. End of discussion.”

Deck, quiet up until now, looks up from his phone. “You’re all wrong,” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “The best fry is the one you steal from someone else when they’re not looking.”

I smirk. “Spoken like someone who always stole the fries off my lunch tray in school.”

“And you always chased me around the playground, until the bell rang.” he says, offering me the bag of fries he had stuffed beside him on the sofa. “Here.”

I pluck one without hesitation. “But you’re looking.”

He closes his eyes. “Better?”

“Much,” I say with a laugh as I snag another one.

A movie Deck picked is playing on the small screen above the kitchenette. It’s some indie horror-comedy with an absurdly high kill count and a synthwave soundtrack. Jax keeps making snarky comments about the cinematic quality or lack thereof, while the rest of the guys groan every time a character dies in a hilariously stupid way.

It’s not glamorous.

It’s not wild.

But it feels… real.

And it’s messing with my head.

I reach for another fry and catch Bobby watching me.

“You alright?” he asks, keeping his voice low enough that only I can hear.

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… worried about that stupid guy that just ran up the stairs. Don’t they know that’s where people go to die in these movies?”

He chuckles, then goes back to fighting demons on the gaming TV. 

“Hey!” Devon says, turning his head to glare at Bobby.

“Sorry, bro,” Bobby shrugs, keeping his eyes on the game. “Friendly fire.”

Devon growls and shakes his head, turning back to the game. “Now I have to start over from the spawn point.” 

I shake my head to clear the fog, but it doesn’t work. Because this… this isn’t what the world gets to see. This is something different. I steal a glance at Deck from the corner of my eye. He’s in a soft black t-shirt, freshly washed and tousled hair with his feet propped up on the small coffee table in the center of the floor. This is the version of Deck, I know. The one who used to climb through my window after a show because he was still too excited to rest and he knew I’d still be awake.

I shouldn’t even remember that.

It’s been ages ago.

Deck glances over like he’s felt the shift. “You want a drink?”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” he asks, already halfway toward the fridge. “We have that peach tea you always used to like.”

“I said I’m good,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to.

Deck doesn’t flinch. He just grabs a bottle of the tea and tosses it to me. “In case you change your mind.”

I catch it midair and study the label. It’s different than it was ten years ago. The last time I drank this brand was the day he left town, but I did love it. I let out a long exhale. “Thanks,” I say, letting my shoulders relax—just a little—as I unscrew the lid and take a drink. “You remembered.”

“Everything,” he says softly.

I breathe in and lean back against the cushions. “Sorry. I’m just… stressed. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

He shakes his head and flops down on the sofa next to me, closer this time. “Don’t worry about it.”

Jax’s mouth drops open so wide it nearly hits the floor. “Is that why you always insisted on keeping those teas on the bus?” he practically screeches.

“Shut up,” Deck says, throwing a pillow at Jax’s head. It hits him dead center.

That cracks the tension, just a little. Bobby chuckles. Devon shakes his head and Nate just rolls his eyes.

“Oh!” I say, jumping up and running back to my bunk. Well, actually it’s Deck’s bunk but it’s mine for now. My hand reaches up and over the top of the bed until it touches the stiff paper of the bag I carried out of the clothing store. I pull it down and look inside, the cute little tiger plushie is sitting on top of the stack of clothes looking back at me. “There you are.” I grab it and go back to the living room. “Jax, I got you this while we were out today. It doesn’t have the city name on it, but it does have the state since it’s a state college mascot.”

“No way!” He catches it when I toss it across the room to him. “You remembered my collection?”

“I mean, you did kind of insist on it,” I chuckle as I fall back into my seat on the sofa, next to Deck.

“Still counts,” Jax says, turning the plushie over like he’s inspecting it. “Thank you, Ari,” he says, holding the tiger up in the air. “Okay, guys. This is Sir Growls-a-lot and he is now the official mascot of this bus.”

Nate raises a brow. “Didn’t your last emotional support tiger get left at a gas station in Montana?”

Jax gasps, clutching the new plushie to his chest. “Too soon, man. Sir Stripes was a hero.”

“May he rest in a pile of discounted jerky,” Bobby adds with a chuckle, without looking up from his game.

Deck sits back and reaches out, resting one arm over the back of our shared sofa but not touching me. Not quite. But close enough that I feel the warmth bleeding off him, just like the memories that keep flooding me since I stepped onto his bus. “You know, I used to think I couldn’t do this,” he whispers.

“Do what?”

“The whole tour thing. I thought I’d lose my mind being cooped up in such a small space and constantly running on someone else’s schedule.”

“And now?”

“I dunno,” he admits. “It’s still hard sometimes, but nights like this… They make it worth it.”

“Because you get to argue about fries with people who also steal your snacks?” Jax asks.

Nate throws the rest of his french fries at his head. “I’m right.”

Jax ducks and retaliates with a pair of rolled up socks.

It turns into an all-out food fight in under three seconds.

Devon groans. “If I find one more rogue fry in my hair, I’m flipping this bus.”

“So,” Nate says, stretching his legs out in front of him, “have the cops found your car, yet?”

I blink. “What?”

“Your car,” he says, again. “Your ex took off with it, right?”

“I mean… yeah.”

“You haven’t reported it yet, have you?” Deck asks.

“It felt… dramatic,” I admit. “Besides, it’s not like he hotwired it or something. He had my keys. I was just kind of hoping he’d leave it at my house after he got back to Oak Valley.”

Bobby snorts from the booth. “Yeah, because car thieves are super respectful like that.”

“He’s not a car thief,” I argue. “He’s just… a dick.”

“A dick who took your wheels without permission,” Nate points out, lacing his fingers behind his head. “That makes him a problem, at least.”

“Technically,” Jax adds, sticking one finger in the air, “you had just dumped his ass when he pulled that stunt, which means he didn’t have a right to your keys or any of your other things.”

“You should definitely call it in,” Devon adds, leaning over the mini-booth.

“Look,” I say, sitting up straighter, “I didn’t want to make it worse. I just wanted to be done.”

“But it’s not done,” Deck says softly. “Not if he still has something of yours. That’s a violation of your boundaries and it could let him feel like he has a right to access to you when you go back home.”

I meet his eyes. There’s no judgment in them. Just… concern.

“It’s not about the car anymore,” Bobby says. “It’s about control.”

“Deck’s right. If you leave this hanging open,” Devon adds, still leaning over the back of the mini-booth, “he’ll use it as a tether to you. Guys like that always do.”

“You think he’d try to use it against me?” I ask.

“Honestly?” Nate says. “I don’t even know the guy but based on what you’ve told us… yeah.”

Jax leans forward, all traces of snark gone. “Call it in, Ari.” He hands me his phone as an extra gesture of support.

“Even if the cops don’t arrest him,” Devon says, putting one hand on my shoulder, “at least it’s on record. If anything weird happens later, you’ve got proof.”

The weight in my chest tightens, coils of old instinct telling me not to make waves, not to make too much out of nothing. I don’t want to be the girl who needs saving and I think that’s why I haven’t reported it yet.

But this doesn’t feel like that.

This feels more like backup.

“Okay,” I say with a quiver that even I notice in my voice. “I’ll make the call.”

Deck shifts closer, just enough that our shoulders brush. “We’ll be right here.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, reaching out to take Jax’s phone because somehow it does feel easier to dial from his. Maybe because calling from his phone means I won’t see it in my call history, so I won’t have to deal with that residual anxiety when I open up the keypad.

“Also,” Jax says, raising a finger in the air. “If the cops don’t arrest him, I say we send Sir Growls-a-lot to handle it. Vigilante tiger justice.”

“He does look like he’d have a mean left hook,” Devon says giving Sir Growls-a-lot a sideways glance.

I stare at the phone for a few seconds too long, thumb hovering over the screen before I force myself to tap out the number.

Deck nudges me gently with his shoulder. “Do you want us to give you some space?”

“No,” I say, too quickly, reaching out and wrapping my fingers in the fabric of his sleeve. “Stay. Please.”

The line rings twice before a stern male voice comes through the speaker. “Non-emergency dispatch”

“Hi. I… uh,” I glance around the room at the five pairs of supportive and concerned eyes staring back at me and suck in a deep breath. “I need to file a report for a car that was taken without my permission.”

“Where did the incident occur?”

“Rock the Desert music festival.”

The man on the other end of the phone grunts a confused sound. “Rock the Desert? That wrapped up yesterday.”

“Yeah, I didn’t report it right away,” I admit, rubbing my temple. “My ex took it. I thought he would’ve contacted me to give it back by now.”

“Is the car registered in your name?”

“Yes. It’s license plate number is—” I rattle it off from memory along with the color, make and model.

“And the person who took it. You said it was your ex?”

“That’s right.”

“If you give me their name and description, I’ll add it to the report so the system will alert any officer who encounters him and plugs his information in for a routine check.”

“Jake. His name is Jake Wells. He’s about six feet tall, dark blonde hair and green eyes.”

“Got it. I’ll put everything into the system. Someone will contact you if it’s recovered. At that point, you’ll need to sign some forms and provide proof of identification. You might also be asked if you want to press charges at that time, so be thinking about that. In the meantime, I recommend contacting your insurance company to let them know there’s unauthorized use of the vehicle and it’s under investigation for auto theft. They’ll want the report number, so I’ll send that via text to your phone now. Is the phone number you’re calling from the one you want to receive case updates at?”

“No, I’m using a friend’s phone. My number is 555-555-0155”

“Got it. You should have just received an update.”

My phone lights up beside me with a text notification. “Got it.”

Your report has been filed. Case number is #UT-25-5419L.

I read it back to the dispatcher to confirm the number and end the call.

“Well?” Deck asks.

“It’s done,” I say, handing Jax’s phone back to him. “Thanks.”

“Good,” Devon murmurs, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Now it’s on record.”

“And if he gets arrested for it?” I ask, the old anxiety curling around my ribs like a vice.

“Then maybe he thinks twice before taking off with something that doesn’t belong to him again,” Bobby says from the booth, not even looking up from his game.

“And if he doesn’t?” Jax raises Sir Growls-a-lot over his head. “Then vigilante tiger justice. No further questions.”

I laugh. A real, deep belly laugh. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here, but I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in anymore.

CHAPTER EIGHT – DECK

The bus is parked in the middle of the lot, surrounded by at least a dozen others just like it. A temporary camp of steel, rubber tires, and blackout curtains. The smell of Nate’s burnt pizza crowds out the scent of his shorts, which I’m grateful for.

“T-minus one-hour, guys,” I call out, still in my gray sweats and curled up in the same position I fell asleep in last night. Jax has a protein shake in one hand and a cinnamon Pop-Tart in the other. Balance, I guess.

Aria’s sitting at the small dinette with a spare pair of my headphones on, swiping through her playlist. Her hair’s still damp from her post-run-through-the-bus-camp shower, tied up in that lazy twist that used to make me insane. I pretend not to watch her, try to make it look like I’m just scrolling on my phone too, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

I’ve got one sock on, one off, and a lukewarm coffee balanced on my knee when the door flies open and Megan storms in like a hurricane in Louboutins. “Okay, listen up, degenerates.”

Everyone freezes. Even Nate, who’s mid-bite of his charred pizza.

“Good morning to you too, Megz,” I mutter, reaching instinctively for my t-shirt.

“Megan?” Bobby blinks. “You don’t knock now?”

“I knock when I’m not in a hurry. Today, I’m in a hurry.” She marches down the aisle between the mini-sofas with her tablet clutched to her chest. A woman on a mission. “You already know, we have a situation,” she says, spinning the tablet to face me, showing the same image from last night’s post but this one’s been edited into a slideshow of our old high school yearbook pictures.

I grab the tablet from her hands. “They never cease to amaze me,” I say, scowling at the scrolling images.

“Deck, babe, we’re on a very real clock here,” she says, brushing past Bobby, who’s elbow-deep in a bag of sour gummies. “The tour press pool just doubled thanks to last night’s little photo op, and the gossip rags are already sniffing around. Which means we need a real strategy for how this Aria situation plays out in the public eye.”

“This Aria situation is sitting right here,” Aria says dryly from just a few feet away. “Also, hi. I’m Aria.”

“Hi.” Megan offers her a tight smile. “You’re doing great, sweetheart. The fans love the childhood-sweethearts-reunited-on-tour vibe. Very Nicholas Sparks meets Rolling Stone.”

Nate snorts. “More like romcom meets mid-life crisis.”

“We need consistency. If you’re spotted holding hands at one stop and then barely speaking at another, the fans will eat you alive. Continuity is everything, so make sure you sell it.”

Jax raises his half-eaten toaster pastry like a mic. “I vote for aggressive PDA. Tongue. Tongue always sells.”

“Shut up,” Aria and I say in unison.

Megan points at me. “So here’s the strategy. You two are fake dating—”

“Yeah,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“And now the crowd expects it, so you’ll give them chemistry. You’ll give them eye contact. You’ll give them what they want.”

“Gross,” Aria mumbles.

“Yeah,” I say instinctively. “Wait, what?” I turn to look at Aria. “Gross? What do you mean gross?”

She rolls her eyes and shoos my questions away with her hand.

Megan whirls around, facing her. “This is branding, not gross. You know what sells better than pain, eyeliner, and tortured lyrics? Love.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You mean performative, scripted, fake love.”

“The public doesn’t have to know that,” Megan says, unfazed. “So we’re going to use it. Tonight. I want to see hand-holding, hugging, let’s add a lingering, very longing glance before the encore. Maybe a shared water bottle.”

Aria wrinkles her nose. “That’s… couldn’t we just be ourselves and let them script it themselves? I mean, they’re already doing it, aren’t they?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Megan scoffs. “Did you prefer when they were calling you his dealer?”

Jax raises a hand. “Can I fake date someone? I have a good game.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Nate says, shaking his head and throwing a balled-up pair of dirty socks at Jax’s face.

“I’m just saying—” Jax points between Aria and me. “They’ve already kissed. There’s history. That’s cheating. If I had an ex on tour, I’d be blowing up, too.”

“You did,” Bobby says. “She stole your cymbals.”

“And a box of our signed tour-line merch,” Megan adds.

“I paid for that,” Jax says, holding up one finger like that makes it better.

Bobby chokes on his laugh. “You shouldn’t have,” he manages to spit out.

I turn to Megan. “So, you just want us to act like we’re in love. Got it.”

“Not just act,” she says. “Sell it. You’re the brooding frontman with a redemption arc. She’s the girl who forgave you. Or didn’t. That part’s blurry. Let them wonder. Let them ship it.”

Aria rests both elbows on the table in front of her. “And what if we don’t want to be shipped?”

“You don’t have a choice now.”

Ari’s gaze flicks to mine for a second—too fast to read—and then back to Megan, but it’s enough to short-circuit my brain for a beat.

Megan doesn’t blink. “You want your photo series to go viral?” she adds. “You want your website traffic to spike? You want your name on the map without begging for a recycled press pass?”

“Fine.” Aria exhales. “But I’m not pretending to like him. That ship’s already sailed.” She bites her bottom lip and gives me a sly wink after the last part.

At least I know she doesn’t hate me.

That’s a start.

“You don’t have to like me,” I say, smirking. “You just have to look like you want to kiss me. You’ve got that part down to an art.”

She smiles sweetly, and I already know I’m cooked before the words even leave her mouth. “No problem there. I’ll just pretend you’re someone else.”

I groan and drag one hand down my face.

Jax hoots and pumps his fist in the air. “Damn, she’s good.”

Bobby and Nate both stand and give her a standing ovation.

Megan checks her watch. “Soundcheck’s at three-fifteen sharp. You two,” she wags her finger between me and Aria, “make eye contact like you mean it. Reach for each other backstage. And as for the rest of you,” her voice booms through the bus and all four of our spines straighten in unison, “don’t screw this up, or your next advance will be twenty-five percent less.” She’s gone before anyone can respond.

The second the door slams, Aria stands, grabs her camera bag and tosses me a warning glance. “Don’t get handsy.”

I raise my hands. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

***

The walk from the bus to the venue isn’t long, but it feels like an eternity. That’s probably because everyone is watching us, which isn’t unusual but the reason they’re watching this time is why everything else feels off. I try to focus on everything that still feels normal, roadies hauling gear, a couple early-arrival crew photographers, some random influencer with a backstage pass and a ring light already filming. And then there’s me—walking in step with Aria—hands shoved in the pocket of my hoodie, trying not to let the smirk on my face turn into a full-on grin.

“What are you smiling at?” she asks. “Did you forget that you’re about to have to pretend to be in love with your sister’s best friend in front of millions of followers and a press junket? Megan was practically foaming at the mouth, but doesn’t it feel weird?”

“Nah.” I bump my shoulder into hers just enough to make the strap of her camera slide halfway down her arm. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

She tugs the strap back into place and narrows her eyes at me. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”

“What’s not to enjoy?” I say. “And besides, I’m imagining the look on Megan’s face if I carried you bridal-style onto the stage.”

Her eyes go wide. “Don’t you dare.”

I hold up my hands. “Relax. I’m not that dramatic. Well. At least not before showtime.”

The venue swallows us whole the second we step inside.

The air is buzzing—pre-show charge humming in the cables coiled like snakes across the floor, roadies shouting over each other while amps and lighting rigs get rolled into place. A spotlight snaps on overhead, frying my vision white.

“Kill that top wash!” someone yells from the catwalks. Metal clatters. The light dies.

A voice crackles through a nearby comm: “Drum riser’s still missing. Anyone seen Jax’s throne?”

“Tell him to use a milk crate,” Bobby yells.

I laugh. “You say that like he wouldn’t.”

Two of the techs wave at Nate and Bobby as they make their way to the stage. Jax is already behind his kit, looking like a golden retriever who just discovered espresso.

“Where do you want to shoot from?” I ask Aria, nodding toward the barricade.

“Front of the pit and side stage, ideally,” she says, already unclipping her lens cap. “You’ll be backlit as hell, but I kind of like the silhouette vibe for check.”

“You mean the tortured-artist look?”

“You’ve got that part covered.”

“Gotta stay on brand,” I say—and before I can stop myself, I reach out and tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

She freezes.

I don’t look away.

She smiles up at me, slow and sweet, and I know it’s for the cameras—but I also know what that smile used to mean. “Keep doing that in front of the cameras and the fan edits are going to pop off.”

The corners of my smile fade. Just barely. “Yeah. That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“Let’s go, lovers! Soundcheck waits for no man or his… girlfriend!” Bobby shouts from stage left.

Aria ducks into the pit, camera already in hand like armor. I step up to the mic, nod to the tech, and run the usual lines.

“Check, check, one, two, three.”

I sing a few bars from one of the hits to warm up—just muscle memory at this point—but I feel her lens on me the second I start.

Click.

The light hits right. I know it even without looking. One of the cans overhead casts a golden glow that hits the fringe of my hair just right, and when I glance toward her, she’s already got the camera to her face.

It feels like a memory.

Like ten years ago, standing under a parking lot floodlight with a Bluetooth speaker on the hood of a borrowed van, just the two of us dancing beneath the stars.

This is going to be impossible.

Because I know that smile she’s hiding behind the camera. I know it because it’s the same one I saw in that photo I kept in my bunk.

Fake it, I remind myself.

For the cameras. For the story.

She takes another shot just as I shift slightly toward her. My fingers tighten around the mic stand. It’s the only thing tethering me to the stage right now. For a second, I’m not Deck the frontman.

I’m just… me.

The guy who never really stopped loving her.

The last note of the soundcheck hangs in the air like smoke, heavy and half-finished, and by the time I set my guitar down, I catch her watching me again.

Just a flicker of something passes through her gaze, but it’s enough.

She ducks back behind her camera again as I hop down from the stage, landing closer than I probably should. “You got what you need?” I ask, voice low.

“Plenty,” she says, not looking up. “You actually look halfway decent in some of them.”

I chuckle and lean against the barricade beside her. “Careful,” I murmur, letting my gaze drop to her mouth. “That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she says, stepping back just slightly. Just enough to build space I don’t want to keep between us, but I know that if I push too hard, I’ll end up where I was before. Alone.

“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the backstage hallway. “It’s time to smile and wave for other people’s cameras.”

She groans. “Great.”

***

The room’s been set up as usual with folding chairs, branded banners, a makeshift podium, and bottled water sporting our logo lined up like soldiers. Media badges flash as members of the press filter in. All practiced conversations, cameras, and voice recording apps. The label always makes a production out of these things. Pre-show hype. A chance for VIPs to get their fifteen seconds. A controlled circus.

I hate it.

Megan hovers near the back of the room with a mic already in her hand, ready to take over in the event one of us slips up and actually says something we mean. Her tablet’s still clutched in her other hand as she whispers last-minute instructions to the junior publicist beside her.

Nate flops into the chair beside mine. “Man, I’d rather get a root canal.”

“Same, brother,” I admit.

Jax leans into the spotlight with a grin. “Let the games begin,” he says, rubbing both hands together.

Of course, he loves it.

Flashbulbs pop. Someone’s cologne is fighting with the scent of burnt coffee and sweat. A junior reporter up front leans forward, clutching her phone tight enough to turn her knuckles white, and chirps, “So, how’s the tour been treating you guys so far?”

Jax cracks a grin. “We haven’t been kicked out of any cities yet, so we’ll call that a win.”

Nate snorts beside him, twisting the cap off his water. “Barely.”

Another hand goes up. A guy with too many lanyards and the eager gleam of someone who hasn’t been chewed up by the machine of the system yet. “Which city’s had the craziest crowd so far?”

“Cleveland,” Bobby says without hesitation. “Those fans were unhinged in the best way.”

“L.A. brought fire,” I add, flicking a glance toward the back of the room.

Aria stands against the wall, arms folded across her chest, her camera resting against her hip. Her face is nearly expressionless, but I can tell she’s studying the interaction and reading the room like she always does.

“New album rumors—true or false?”

Jax shrugs. “We’re always writing. Doesn’t mean we’re recording.”

I let the silence stretch just long enough to tease.

“False,” I say. “For now.”

A reporter in a blazer too sharp for his personality raises his hand. “Deck, the internet’s been buzzing about your… romantic reunion. Can you confirm the relationship is real?”

Aria’s head jerks slightly. Not much, but enough I notice.

I smirk, slow and deliberate. “You think I’d fake something just for headlines?”

Chuckles fill the room, but the guy doesn’t back off. “I’m just saying, it’s a hell of a coincidence. Ex-girlfriend shows up right as the tour is about to wrap up. Some fans are calling her a gold digger. Others are calling you opportunistic.”

“Some fans need better hobbies,” I say, tone flat.

Megan shoots me a subtle glare, the kind that says stick to the script, dumbass.

I don’t.

“We go way back,” I add. “Sometimes timing works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. But if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that you don’t ask too many questions when you’re offered a second chance at something that actually matters.”

That lands. I can feel it shift the mood as a collective “Aww!” echoes through the room. Aria’s gaze meets mine for the briefest second before she looks away. But that look? It sucker punches me harder than any tabloid ever could.

The rest of the meet and greet blurs into a swarm of photo ops, forced smiles and label posturing. I play my part. I always do. But the entire time, I can feel her near the wall, still watching. And I keep wondering what the hell she sees when she looks at me now. Is it the same guy she used to know, or just a frontman with a shiny lie to sell the public and a camera trained on his every move?

By the time we get out of that room, my jaw aches from fake smiling and my right shoulder is sore from throwing it around too many suits. I tug at the collar of my shirt as we step into the hallway, finally breathing air that doesn’t reek of perfume and opportunism.

“Five minutes, then VIP photos out front,” Megan says, red-lined heels already clicking down the hall. “Try not to look like you hate your life,” she calls out over her shoulder.

Too late.

I pause by the wall, hand braced against the cool cement, trying to reset my head.

Footfalls sound against the concrete floor. The soft shuffle of boots, not the clunky stomp of a tech or the sharp staccato of Megan’s heels. From the corner of my eye, a camera rises. No words. No greeting. Just the soft mechanical click slicing through the hum of a tech tuning our rigs in the distance.

I turn slightly.

Aria stands a few feet away, eye to the viewfinder, lens trained on me like she’s never stopped. Like we aren’t ten years, a million miles and a mess of scars past the last time she looked at me like this.

She doesn’t pose me. Doesn’t direct a damn thing. Just raises the camera. Frames the shot, which I can only assume involves the emotional wreckage standing in front of her and then…

Click.

Click.

Click.

She isn’t aiming for the album cover shots now. These aren’t for the label or for socials. She’s catching me mid-breath, mid-blink and completely raw. The spaces where the performance drops and that’s why she’s always terrified me, but it’s also why I feel most alive when she’s around.

I turn my head, slowly to meet her gaze.

She doesn’t drop the camera.

“You still take those shots?” I ask.

“Which ones?” she fires back innocently as if she doesn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.

“The ones nobody’s supposed to see?”

She shrugs. “They’re usually the only ones worth keeping.”

I watch her adjust her grip, steady, like she’s done it a thousand times. Maybe she has. Just not for me lately. My eyes follow her movements. The way she tilts her head, checking the shot on the screen knowing she’s just peeled me open and pinned me in place. “Still cataloging my breakdown in real time, huh?” I say, trying to fight away the tension building inside of me.

She lowers the camera just enough for me to see her mouth twitch. “You’re not breaking down.”

“How do you know?”

She takes one step closer. “Because you’re still standing here.”

My throat tightens.

“You run when you’re breaking down.” She smirks and cocks one eyebrow up toward her hairline. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

I look away, instead of responding and focus my attention on the flickering green exit sign at the end of the hall and huff out a breath. “Maybe I just got better at hiding it.”

She takes the shot, first. Because of course she would. Then—almost like she doesn’t mean for me to hear it—she says, “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say. “I meant it about this,” I explain, waving my hand around to take in the entirety of the backstage area.

Click.

“You didn’t see that one coming,” she says.

“No,” I admit. “I didn’t, but I’m not running from it… or from you.”

She doesn’t say anything.

My fingers brush hers, slow at first. Because reaching for her is like reaching for the past without knowing if it’ll bite. I suck in a deep breath, then I lace my fingers through hers.

And she lets me.

Damn, that feels bigger than it should’ve. Her hand in mine. No lies or press or fake smiles. Megan’s not here trying to dictate or control the moment. It’s just us, like it used to be.

It always should’ve been exactly like this.

Just us, skin to skin and something I haven’t felt in a long time but sure as hell feels like it never left.

She tilts her head, eyes flicking to our hands then back to meet mine. “You know this doesn’t count as staying on script, right?”

I smirk. “Screw the script.”

Her breath hitches, barely audible, but I catch it. The way her walls wobble just enough to make room for possibility.

The possibility of us.

“I’m not running this time,” I say, quieter now. “Not from you, or whatever this is.”

She squeezes my hand, tight enough I feel the tug in my chest.

And that’s it. The moment I know I can’t go back to pretending I don’t want or need her in my life. And God, I feel it. Right in the place her absence used to echo. Because this isn’t about the cameras or the fans or the lies. This is real. Messy, unscripted, terrifying as hell but real. And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t feel like I have to perform. I just have to be myself and stick around, instead of running from the fallout, so I lean in slowly, giving her every second to stop me.

She doesn’t.

Her gaze locks onto mine, grounding me. Making me feel something deep in my chest, just like she always has.

My eyes flick to her mouth. Full lips, painted red and parted just enough to make me believe she’s asking me to give her a reason to want to stay.

So, I do.

I brush my lips over hers—light, tentative—just enough to taste the moment before it disappears. She exhales, letting herself fall into my arms and that’s all it takes. Her mouth opens under mine and suddenly it’s not soft anymore. It’s hungry, a collision of too much time and not enough all at once. I lose myself in the press of her body, the grip of her fingers at my neck, the way she kisses like she’s punishing me for leaving and begging me to stay all at once.

“Should we leave you two alone, or is this a ticketed event?”

I groan as I raise my eyes to glance over Aria’s shoulder. She jumps backward like we’re back in high school and just been caught making out under the bleachers again. “Hi, Jax,” I say flatly.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he laughs, reaching out to prop himself up against the wall with one hand.

Deck flips him off without looking. “Screw you.”

“Only if you buy me dinner first.”

Aria’s eyebrows arch down. “He’s right.”

I shake my head. “Jax is never right. It’s been scientifically proven.”

She pulls away when I reach for her. “I need to get set up for the next round of shots.”

“Oh… sure. Yeah, okay.” 

CHAPTER NINE – ARIA

I should’ve said something.

But I didn’t.

And now I’m staring at the back of his head across the bus lounge while pretending I’m editing crowd shots from last night on his laptop and not crashing out internally about—whatever that was—between us. My fingers hover over the trackpad, frozen on a photo that isn’t even in focus, but I can’t make myself delete it.

It’s him.

No lighting rig.

No fancy filters.

Just him without any of the label’s curated imagery.

The air in here smells like a locker room, but it’s starting to feel more and more like home and that scares the shit out of me. Jax is cackling about something that’s probably only funny to him. Nate’s flicking peanuts at the window, pretending he doesn’t care that none of them are hitting the target.

And Deck?

He’s sprawled out on the sofa with one arm over his eyes to block out the light, like he didn’t crack my carefully constructed walls open last night with five quiet words and a look that’s still burned into the back of my eyelids. I’m not running this time, he said.

Cool.

Great.

Awesome.

Except I have no idea what the hell that means for me.

“So,” Jax’s voice says from right beside me, “are you going to tell him?”

I glance up to find him leaning over the back of the opposite mini-booth bench with both arms tucked under his chin.

“Or do I have to keep watching him play dead?” he jabs a thumb over his shoulder, pointing at Deck on the sofa.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, unless you mean the fact that he literally never washes his socks. I mean I’m not sure what’s worse, those or Nate’s shorts. Honestly, I’m just going to bleach the entire bus at the next stop.”

He laughs and shakes his head but recovers quickly. “Come on, Camera Girl,” he whispers softly, so only I can hear him. “You and Deck were making heart-eyes in the hallway like it was prom night all over again.”

I scoff and lean back, folding my arms over my chest. “Prom night was over a decade ago.”

He grins harder. “Look, I’m just saying… if this is gonna turn into a thing, maybe just tell him before it implodes on both of you.”

My nose wrinkles as I glance away. “And what do you want me to tell him exactly?” 

“Oh,” Jax rolls his neck and laughs quietly, “maybe that you’re still in love with him.”

I groan and let my head fall into my hands with my elbows perched on the table in front of me. “It’s been a long time, Jax. I don’t even know him anymore.”

He stands and grips my shoulder in that reassuring older-brother type of way. “Yeah, you do.”

The weight of Jax’s words settles into my spine, because I know he’s right. I do know.

And that’s the problem.

Because I do know Deck. Not the version he sells under stadium lights, but the one who used to write riffs on napkins and let me fall asleep with my head on his lap during long-ass van rides to sketchy venues and dive bars. 

But that was then.

And this… this bus, this tour, this fake-ship between us, this is something else entirely.

Jax ruffles my hair like I’m his little sister instead of the girl trying not to combust over his best friend, then walks off toward the tiny fridge

The laptop screen dims, throwing my reflection back at me for a split second. Ugh. The last few days are definitely catching up to me. I rub the heel of my palm against my eyes, trying to force the pressure away, but it won’t go.

Of course, it won’t. We have five cities in five days, starting tonight. I can’t let a stress headache or Deck, who may or may not be the cause of that headache, distract me.

Bobby’s face is lit up blue from his phone, feet up on the armrest, a half-eaten protein bar dangling from his hand.

“Okay, you guys, listen to this,” he says through a laugh.

Jax groans and drags a hand down his face. “Is this another AITA thread?”

Bobby nods his head with his eyes wide from excitement. “This one’s wild.”

All the guys in the bus groan collectively.

“Bobby,” Nate whines, “we’ve been over this. Every time you read one of those out loud, my faith in humanity takes a nosedive.”

“Trust me, it’s worth it,” Bobby says, already scrolling back up. “So this guy says his ex reported their car stolen, except… according to him, it’s actually her car. I mean the guy totally outed himself in the comments and replies.”

My stomach knots.

Deck sits up straight. “Wait, what?”

“Would you look at that?” Jax says with a smirk creeping across his face. “Apparently spite and a hint of jealousy can wake the dead.”

“Shut up,” Deck growls and yeets a pillow at Jax from across the room. He brings up one arm to block, sending the pillow flying into Devon’s face.

“All of my life choices brought me here,” Devon says, groaning as he takes the pillow and drills it into Deck’s chest from across the room.

“Nice shot,” Jax cheers giving Devon a high-five over the top of Bobby’s head.

“Anyway,” Bobby continues, eyes flicking over the screen. “He says he was just borrowing it,” he makes air-quotes with his fingers, “and that she’s just being dramatic because it was their car anyway.”

I let out an offended gasp that sounds more like a squeak. “I bought that car before I even met him. I worked three months of overtime for the downpayment.”

Bobby’s eyes go back to the screen. “According to LadiesMan2001, she’ll calm down soon and take him back once she stops being spiteful.”

“That mother fu—”

“No way!” Bobby’s voice changes as he focuses on something on the screen. “He says the cops actually stopped him for driving a stolen vehicle. They impounded the car but let him go, pending further investigation.” He lets out a loud cackle. “He can’t leave the city.”

I sit up straighter. “What city?”

Bobby scrolls. “Oak Valley.”

“He’s such a trash can.” I shake my head, trying to fight away the rage-fueled haze currently trying to take over my brain. “What else did he say?”

“Um…”

“Bobby…”

“C’mon Bobby,” Deck says, leaning forward. “What else did the asshole say?”

“He also said something about a red vintage mustang with a dented bumper.”

My blood runs cold. “Dented? It wasn’t dented when the idiot took it!”

Jax whistles low. “I’d hate to be that guy when she finds him.” He laughs and nods his head in my direction. 

Deck finally leans back, resting against the sofa cushions. “Do you think he actually believes you two will get back together?”

“No clue,” I mutter. “But if he does… that guy’s delusional. And he owes me a damn bumper.”

Bobby tilts his head. “You want me to send you the link?”

“Yeah,” I say a little too quickly, already on edge. “I might need it later.”

Devon looks up from his laptop. “You think he’s gonna keep pushing it?”

I nod. “Yeah. And now he knows there’s a report on file. Which means this is probably just the beginning.”

***

Las Vegas, NV

The heat is rude. The kind that seeps through your skin and sticks to your lungs, like you’re breathing inside a toaster. Even the linoleum floor of the laundromat radiates it, no help from the sputtering wall unit doing a poor imitation of air conditioning. “It’s too hot to exist, today,” I groan as I throw an armload of clothes into a dryer, “let alone do laundry.”

“And yet… here we are,” Deck says sprawled out in a cracked plastic chair with a sleeveless hoodie pulled over his face like a makeshift vampire cloak and Devon standing guard, pacing outside on the sidewalk.

“Couldn’t we have just waited for the venue to send for our laundry?” I ask as I shove a handful of quarters into the coin slot. “The one perk to being famous that I would literally enjoy and you’re choosing to do laundry in a laundromat instead of having it done for you.”

Deck’s laughter comes through, muffled by the hoodie. “You said, and I quote, if I have to smell your tour socks for one more second, I’m bleaching the whole bus.”

“I stand by that.”

Deck kicks his boot against the base of the chair like a metronome. “Are they almost done yet?” he asks, glancing up toward a row of dryers embedded into the wall.

I glance over at the digital timer. 23 minutes. “Nope. We’re trapped in this pit of domestic hell until your jeans stop dripping.”

He groans and slides the hoodie up just enough to peek out at me. “Wanna split a candy bar?”

I blink. “What? That thing looks like it hasn’t dispensed anything but tetanus since two-thousand-three.”

Deck snorts and scowls at the vending machine. “Yeah,” he grunts. “I don’t think you should be making eye contact with it.”

“You brought me here.”

“I came prepared,” he says, holding up a crushed candy bar from the depths of his backpack. “It melted yesterday. I put it in the mini fridge last night. Now it’s… a little crumbly.”

“Like you?”

“Exactly.”

I sit beside him, laughing before I can stop myself as he breaks the bar in half and drops a handful of the pieces into my open palm. “So, this is what rock star life looks like.” It’s not a question as much as it is a revelation. I had always imagined his life after me as being non-stop glamor. Something so different from the life we had together in Oak Valley that I’d never be able to keep up even if we did cross paths again, which I had assumed would never happen in a million years.

But here we are…

At a cheap laundromat in Las Vegas watching the dryers spin in front of us like they might reveal our future.

I grab the camera from my neck and hold it up.

Click.

He gives me a sideways glance as the corner of his mouth turns up. “What are you calling that one?”

“Las Vegas. Two PM.”

“Very original,” he scoffs, dumping another pile of minced candy into my hand and I can’t help but smile.

It’s weird being here with Deck. It doesn’t feel like I’m on tour with a rockstar. And it definitely doesn’t feel like I’m doing laundry with my ex. It just feels like… us. Two tired idiots in a desert laundromat, sharing a melted candy bar and waiting for the dryer to do its job.

My phone buzzes on the bench between us. Unknown number. No contact photo. Area code I don’t recognize.

I freeze.

Deck notices instantly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, already swiping it away like I’m batting away a mosquito. “Spam.”

His eyebrows crash together and his gaze doesn’t leave me.

A voicemail notification pops up.

“You sure?” he asks, voice quieter now, less teasing. “That face doesn’t look like a spam call face.”

I force a laugh, but it comes out warped. “I’m just tired. And hot. And… this place smells worse than your sock drawer.”

He keeps watching me as I pick up the phone again and tap for the voice-to-text version of the voicemail. 

“I see you’ve upgraded from me to a walking cliché. You can keep your car. Just remember, the internet never forgets.” My stomach twists into a hard knot. The voice is unmistakable.

I hit delete before it even finishes. Then lock the screen like that’ll lock away the bile crawling up my throat.

“Spam, huh?” Deck says slowly, still watching me.

“Uh-huh.” I try to smile. “Just a scam call,” I shrug, looking anywhere but back at him.

He doesn’t call me out. Doesn’t push. But the hoodie comes down, and now he’s fully present, alert, posture straighter than it was a minute ago.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod quickly, jumping up just as the dryer buzzes to say it’s done with the cycle.

Devon bursts through the door and jogs over to a neighboring machine, yanking the door open. “Our time’s up,” he says, as he tugs his own load of clothes out of the machine. He doesn’t bother folding. Just shoves the shirts and socks into a duffel, keeping his eyes trained on the front window where sunlight bleeds through the smudged glass.

Deck raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize we were on a timer.”

“We weren’t,” Devon says. “But the sidewalk across the street is getting crowded.”

I look out the window. He’s right. A small crowd is gathering with most of them wearing East Divide shirts and beanies. I notice one with a DSLR hanging from their neck like they’re on assignment.

Deck lets out a low sigh and stands, making his way to the row of dryers. “Guess it’s a good thing this beast finally finished its job,” he says, opening the door to his machine and pulling his load out, shoving it into his bag.

I gather my still-warm clothes into my arms and drop them into my own bag then follow them out, the ghost of that voicemail still crawling up my spine.

CHAPTER TEN – DECK

Back on the bus, the hum of the AC blends with the sound of Nate cussing out a water bottle that rolled under the bench. He shoves his arm through the small gap between the bottom of the bench and the floor and screeches when it gets stuck.

“Brace yourself, bro,” Jax says, looping his arms under Nate’s shoulders like a human tow strap. “On three,” he grunts, planting his boots against the bench for leverage. “One. Two—”

There’s no three.

He yanks with everything he’s got.

Nate comes loose with a weird suction-POP sound, and both of them go flying. It’s not graceful. They crash backward in a blur of limbs and curse words, landing hard on the floor in a heap of denim and bad decisions.

Jax blinks up at the ceiling. “I hate you,” he wheezes, the sound muffled by Nate’s entire body smooshing him into the floor.

I shake my head as a full body guffaw rolls out of me. “You two good down there?” I ask, still laughing.

“Define good,” Jax grunts, rolling Nate off of him. He lands face down on the floor in front of me, still laughing.

I glance back at Aria and she hasn’t even cracked a smile. Something’s not right, I think to myself. She’d normally be on the floor half-dying by now. But instead, she’s just keeping her eyes trained on the t-shirt she’s folding like it’s a task that requires absolute precision, despite the fact she’s already refolded that same shirt three times now. Her mouth’s set in that flat line she gets when she’s trying to look unbothered, but is actually extremely bothered. She keeps glancing at her phone like it might catch fire. She caught me watching once and shoved it facedown under a stack of her clothes like I wouldn’t notice the way her hands were shaking.

“Hey,” I say, stepping around the idiot pile on the floor. “You okay?”

She flinches, just enough to make my stomach twist. Aria never flinches. She’s the most unfiltered, unafraid person I’ve ever met. “I’m fine,” she says with a voice so small it’s almost unrecognizable as hers.

“Yeah… you’re definitely not fine,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her and grabbing a shirt off the pile. “You haven’t said a word since the laundromat,” I add, quickly folding the shirt and dropping it on top of the stack she’s already started.

“Thanks,” she says, rolling up a pair of socks.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, grabbing another shirt off the pile. “I’m not used to you being this… quiet.”

She forces a smile, the kind that’s all surface with no soul and looks wrong when it’s on her face. “It’s fine. I like the quiet.”

Lies. She’s always thrived in the chaos because the quiet gives her too much time to think and when she thinks she worries. Something tells me that’s exactly what’s eating away at her, right now. “That phone call really upset you, didn’t it?” I didn’t see the notification, but I saw the way her whole body went rigid when she read it and the way she swiped it away then tucked the phone under her thigh like it needed to be buried. I didn’t ask then. Not because I don’t care. God, that’s the problem. I care too much.

She shifts slightly, letting her arm brush against mine, lighting up everything inside of me screaming to reach out and pull her in, close to me, where I can protect her from whatever is hurting her. But then she shifts again, almost immediately, like she didn’t mean to touch me in the first place. I almost ask her again what’s going on. But whatever’s clawing at her is still too close to the surface and I’ve learned the hard way, Ari doesn’t like to be cornered. So, I don’t push the issue. I just fold laundry across from her instead. Giving her space to decide if she wants to tell me or not. Because I know that if I force it, I’ll just push her further away.

Again.

That’s the last thing I want.

The whooshing sound of the bus door opening breaks the moment. I glance over my shoulder to find Devon standing at the front of the bus. “Let’s go, kids” he calls out. “Soundcheck’s in twenty.”

Jax crashes through the hall, shirtless and dramatic. “Have you seen my eyeliner? The green one?”

“I saw the blue one on the bathroom sink,” Bobby mumbles, tugging a fresh shirt on over his head.

Aria glances up, “I bought a green one at the store, Jax.”

“Yeah?” he shifts his focus to Ari with his eyes wide.

“It’s in my makeup bag on the bed. You can use it if you need it.”

“Thanks, Ari!” he calls out over his shoulder already diving through the curtain separating the bunks from the main area of the bus.

I stand, reaching for the folded clothes stacked beside her. “Let’s get these put up before we have to head out.”

She nods, too fast, grabbing another stack and leading the way back to the bunk area.

Jax comes barreling out and nearly knocks us over. “Sorry, dudes,” he says as the bathroom door closes behind him.

Aria hands her stack of folded laundry to me because I can stuff them in the cabinet without having to climb up there. “Got it. Are you coming?” I ask, glancing back at her as she grabs her camera bag.

“Yeah, ready.”

I sling my hoodie over my shoulder, falling into step beside her as we head toward the front of the bus to wait for the rest of the guys to get ready. And I swear, if I ever find out who made her go this quiet I’ll make damn sure they regret it. “Ari, what happened?”

She hesitates. Then, without looking at me, she hands me her phone and taps the screen to open her voicemail. “Press play.”

I do, causing a low male voice to fill the empty space between us. “I see you’ve upgraded from me to a walking cliché. You can keep your car. Just remember, the internet never forgets.”

As soon as the message ends, I glance up at Devon. He doesn’t move but I see the tension lock into place in his expression. “Is that your ex?” he asks.

She nods.

“Jake, right?”

She nods, again. “The thing that’s freaking me out though is it came from an unknown number. Not his contact number, which is still in my phone.”

“So this guy actually cloaked his number to send you this message?” Devon asks, his eyebrows inching closer to his hairline with each word.

“Yeah,” she sighs as her shoulders slump forward. “It’s weird.”

“So, first this guy takes off with your car, gets caught and now he’s threatening you?”

“I don’t know if it’s a threat,” she says. “Could just be him trying to mess with me. He does that. Twists things to make me feel like I’m overreacting.”

“Sounds like manipulation,” Devon says. “Classic DARVO energy.”

I frown. “Darvo?”

“Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender,” he replies. “It’s the standard playbook for guys like this.”

“He’s trying to make you feel like the bad guy,” I say, reaching out to hold her steady,  “when he literally broke the law and sprinkled extra douchebag seasoning all over it.”

I glance at Aria again, but she won’t meet my eyes.

“And the whole ‘internet never forgets’ thing?” I ask. “What’s that about?”

She shrugs and shakes her head. “No clue.”

“Ari…”

“Uh…” she glances over my shoulder where the guys are all still preoccupied with getting ready for soundcheck then lowers her voice, “Before we left for the festival he had made a weird comment about using some of our old photos and AI to create a paid content account.”

My blood turns white hot in my veins. “What type of paid content?”

“Guess,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “The only type that would be completely humiliating and feel like a total violation all at once.”

“You’re telling me this guy threatened to create a sex tape of you without your consent?”

She nods.

I fight the urge to let my hands ball themselves into fists and instead keep them wrapped around her shoulders. “The label has a legal team and plenty of resources to help you fight him if he even thinks about that.”

Devon crosses both arms over his chest and leans back against the bus wall. “I’m putting the security team on high alert. This guy is a menace and if he’s after her,” he nods toward Aria, “then he’s coming for the whole East Divide family. He won’t like what he finds if he does.”

Aria finally lifts her head to meet my eyes. “I didn’t want to make this a thing.”

“It is a thing,” I say. “But he made it one, not you.”

Her mouth twitches up, just slightly. Not quite a smile, but not nothing.

Jax stumbles past us, breaking the moment, holding the plush tiger above his head like it’s leading a parade. “Sir Growls-a-lot has declared this bus cursed after catching a whiff of what Bobby did in the bathroom and insists we flee immediately.”

Nate groans as he squat walks down the aisle. “I’m never wearing these jeans again. They’re too tight. I can’t feel my thighs anymore.”

Aria laughs, loud and clear, and the sound makes my heart lurch forward in my chest as she leans closer to me. “Thank you,” she whispers just loud enough for me to hear it.

“You don’t have to thank me and you don’t have to carry this alone. You’re part of the family now,” I say, grabbing her hand in mine and following my bandmates off the bus.

CHAPTER ELEVEN – ARIA

Los Angeles, CA

We blew past the state line before sun-up this morning after leaving Vegas and rolled into the next stop at the buttcrack of dawn this morning. Each stop should feel like a new adventure, but it doesn’t because I still feel like I’m being hunted by a ghost with a god complex. I deleted the voicemail. Hell, I swiped it into oblivion like that would erase the feeling crawling up my spine. Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

It’s still there.

That nasty little prickle that flutters its way up and causes my chest to tighten every single time my phone buzzes.

That’s not even the worst part…

Every time I walk past a mirror, I half expect the reflection looking back at me to threaten me in his voice.

I haven’t told the guys.

Not about that part, at least.

Devon and Deck know the basics and both of their bullshit radars have been online and in the red since they found out. They’ve both been hovering. Devon with his watch-dog routine and Deck has been practically glued to my side. Honestly, it’s been nice. I’ve never felt safer but it’s also a constant reminder that that asshole is lurking in the background, just waiting for an opportunity to make me suffer for having the audacity to choose myself over his cheating ass. So, while they might know the context and what he said… I’ve kept the really messed-up bits locked in my mental junk drawer with the rest of the I’ll-deal-with-it-laters.

Because I don’t want to be that girl.

The one who spirals and can’t hold it together.

The one who ruins a good thing, or… the potential beginning of a good thing…? Because I can’t stop checking over my shoulder.

But the truth is?

He might’ve taken my car, but I’m the one dragging all the wreckage with me.

The circus inside my mind matches the scene on the outside as the toe of my boot wedges itself under a stray cable that almost takes me out. I recover quickly, though. It’s a controlled chaos for sure. Cables going in every direction, gear stacked ten feet high and twenty different crew members yelling about a missing effects pedal.

I’m just trying to find the right angle for a time-lapse video when I catch Deck’s movement out of the corner of my eye.

He’s crouched near one of the barricades, completely absorbed in a conversation.

It takes me a second to realize why.

The kid can’t be more than six.

Wearing a homemade East Divide t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off and tie-dyed in what looks like food coloring, he’s got red anarchy symbols drawn over his eyes and black streaks down his cheeks that look like grease smears in the exact face-paint pattern Deck wears on stage. It’s like if war paint and glitter had a baby.

Deck’s got his sunglasses perched on top of his head and a Sharpie in his hand as he leans in and appears to actually be listening, really listening, to whatever this kid is saying. Not the kind of nod-and-smile listening I watch him do every night when he’s talking to the press.

The kid holds out a folded drawing. Deck takes it and the smile that spreads across his face is infectious. He drops to one knee, holds it out at arm’s length like a museum piece and whistles. He says something I can’t hear.

The little boy beams and nods.

Deck says something, again.

The kid cracks up as Deck hands the drawing to a nearby crew member like it’s a priceless artifact. Then he leans in and carefully adds his own face paint streaks onto the kid’s cheeks with the permanent marker and signs the kids shirt.

My camera catches it.

And now I get it.

This is the kind of moment that makes all the noise worth it. The kind that anchors the man inside the storm of the corporate agendas and ridiculous press campaigns… like fake dating your ex to avoid being dragged for false relapse rumors because she looked like a bog witch when you rescued her from the side of the road.

Actually, I take that back.

That’s disrespectful to bog witches. I looked like roadkill on a stick.

Deck stands to leave, time to move on to the next fan, but the kid’s mom reaches out for a hug. I can’t hear her, but I can tell she’s thanking Deck with tears in her eyes. I raise the lens again.

Click.

I tap the screen and add a label to the image: Los Angeles. 5:43 PM. But this one isn’t for the project. I want this one for myself, so I can remember the man inside the machine.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket and my stomach flips. Not in a fun way, like being on a rollercoaster. No, this is more like is the ax murderer inside the house with us. When I glance up, I notice a perfect chance for a wide-angle shot of the crew setting up pyros.

Click.

I tug my phone from my back pocket.

Oak Valley Police Department.

A wave of relief mixes with the tension building at the base of my skull. My gut does that twisty, traitorous thing it always does when the past tries to get cute and crawl back in through the side door.

I tap to answer the call. “This is Aria.”

“Miss Harper?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Officer Hernandez from the Oak Valley Police Department. I’m calling about the stolen vehicle report you filed.”

My pulse skips. “Did you find my car?”

“Yes, ma’am. The vehicle was recovered earlier this week. It’s currently sitting in our impound lot for processing.”

“Processing?”

“Yes, the driver…” the voice pauses as I hear fingers clicking away on a keyboard, like he’s checking his file for the notes, “was cited for D.U.I. and resisting arrest and the car is being processed as evidence.”

I close my eyes. Of course he was driving drunk in my car. “Is the car okay?”

“There’s some damage, but it appeared drivable as he was evading our officers. I’ve uploaded an intake photo to your case file. You should receive a text shortly with a link to access it.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll notify you when it’s ready to pick up.”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks,” I say with my finger hovering over the button to end the call.

“Oh,” the officer’s voice comes through the speaker again. “There’s one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“You should know the suspect posted bond and was released pending his court appearance.”

The lump forming in the back of my throat makes it hard to swallow but I force it down. “Oh, I see.”

“We’ve already increased patrols near your home address and placed him on a watch list given the fact he was caught driving your vehicle. Standard procedure, but I just thought you would want to know.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, surprised at the calm in my own voice. “I’m actually out of town right now, so maybe that’s for the best until his charges are settled.”

“Stay safe, Miss Harper. Let us know if anything unusual occurs.”

“Of course. Thanks, again,” I say, ending the call just as the image pings into my texts.

Case #UT-25-541L / Intake Photo Attached.

I click the link against my better judgment.

And there it is.

My car.

Covered in dents and the front bumper barely hanging on like something tried to claw it off but missed a few shreds and a giant black X across the hood. “Goddammit, Jake.” I slam the phone facedown on the nearest crate and squeeze my eyes shut. I don’t know what’s worse… his arrogance or my ability to still be surprised by it.

“Everything alright?” Deck’s voice comes from just behind me. I hadn’t even heard him walk up, which is honestly weird AF because the man wears boots that make him clomp like a horse.

I straighten up too fast and pretend to busy myself with adjusting the tripod I just spent ten minutes getting perfect. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

The pause is heavy. He’s not buying it, not even a little.

He waits and let’s his gaze pin me in place.

Damn him.

I sigh and flip my phone around, nudging it over to him on top of the crate. My nose wrinkles as I scowl at it, like it might as well be a dead fish. “The police found my car.”

His brow arches as he glances between the phone and me. “That’s good news, right?”

“Sure. If by good you actually mean it’s sitting in the impound lot, dented all to hell and a bumper that’s hanging on by a thread, literally. Oh, and let’s not forget the giant X he painted on the hood.”

Deck winces as he taps the link to view the image. “Ouch.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, resting my head in both of my hands. “Apparently the idiot got arrested for D.U.I. among other things and used my car as his getaway ride.”

“Are you okay?” He steps closer, not touching me, just… orbiting. It’s like he knows exactly how much space to give me and that makes me nervous. How does he still know that much about me? He remembers. That’s the only answer. I’m not ready to deal with what that actually means, yet.

I shrug and throw my arms out wide. “Not really,” I admit. “My ex stole my car, wrecked it, got drunk in the paint aisle of the hardware store, used it to run from the cops and then got arrested. So, you know, just another Friday night in Oak Valley.”

He laughs, but it’s soft around the edges. “That’s… a lot. But you could always sell that story to a production company. It’d make a great movie.”

I can’t help but laugh with him, otherwise I might cry. My back rests against the stacked crates and I let my legs slowly go out from under me, sliding down until my rear end hits the ground. “It’s just… he always had this way of spinning things so he wasn’t the bad guy. Like somehow, I was overreacting or being too sensitive or blowing things out of proportion. And now he’s out here crashing my car, fighting with the cops and still finding a way to blame me for it.”

Deck’s jaw ticks.

“He said I reported it out of spite,” I mumble through my hands, which are cupped around my face.

“You reported it because it was stolen. That’s not spite,” Deck says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the universe.

Which… it is.

I glance up. “I know, but I can’t shake what he said in that AITA post. It’s ridiculous but also makes me wonder because a thousand other people upvoted his stupid comments.”

“Every single one of those upvotes had to be by someone with the exact same issues as your ex. Remember, an entire generation thought Lips of an Angel was a love song. That doesn’t mean it was.”

Ugh! I groan, letting my entire upper body slump forward as I draw my knees up in front of me.

Deck tilts his head. “You want me to write a song called You Stole her Car for Spite?”

I snort. “Only if there’s a kickass guitar solo.”

“I’ll tell Nate to get on it.” He leans in a fraction. “Aria… this isn’t on you.”

“Which part?” I ask, finally letting myself glance up to meet his gaze.

“None of it. His choices. His attempts to spin it. His mess. It’s all his.”

“I know.” I cross my arms. “It’s just hard not to feel like I’m stuck in a bad reboot of my own life sometimes.”

He softens. “Then maybe it’s time for a new storyline.”

“Oh? And what would you call this one?”

A shiteating grin spreads from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Laundry, Lawsuits, and Liking You Way Too Much.” His eyes widen the second the words are out, like his mouth outran his brain and now they’re both scrambling to rewind.

I blink up at him, slowly.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, rubbing one hand down the back of his neck and seems to be suddenly fascinated by a crack in the pavement like it holds the secrets to the universe.

“…You like me?” I ask, pushing myself up to my feet, so I can look him eye-to-eye. Bad idea. He’s too close. His touch, when he reaches out and lets his fingers intertwine with mine, is too warm. This whole thing is just getting too real. The kind of real that cracks through the Deck-specific armor I’ve spent years perfecting and makes everything underneath feel raw and electric just like I used to feel around him.

My pulse skips.

Then overcorrects.

His eyes catch mine, steady, unreadable and infuriatingly gorgeous.

And for a second… 

Just one stupid, traitorous second, I think what if…

What if I let this happen?

What if I stop pretending I don’t still feel everything I shouldn’t?

My heart is fluttering in my chest like the traitor it is as my mouth goes dry, so of course my brain decides to do damage control. It takes the wheel and blurts, “You really need to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” he asks, voice low enough to send a shiver rippling down my spine.

“That.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Looking at me like that.”

“Like you used to.”

“And how’s that?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly with that lopsided grin still lingering.

“Like you like me,” I say, trying desperately not to stammer but I forget to breath and choke on my own spit while the words are still forming. “Do you? Like me? I mean…”

He lifts one shoulder, obviously trying to play it cool. “I mean, not in a I’m going to steal your car and make a revenge deepfake kind of way.”

I laugh, and the tension in my chest eases just a little. “You’re a jerk.”

“Come on,” he says, nudging me gently with his elbow. “Let’s go find Devon and tell him he gets to yell at some impound lot employees. That’ll make his whole week.”

“And we’ll have to tell Jax not to try and liberate the car himself. You know he’s gonna suggest it.”

“Oh, 100%. I give it six minutes before he’s drawing up blueprints for a Fast & Furious-style heist with Sir Growls-a-lot as the distraction.”

We start walking toward the entrance to the venue. He doesn’t try to hold my hand.

But I kind of wish he would.

Shit.

***

San Francisco, CA

The crowd’s gone.

The lights are cooling.

And my legs are still jelly from that final stage-left dash trying to catch Nate’s solo without eating it on the riser stairs.

Loadout is its usual brand of chaotic. Road cases slam shut, coiled cables snake across the concrete, and someone’s shouting, “Where the hell is the pedalboard cover?”

I’m scanning through the last burst of shots on my camera’s screen, walking backward, trying to make sure I caught that moment where Deck flung sweat into the pit like he was baptizing a crowd of feral saints. A thick cable catches around my boot like a trap, sending me flying backwards.

The camera strap jerks across my chest.

But before gravity can finish the job, a pair of strong hands grip my waist and I’m steadied, firm and fast.

I look up.

Deck.

“Easy, killer,” he says, his voice low and rough from the set, that post-show rasp that always hits me in the chest.

“Thanks, I, uh… tripped.”

“I noticed.” His fingers press into the sides of my jacket, anchoring me like he forgot how to let go.

I’m pretty sure I forgot to want him to let go.

Then—

“You guys want us to leave you alone or…?” Jax walks by dragging a case and raising both eyebrows.

I roll my eyes and step back, pretending my face isn’t hot. “That cable,” I kick it with my steel toe for emphasis, “had a vendetta against me.”

“Sure it did,” Jax says. “I’ve seen less sexual tension in nsfw fanfiction.”

“Go away,” I groan.

Deck just laughs as he reaches down to flick the cable aside. “You good?”

“I’m good.”

But my knees still feel a little weak as he walks away and it’s definitely not because of the cable.

I glance down at the screen of my camera. The photo’s slightly blurry. It caught my boots mid-stumble, his hands partially covering the lens as he reached for me, and just enough movement to make the moment look cinematic. I tap the screen to add my label:  San Francisco. 12:14 AM. 

***

Portland, OR

The cracked pavement scrapes under my boots, as the crowd presses tight against the metal barricades with their phones raised high, desperate for even a blurry shot of the guys. Their voices surge in waves, shouting names like mantras.

“Deck, over here!”

“Jax!”

“Nate, did you wear your lucky shorts tonight?”

At least a dozen security guards with earpieces in place, scan the crowd with sharp eyes, hands poised to step in.

Deck moves through the makeshift alley with the calm ease of a man who’s done this a thousand times. One hand rises in quick waves. He tosses a few smiles at the closest fans, the rest of the band trailing behind him like rock royalty. Nate flicks a metal-horn salute to a kid holding a homemade sign that reads Let me play bass with you during Faultlines!

The urge to bolt hits me. Too many flashing lights, too many screams bleeding together. But before I can even think about turning around, Deck’s hand reaches back and finds mine. He tugs gently, pulling me in step with him.

The path to the VIP area is a tight squeeze between the bus and the venue’s back wall, cordoned off with black ropes and a couple of security guys who barely glance at us as we walk past. Deck keeps his hand wrapped around mine, steady and sure, grounding me in the moment. The noise from the crowd dims to a low roar behind us, replaced by the crinkle of plastic water bottles and the hum of quiet conversations.

The air is cooler but still heavy with the smell of sweat and perfume that makes my nostrils sting and something faintly chemical, which I assume is freshly inked posters with price tags in the corners that line the walls. Fluorescent bulbs flicker overhead, casting harsh light over folding tables stacked with merch and bottled water. Staff with badges move efficiently, ushering fans toward their seats as the band filters in.

I slip into a corner behind one of the merch tables shoved up against the wall and immediately miss the feeling of his hand around mine. I shake it off and force myself to focus on the work. The spot I pick isn’t prime real estate, but it’s perfect. Out of the way enough to avoid the chaos, close enough to watch Deck without looking obvious. People with bright yellow Staff badges move past me, guiding fans toward their seats.

I sink against the wall behind the table, my camera tucked at my side but ready. From here, I can see everything. The forced smiles, the tired eyes, the cracks behind the rockstar mask no one else seems to care about.

Deck works the room as he makes his way to the front, shaking hands, flashing that damn smile that feels both real and rehearsed all at once. And then he glances up. When his eyes meet mine, the world shifts. There’s something softer there. Something that isn’t just for show. And something I’ve been missing since we said goodbye.

I raise my camera slow and steady, framing the shot without anyone noticing. Everyone else is here for the big, social-media-perfect moments. The wide smiles. The arms raised. The flash of teeth in a sea of sweat and stage light that makes them look like characters in a paranormal thriller novel. But I want the quiet stuff. The in-betweens. The parts that make them… human.

Jax leans forward to fist-bump a kid with chipped black nail polish and an East Divide patch safety-pinned to his hoodie. Click. Nate signs a battered drumstick like it’s a sacred artifact, then hands it off with a grin that looks more like mischief than PR. Click.

I scan for Deck. He’s farther down the line, crouched so he can talk eye-to-eye with a girl in a wheelchair holding out a worn photo of her and the band from what must’ve been years ago. His hand rests lightly on her shoulder while he listens like she’s the only person in the room. Click.

The line keeps moving. People edge forward in waves, alternating between teary, giddy, and screaming. It’s loud in here. Too loud for how small the room is. Laughter bounces off the concrete walls, overlapping with the rustle of merch-filled shopping bags featuring the band’s logo, of course.

My back is killing me. I shift my weight and let the camera hang heavy against my ribs. Still, I can’t stop watching him.

He’s not faking it in here.

And I finally understand why he puts up with all the rest of it. The fans. The connection with them.

The last few fans make their way through. One girl sobs into her best friend’s shoulder, another clutching a signed hoodie like it’s a crown jewel. Jax leans into Bobby, saying something I can’t hear over the buzz of voices, and Nate cracks his neck like he’s seconds from bolting.

I step farther back, tucking myself against the wall. Still, Deck’s eyes find mine across the room like they always do, like he can feel me watching. He turns back and signs one last poster with a quick scrawl of his name and a sketch of their logo in the corner.

Megan appears in the doorway, headset in place, tablet in hand. She gives the room a once-over, then waves to the staffers who immediately start ushering the crowd toward a side exit.

Once the last fan slips out, a voice calls, “VIP clear.”

And just like that, the air shifts.

“Wardrobe and makeup, guys. Let’s go,” Megan shouts and turns on her heel.

Staff fans out, guiding us through a narrow hallway lined with vintage tour posters and peeling paint, the hum of old air conditioning steady and loud above us.

We pass a rack of unopened merch, hoodies still wrapped in plastic, tees folded in piles.

“Looks like we’ll be getting writer’s cramps after the show,” Jax pops off with a roll of his neck.

The rest of the guys just grunt in response. As we turn the corner, the noise behind us fades, swallowed by the heavy door that clicks shut.

The green room is bare-bones. No frills, no flash, just a threadbare couch slumped against one wall, cushions flattened from years of use. A battered coffee table sits in front of it and a single floor lamp glows in the corner, casting a tired, yellow light over everything, making the shadows stretch long and strange across the floor.

Deck doesn’t say a word. He kicks off his boots with a lazy thud and reaches beside the sofa to retrieve a guitar case, the hardware clanking against the coffee table as he lifts it onto his lap and drops onto the couch. His fingers are already moving as he pops the latches on the case.

“Wanna hear something new?” he asks, voice quiet for the first time since we left the bus.

The camera sits heavy in my lap as I perch on the edge of the table, knees bumping his. I press my palms flat against the wood to steady myself, and try desperately to ignore the feeling of my heart kicking up in my chest.

He twists one of the pegs, tuning by ear, the high-pitched tension of the string slicing through the quiet. Just a riff—rough, unpolished—but it hums with something alive. Like it’s still being born in the space between his hands. The notes aren’t perfect. They don’t have to be. It’s everything music is supposed to be. Honest. Raw. The kind of sound that doesn’t need to perform, because it confesses.

My breath catches in my throat. I can’t move. The sound wraps around me, pulling me under, until it’s just us again. Just him, playing through the ache like he always does. And me, unraveling from the inside out. Because no matter how far I run, no matter how many days or years I put between us, Deck always pulls me in like gravity.

The last note rings out, fading into the dim, humming silence. He doesn’t look up, just rests his hand over the strings, letting them still beneath his fingers.

“I wrote that the other night,” he says finally, voice rough. “After you got on the bus.”

I blink. “Deck…”

He doesn’t look at me. Just traces his thumb along the neck of the guitar like he’s still hearing it play in his head. “I couldn’t sleep,” he explains. “I just kept hearing your voice in my head, asking me why I let it all go to shit.”

That lands like a gut punch, because I did ask that. Not out loud, but it’s the question that’s burned under everything since the last time I saw him.

He shakes his head, still not looking at me. “You don’t have to say anything. I know I’m the last person you expected to see again, let alone here. Like this. With my label trying to micro-manage every second of the day.”

I open my mouth, then close it again, because what am I supposed to say? That it still wrecks me to hear him play? That some part of me has been waiting for this exact moment?

Before I can find the words, the green room door bursts open. “There you are,” a stylist calls, breezing in with a headset slung around her neck and a garment bag swinging from her arm. “Let’s go, rock star. You’re late for glam squad, and if I have to hear the makeup artist threaten to walk off one more time…”

Deck groans and leans his head back against the couch, finally grinning up at me like the last ten minutes didn’t just happen. “Duty calls.”

I stand as the room begins to fill with new faces. The moment we just shared shatters like glass under boots, swept away by spray tan, hair gel, and production chatter.

He catches my wrist before I can step back. “Stay?” he asks, gaze finally locking on mine. He swallows hard then quickly adds, “For the set, I mean.”

“Sure,” I reply, nodding along like my entire life hasn’t been turned upside down in less than a week. “Of course, I’ll be there. I’m pretty sure Megan would have me unalived if I wasn’t.”

He laughs and lets go of my hand, but that look stays with me as I back my way toward the door, camera in hand and my nerves rattling inside of me like Jax’s drumkit during his solo. The hallway buzzes with energy now. Techs shouting call times, guitars being tuned, someone testing the mics with a low hum that vibrates through the floor. Every second we’re closer to showtime, the world outside this green room swells with noise and anticipation.

And me?

I’m stuck between the past, the present, and what feels vaguely like hope for my future.

The venue pulses with sound. Basslines pulse through my chest, lights slice through the dark in jagged flashes. The smell of sweat and leather clings to the air. 

By the time East Divide hits the stage, the energy has already hit fever pitch.

I slip into the security and press area at the front of the stage just as the lights cut out and Bobby lets the first bassline of their set echo through the air. My lens comes up on instinct, even though my heart’s racing and my breath is barely steady.

This is the part I know.

The part I can control.

From behind the camera, everything makes sense. It’s all framing, light, angles.

I can disappear behind the lens and control the outcome.

Something I wish worked in real life.

The crowd moves like one giant wave and above it all, Deck.

They scream in absolute unison, creating a thunderous echo that reverberates through the arena. Stage lights hit him like a halo and he soaks it in, every bit the front man, but a glimmer of excitement in his eyes that reminds me of the dreamer I’ve loved my entire life.

He owns it. The stage. The sound. The eyes of everyone in the room, including mine.

The guys barrel through the opening song and the crowd eats it up.

I’m just starting to fall into rhythm with the music and my shots, when he looks straight at me and I feel my entire body stiffen.

He plays the same riff from the green room, then lets it bleed into the bridge of a song I’ve heard before.

It’s a message meant for only me and I feel it in my bones.

I just wish I knew what it meant.

CHAPTER TWELVE – DECK

The crowd is still howling as the last chord bleeds out beneath my fingers. My throat is raw. Sweat drips off me, my shirt clings to my skin, and every tendon in my body is screaming. I turn just in time to see Jax stand up behind his drum set with his shirt drenched and his hair sticking to the side of his face. He gives the crowd his signature shit-eating grin as he smashes the final cymbal note of the show and throws his sticks into the crowd one at a time before hopping off his riser, landing on the stage floor. The lights cut into the crowd like lasers, flickering off the signs, the cell phones, the chaos we’ve fed for the last ninety minutes.

I stagger back from the edge of the stage and throw my arm around Jax, yelling into the mic, “The next city is going to have to bring their A-game because you all just set the bar on fire!”

The house lights flip on, turning the crowd into a blur of raised hands drenched in sweat hoping to catch a pick. I glance toward the side, scanning the faces for just one. She’s still in the space between the pit and the stage with her camera up like a shield, eyes locked on me through the lens. Did she catch it?

I wanted her to hear it.

To feel it.

I think she did, because even from the stage behind the lights, I notice the twitch in her jaw. The way her hands stiffen just slightly on her camera. She knows that moment was for her. But my mind won’t stop circling around one question. Do I have a chance or is there already too much history between us?

I grab one of the water bottles huddled on the riser holding Jax’s drumkit and gulp it down as I walk off stage, letting the water drip down my chin. It doesn’t cool anything off. Backstage is the usual whirlwind of sweaty high-fives and fist bumps, someone shoving a towel in my hand, which I quickly use to wipe the sweat from my face. Nate is already yelling about a cable that went out during the second song.

“Deck,” someone calls. A flash goes off, like someone has just detonated the sun two feet from my face. My eyelids slam shut on instinct, which of course makes it worse because now I’m seeing psychedelic spots like that time I played chicken with a Roman candle during freshman year.

“Quick shot for socials?”

“Sure,” I grunt, still squinting one eye shut and rubbing it with my palm. Of course I agree, because what every frontman wants after bleeding his soul onstage is to look like a stunned possum caught in a rave strobe. Bobby leans in and throws up devil horns, completely unbothered. Jax? Full teeth and here for the attention. Meanwhile, my jaw twitches as I force a grin, trying not to look like I’m a malfunctioning animatronic at one of those pizza joints with the rat mascot.

As soon as she signals the shot is good, I shove past Bobby and rip my in-ears out, the cord snapping against my neck. Sweat slicks my palms. My heart hasn’t caught up with my body yet, still thrumming at stadium roar volume while the rest of me is begging for oxygen, but it isn’t because of the show or the crowd or the press.

I press my shoulder to the far wall, dragging in a breath, trying to shake the ringing in my ears, except quiet never lasts long back here.

It doesn’t take long before a phone is shoved in my face with an audio recorder app open on the screen. “Deck! That setlist surprise was pretty sick. Is that a tease for an upcoming album we don’t know about yet?”

The cord of my in-ears tugs at my shoulder as I blink against the lingering hopeful stare of a music journalist I’m certain I’ve seen before but couldn’t remember his name if it would save my life. I open my mouth to give a vague response, but before a single sound can crawl out, another flash hits.

And there she is.

Not Aria herself but the red light on her camera, glowing from across the room. The sight still hits like a gut punch. Because I’ve lived years with that little red light fixed on me, and every time, she’s been the one pulling the trigger.

The voices keep firing questions, radio call signs, journal names. Their voices stack on top of each other, sharp and tinny, like someone turned on ten televisions at once.

On different channels.

None of them on an odd number volume, either. Don’t ask me why, but all volume should be set on an odd number. I don’t make the rules, but I do live by that one.

“Deck! That unreleased track. Is it dropping soon?”

“Was that a stunt or a mistake?”

“What does it mean for the new album?”

Their voices all merge together. With all the technology we have, why hasn’t someone invented a mute button for reality yet? I swipe a palm across my jaw, sweat and stubble mixing, buying myself two seconds as I glance back to where Aria had been standing.

She isn’t there.

Where’d she go?

How can I answer their questions when I don’t even know what the hell it means yet?

“Sometimes the song chooses you,” I say, because it sounds better than admitting I’ve been chasing ghosts all night.

“Alright, I’m tapped out,” I add, clapping my hands like I’m cutting off a rehearsal. “Unless one of you’s secretly carrying a cold beer, I’m done performing.”

The sound of their shrill laughter grates on my nerves, but I’m already ducking sideways to find Aria, weaving through moving equipment and bodies as the crew packs the show up. I expect to find her getting shots backstage, but she isn’t there either.

She must’ve gone back to the bus, I think to myself as flashbulbs chase me, questions snap at my heels, and all I can think about is how fast I can get to the door before someone says her name.

Because the second Aria comes up, I’ll blow the whole damn act.

I push through the heavy steel exit door, letting it slam shut behind me. The buzz from the hall fades into background noise as my eyes find her. She’s leaning against the wall with one knee tucked underneath her and her hair falling in messy strands framing her face.

Her gaze doesn’t flinch when she sees me.

She’s waiting.

For me.

That lights something inside of me. Her eyes stay locked onto mine the way they always do, like she can read the chaos under my skin. Like a cat perched on the edge of a counter, ready to pounce or to judge. Honestly, it could be either and I’d accept it happily.

She watches as I close the distance between us, my entire world narrowing to the soft rise and fall of her chest and the faint scrape of her boots against the concrete as she takes the final few steps to meet me.

My chest tightens.

How is she still like this? Pulling me in without even trying.

I reach for her slowly, like she might vanish if I touch her.

Her hands find my chest, fingers splaying against the fabric of my shirt, gripping me in a way that makes it impossible to think about anything but her. My heart kicks as I lean in closer. Her lips move against mine, soft at first then firmer, pressing like she’s trying to anchor herself to me.

And damn! I want her to.

Her fingers wrap around my neck, nails grazing my skin as she pulls me even closer. The world behind us dissolves. Lights, voices, the leftover roar from the crowd… all of it gone.

I thread my hand through her hair, tilting her head slightly, pulling her into the moment I’ve been waiting years for.

She tastes like sweat, adrenaline and everything I’ve been missing for the last decade.

The kiss deepens, slow and electric as every nerve in my body begs for her.

Nothing else exists.

Not the tour, not the PR strategy and definitely not the damn world outside this parking lot.

Her lips are still on mine when I feel her fingers slide beneath the hem of my shirt, like she’s trying to memorize the way I’m built. It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s reverent. But it short-circuits my brain all the same.

I pull back just enough to look at her. Really look at her. And damn, she’s beautiful like this. Her hair’s a mess because of my hands. Her lips are swollen and blushing red from my kiss. Her eyes are sharp and soft at the same time.

We’re pressed so close I can feel every ragged breath she takes and the subtle tremble in her fingers as they rest against my chest. “I shouldn’t want this,” she whispers.

“I know you’re Charlotte’s best friend. We’ve got fake dating headlines, a stalker ex and a million reasons why this is a bad idea.”

“And?” she asks, glancing up at me with those wide eyes that completely unravel me with just one look.

“And I don’t care about any of them,” I admit, pulling her back into my arms. “The only thing I care about is the one reason we should say yes to this.”

Her laugh is low, almost bitter. “And what’s that?”

“I’ve wanted this for years. Don’t you know that?” I say, thumb brushing across her jaw. “I just didn’t think you’d still want it too after what I did.”

“I’ve always wanted this… us, but…”

I shake my head. “I screwed up. I didn’t know how to stay without hurting you.”

“Why?”

“Because my demons were swallowing me whole and I didn’t want you to get dragged down with me. So, I forced myself to pretend I could move on without you, but I never did because I can’t.”

Her breath stutters, but her body arches into me as he whispers, “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

I drop my forehead to her shoulder and breathe her in, my mouth brushing the curve of her neck. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper, one hand sliding down to her hip, gripping like I’ll lose her if I let go. Because maybe I will. Because maybe this is the only night I’ll ever get to feel her like this.

Her nails scrape lightly up my spine, and it’s not fair.

The way she does this to me without even trying.

The way I’ve tried to forget her and failed.

Every.

Fucking.

Time.

She stares at me for a second too long, like she’s trying to figure out if this is still pretend or if it’s something she can trust, then she kisses me back, hungrier this time. Desperate. Her tongue sweeps against mine.

I groan, heat punching straight through my core. “Jesus,” I breathe against her lips. “You kiss like you’re trying to end me.”

Her teeth graze my bottom lip. “Maybe I am.”

“Fine by me,” I growl, sliding my hands under her thighs and lifting her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around my waist like they belong there.

Like she belongs here.

With me.

“You gonna let me take you inside, or are we making out like teenagers in a parking lot?”

She smirks, wicked and wild. “Why not both?”

I laugh, because of course she’d say that, and it just makes me want her even more. “You realize,” I whisper into her skin as my mouth brushes against the crook of her neck, “if you keep talking like that, I’m never going to let you go.”

She shifts against me, hips tightening just enough to make my knees threaten collapse as I carry her toward the bus. “Then don’t.” Her breath ghosts over my jaw, and I swear I’m about to do something epically fucking stupid like fall in love with her right here in a parking lot behind a venue that reeks like stale beer.

There’s no going back now… and I don’t ever want to.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN – ARIA

The bunk isn’t built for two people. It’s a glorified drawer with a mattress that barely holds one, especially when that one is six feet two inches of stubborn broody definitely-not-boyfriend-material. But somehow I still fit, spooned against my emotionally complicated past who once left me like I was an afterthought.

And I hate how natural it feels.

That’s what scares me the most.

I should feel trapped, but I don’t.

My cheek’s pressed to his chest, his heartbeat thudding a little too steady beneath my skin like it’s trying to rewire something I’ve kept locked down for years. I’m curled into the space between his arm and the wall like I belong here. Like I’m not the one who got left behind.

I should move.

I should pull back, create space and remind myself this isn’t going to last.

But his hand slides down my back, slow and sure, and my whole body betrays me with a shiver. Not from lust—though that’s a given—but from something quieter that sinks its claws in and whispers this might be what home feels like.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges. His lips brush my forehead and I swear it brands me with that white-hot searing heat I’ve only ever felt when he touches me.

I should feel like the ceiling is sinking in, the air suffocatingly too warm and Deck… way too close.

His hand moves slightly, fingertips brushing along my spine. “I missed that too,” he hums a low rumble that vibrates through my chest, tugging at something deep inside me… pieces of myself I thought I’d locked away years ago, when he left.

“What?”

“How you watch me when you can’t sleep.” His lips brush against my forehead.

A million different thoughts flood my mind.

I don’t mean to say the one that slips out. “You left me,” I whisper. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to claw them back. Heat rises through my cheeks, but I won’t take it back. He hurt me and this might be the last chance I’ll ever have to tell him what I need to say.

His eyes close and for a moment I think he won’t answer. Then his hand slides up to cradle my cheek in his hand. “I know and I’ve hated myself for it every single day since then.”

The hum of the road beneath the bus’s tires, the faint rattle of the cabinets, the faraway laughter from the front of the bus where the guys are all having to sleep tonight since Deck left a VIPs Only sign taped to curtain separating the bunk area from the main area of the bus. Apparently that’s their agreed upon signal. It all fades under the weight of his words.

“Do you know what it felt like?” My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Watching you chase everything you said you wanted, while I was standing there… wondering when I stopped being who you wanted.” I bury my face against his chest, catching the faint mix of sweat and cologne dragging up old memories like a highlight reel.

His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer. “Aria,” he murmurs with his voice rough from what I hope is regret, but think is probably just sleep, “I never stopped wanting you. I just didn’t want to hurt you.”

I freeze. “What?” I pull back to look him in the eye, and the rawness in them nearly breaks me.

“I was spiraling.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to swat away the old ghosts and demons in his mind. “I thought if I stayed with you, I’d just drag you down with me. And I couldn’t live with that.”

“You just left me with no explanation and expected me to fill in all the blanks? Guess what, I did. I filled them in with every ugly thing I could think of about myself. That I wasn’t enough. That I was too much. Or not pretty enough to be on your arm, when you could have one of your music video models instead. That I was just an inconvenience to you and your platinum coated dreams.”

His body tenses under me, like each word lands sharper than the last. “I didn’t explain because I didn’t have the guts,” he admits finally, voice low. “I thought walking away without a reason was cleaner than telling you I was drowning. I thought I was protecting you.”

“By making me think I didn’t matter?”

He flinches and sucks in a deep breath, like my words hit deeper than I even intended. “I wanted you to hate me. I figured that’d be easier for you to carry than watching me self-destruct from my addiction if you still cared about me.”

I push up on one elbow to anchor myself. His eyes are open, fixed on me. “That’s not protection, Deck,” I say. “That’s hiding.”

“You’re right.”

I shake my head, tears stinging the corners of my eyes but not falling. “You didn’t even give me the choice. I would’ve stood by you while you got help.”

“I know,” he admits with a grimace that makes my chest clench tight. “That’s the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.” Silence stretches again, thick and sharp. I almost roll away, but then his arm tightens around me, pulling me closer instead of letting me go.

“Say the word, Aria, and I’ll spend every day proving I won’t run this time,” his voice comes out like gravel. “But… just… don’t go.”

I stare at the ceiling of the bunk. There was a time I would’ve bolted, grabbed my camera and my pride, and run out of this moving bus in a full tuck-and-roll moment before he could take any more of me. But my hands reach for him before I can argue with myself. I wrap my fingers around his neck, bringing his face closer to mine. “Don’t hurt me,” I whisper against his lips. “Not again.”

He exhales, his breath warm and steady against my skin before he leans in. “I promise, I won’t.”

I close my eyes, letting his kiss anchor me. I believe him. Not just the words, but the way his body leans into mine and the way his pulse synchronizes with mine. It hums like a lullaby, soothing my frayed nerves as I let myself believe maybe we’ve been given another chance and relax into his arms.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN – DECK

Sunlight hits my face, forcing me awake. I blink a few times to clear the haze as I come to, disoriented as always, and stare at the narrow window above my bunk. The blinds are cracked just enough to let in a sliver of morning light. I watch it, waiting, trying to decide if the angle shifts. If the scenery blurs past in proof we’re on the road again, or if we’ve been stopped the whole night. Out here, it’s impossible to tell without some sort of proof. That’s the hardest part of life on the road. Waking up in the same coffin-sized bunk every day, never sure what city, or what version of myself I’ll have to wear today. Then I feel a shift beside me and everything makes sense again.

Aria’s still tucked against me, her hair a mess across my chest, breathing slow and steady. For once, my brain isn’t running setlists or PR nightmares. My only focus is on holding her, even though my arm’s gone numb under her. I don’t dare move. Not when it’s taken years just to have her beside me again. I’m not about to risk ruining it.

I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling the faint trace of vanilla and honey from her shampoo. The corners of her mouth curve up before her eyes even open. That smile is better than the high of a packed house cheering and chanting after our final song of the setlist. It’s crazy how right it feels being with her in this moment. Like we’ve hit pause on all the crap between us and rewound to before I messed it up.

“Morning,” I whisper against her ear.

“Mmm,” she mumbles, voice raspy in a way that makes me want to keep her here forever. “You’re still loud in the morning?”

I let out a chuckle and brush a few stray hair strands away from her eyes, tucking them behind her ear. “That was a whisper.”

She burrows closer, tucking herself tighter against me. My heart flutters in my chest as my breath hitches in my throat. “What if it could stay like this?”

“Like what?”

“Us waking up together every day, no tours, no headlines, no bandmates sleeping in the next bunk. Just you and me.”

A sharp knock rattles the side of the bunk, followed by Jax’s voice. “Yo, Romeo, you might wanna check your notifications before Megan incinerates you.”

“What was that you said about no bandmates?”

Sigh. I sit up, wincing at the pins and needles racing up my arm as I force myself to pull it out from underneath her to reach for my phone. My stomach sinks as soon as I unlock it, setting the flood of notifications loose, flying across the screen.

And there it is, front and center in a link forwarded by Megan with WTF attached—an old photo of Aria with her ex, plastered on some gossip blog that prefers to call themselves investigative reporters. The caption’s gross.

East Divide Singer’s Girlfriend – Second Chance Romance or Golddigger?

But it’s the hundreds of comments beneath it that really make my skin crawl. People who don’t know anything about either one of us, calling her every name they can think of. I clench the phone until my knuckles go white.

“Deck?” Aria’s voice breaks through my rage-fueled spiral. “What is it?” she asks, reaching out to grab onto my shoulder and pull herself up.

“Nothing,” I say, tapping the button on the side of my phone to turn the screen dark. “It’s just more label bullshit.”

“You sure?” Her eyebrows crash together as her gaze searches mine.

I nod and lean in to kiss her on the cheek. “Positive,” I say, rolling over the edge of the bunk, landing on my feet. “Are you hungry?”

Her stomach growls in response before she can answer. “I guess so,” she laughs as crimson washes over her face.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I grab a pair of my sweatpants from the cubby behind the bunk and tug them on. “I’ll get something and bring it back,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way to the front of the bus.

Bobby’s got his phone out with his face pulled tight in a frown. Jax and Nate hover behind him, wide-eyed. I clear my throat. All three of them jump in unison. Bobby loses his grip on his phone and fumbles it before it clunks face-up on the table.

The video’s already paused mid-frame. It’s Aria’s face, beautiful as always, lit by shitty lighting in what looks like a cheap apartment I don’t recognize.

“Play it,” I snap.

Bobby taps the screen and her voice comes through immediately, except it’s not her voice. Not really. It’s her cadence and her gentle tone but it’s been twisted into something rotten.

“I don’t love him,” she says from the video. “I never did. I just want him to pay. If I walk away with a fat bank account, let’s just call it a perk of the job.”

My skin goes cold.

Then the screen shifts to a talking-head style video of some guy with a smarmy grin plastered on his face. “There’s your proof. Aria Harper, professional heartbreaker.”

The comments roll like fire across the screen.

Parasite.

Gold digger.

Fake.

I can’t breathe. I know Aria’s voice too well. The way it cracks when she’s vulnerable, the way it lifts when she’s trying to cover nerves with humor. This… this is wrong.

“AI,” Jax says under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s not her. It’s not even good AI.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nate says with a sigh.

I drag one hand down my face. “Nate’s right. The internet wasn’t built for nuance. They’re going to drag her.”

Behind me, I hear the sound of soft footsteps. “What’s going on?”

I turn to see her standing there in my shirt, confusion clouding her face, innocence written all over her body language. And all I can think is, they’re going to try to destroy her.

I snatch Bobby’s phone and slam it into the wall.

“Dude!” he yells in protest. Not that I can blame him.

“It’s fake,” I say, louder than I mean to, my voice ricocheting through the bus. “Everybody hear me? It’s bullshit. AI or edited or whatever the hell, but that video was not Aria.”

“Obviously,” Nate says with a roll of his eyes.

Bobby nods with a look on his face that says Duh. “But you owe me a phone.”

“Bill me.”

Aria stands frozen, her face paling as she watches me. “What video?”

Jax shoots me a look, waiting for my cue.

My jaw sets tight. “Don’t. It’s just trash.”

“Deck—” Aria’s voice cracks.

“It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t you,” I cut in, crossing the space and grabbing her by the shoulders. She feels so fragile, trembling with nerves under my touch. “Aria, listen to me. I know your voice and I know you. Whatever that video was, it wasn’t real, so it doesn’t matter.”

Relief flickers in her eyes.

Then the bus door bangs open.

Megan storms in like the overdramatic force of nature she is, heels clicking on the bus floor. Her sunglasses are shoved up in her hair, face beet red.

“Forget your blood pressure medication this morning, Megan?” Jax asks, sliding past her to fall onto the sofa and grab the remote.

“Shut up,” she screeches over her shoulder before turning her attention back to me and Aria. “What the actual hell is this?” she snaps, waving her phone in our faces the way some people shove their dog’s nose in their shit, like that actually helps the situation at all. My hand balls into a fist at my side, fighting the urge to take her phone and give it the same treatment I gave Bobby’s. The video is playing on loop with Aria’s fake confession on repeat, loud enough to make my ears ache.

“Turn that shit off,” I bark.

Megan ignores me. “Do you realize what this does to the narrative? We’re trying to get away from Deck being one wrong step away from a relapse and you give me this?” She levels her glare on Aria, causing the whooshing sound between my ears to only get worse. “We were going for heartbroken, something the audience can sympathize with, not used and abused. That makes him look weak. Lead singers who are also sex symbols aren’t allowed to be weak!”

Aria’s face drains. “I didn’t—”

“Save it,” Megan snaps, cutting her off. “Optics, Aria. That’s all that matters. And right now? You look like a clout-chasing grifter.”

“Back the hell off,” I growl, stepping between them. “You don’t talk to her like that.”

Megan freezes, caught between her PR-driven power trip and the fact that I outrank her paycheck. But she recovers quick, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Deck. I am trying to save you. Do you understand? Fans are already running with this. Sponsors are asking questions. If this blows up, it damages your image. The days of the unstable strung out rock star are over. Sobriety is in. Damaged goods, not so much.”

The words hit me like a gut punch as she slides past me back toward the door. The only concern, at least from her perspective, is my career. Not Aria’s reputation or what she must be feeling right now. Just my image and how it’ll impact ticket sales.

“Oh, and Deck,” she calls out over her shoulder from the front of the bus. “I’m going to fix this on the way to Chicago and you’re going to play along.”

I feel Aria’s fingers curl into my arm from behind. I swore to her last night I wouldn’t hurt her again and it’s the one promise I never want to break. So why, under Megan’s laser glare and the echo of Aria’s AI-voiced betrayal looping in my skull, does that tiny poisonous whisper creep back in? Is this her revenge for me breaking her heart when I left? If so, I deserve it. I shake the thought away. I know better.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN – ARIA

I’m still shaking when Deck pulls me against him, his arms locking around me, but no matter how much he tries or how much I want him to, he can’t shield me from the internet, from Megan, or my own stupid past.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his chin resting against my hair. “It’s noise, Ari. Just noise. Don’t let it in.”

But it’s already in, crawling under my skin, replaying on a loop. My ex’s smug face, my own voice twisted into something cruel and calculated. And Megan’s words, so sharp I can still feel them. Optics. Clout-chasing grifter.

“You did it, again,” I whisper, shoving against his chest. He stumbles back, surprised. “Your first instinct was to shut me out.”

“What?” His jaw clenches tight enough I can see the tremors in his neck caused from the strain.

I hold out my hands in a wide sweeping motion. “This. All of it. It’s a circus and now I’m an inconvenient sideshow, but instead of trusting me enough to let me in on what was going on, you shut me out.”

“Aria, no. Listen—”

“No. You listen to me.” My throat closes, but the words force their way out. “I’ve always been there for you, picking up the pieces and cleaning up the messes you made. The good, the gross and the really disgusting. But you couldn’t trust me enough to tell me what was going on when I’m the subject matter? Are you kidding me, Deck? I had to hear it from Megan?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you…” His words punch through me to the same rhythm as the vein in his temple is pulsing to. For a moment, I think he’ll yell, but instead he just drags his hands over his face and exhales. “I thought it’d blow over.”

A mirthless laugh falls out of me before I can pull it back. “While I do appreciate your white knight hero act, we both know nothing in this business just blows over and everything is just an act. You’ve taught me that much in less than a week.”

“Ari…”

“You know it’s true.” I motion toward the fragments of Bobby’s phone littering the floor. “We’re only pretending to care about each other now because your stupid image needed a rescue.”

“Is that what this is?” His eyes cut to mine, sharp and dark. “Because I thought we were past this. I don’t give a shit what Megan says, or what your ex says, or what the internet says. I just want you and me and whatever this is that we’re finally giving a chance…” He shakes his head, the fight draining out of him. “At least, I thought we were.”

My chest cracks open. God, I want to believe him. “You promised me last night you’d never leave me again and then the very first chance you have to prove you meant it, you try to shut me out.”

“You’re right. I messed up, again” He softens, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little as he steps closer. “I didn’t think of it like that. I only tried to keep it from you because I knew it was fake and didn’t think it would matter.” His hand lifts, hesitates, then drifts down until his fingers brush mine. That simple graze sends a spark ricocheting up my arm, traitorous and immediate. Every memory of his hand in mine, late-night drives and whispered promises, comes rushing back so hard it aches. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

My chest tightens, torn between wanting to lean into that touch and the very real reminder that we live in two very different worlds.

“We’re almost to the next stop. It’s an off day, so let’s just check into the hotel, order room service and shut the world out. Just… you and me. We can talk… you know? No more secrets. No more hiding.”

I should pull away. I should build a wall between us right then and there. Instead, I stand rooted to the plush carpeting underneath my feet, the heat of his skin searing itself into mine, pulling me deeper toward him no matter how hard my head screams to resist. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but I nod anyway.

The video, the lingering doubts… I try to shake them off and convince myself, we can still make this work.

***

Seattle, WA

When the bus hisses to a stop an hour later, I grab my bag and follow the band off the bus. The barricaded lot behind the venue is already buzzing with energy. I watch as techs haul cases, security radios crackle with code names and instructions as a handful of drunk superfans are herded off the sidewalk by staff in neon vests.

As soon as the guys’ feet hit the ground, they’re surrounded by handlers and security. I get pushed to the back of the crowd, but Deck’s hand snakes through and grabs mine, tugging me along with them as we’re all shuffled into a black Sprinter idling by the fence.

A man who has to be at least six-five and wearing all black sits in the driver’s seat. He’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s close to midnight. The van doesn’t move right away. His hands rest on the wheel, gripping it tight enough to turn his knuckles pale. His earpiece crackles and a low voice giving codes I don’t understand comes through. One of the neon-vested security guys at the curb lifts a hand, signaling, Wait.

I turn to Deck who’s sitting beside me. “What’s going on?” My mind races with possibilities. “Are fans breaking through a barricade or something?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, probably not.”

“Something worse?” I gasp as a million and one scenarios play through my imagination. “Was there a…”

“A what?” His eyebrows crash together in confusion.

“A… B. O. M. B. threat?”

He lets out a long exhale and bites his lip as he shakes his head. “Doubtful.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I scan the bus and its passengers. Nate has his headphones on and is flipping through the playlist on his phone. Bobby’s scrolling social media and Deck is watching me with an amused look on his face. “Wait. Where’s—”

Just then the driver’s Bluetooth crackles online again, “Hold your position. Drummer lost a shoe.”

From the back, Nate groans. “Again?”

Bobby snorts. “He’s a damn toddler.”

I bite back a laugh, because only in this circus would fifty people with radios and neon vests be on pause for a single missing Converse.

Sure enough, a moment later Jax sprints into view with one socked foot slapping the pavement as he waves the missing shoe triumphantly over his head like he just won Olympic gold. He dives into the van, panting and grinning. “Crisis averted!”

Nate doesn’t even look up from his playlist. “You’re a menace.”

“Correction,” Jax says, shoving his foot back into the sneaker, “I’m a legend.”

“More like a liability,” Bobby mutters, scrolling.

“You’re just jealous,” Jax shoots back. “You’ve never had to outrun a rabid fan while barefoot.”

I blink. “That actually happened?”

Deck leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he smirks. “Define rabid.”

Nate snorts. “I think you mean define fan.”

“Hey, she was definitely foaming,” Jax insists.

Bobby chuckles and throws a balled-up pair of socks at Jax. “That’s because you skipped out without paying for the check and she was definitely not a fan. She was the owner of the damn waffle joint.”

The van erupts in laughter, even the driver huffs like he’s trying not to join in. The security guy outside taps the hood with his palm, and finally the van eases forward.

Our ride to the hotel is quick and mostly quiet. As we pull into the VIP entrance, I reach for my camera bag that’s been wedged between my feet like some pathetic emotional-support animal. The building doesn’t scream five-star from the outside but it’s discreet, which is the point. Underground parking with a gated entrance, meaning no gawking fans with cell phones shoved in the guys’ faces.

As soon as the van comes to a stop, the side door flies open and security hustles us out and into a private elevator. Deck pulls a keycard from his back pocket. Of course. Megan must handle all that. Rock stars don’t queue up for room keys like the rest of us mortals.

By the time the elevator doors slide open and we step into the hall of the top floor, I’m bone-tired. The hallway is glossy and… generically pompous. The kind of atmosphere that comes with too much marble and I can’t help but imagine a front desk staff trained to look busy and bored at the same time.

Deck reaches out to swipe the keycard in a door and for a split second it feels normal… our being together. The door opens to a room lined with luggage the crew must’ve sent up earlier. Hardshell cases wrapped in black matte and one worn-out chronically overstuffed backpack with a pin that says F**k Off, I’m Busy. I laugh at the memory of when he got that pin. One night after working late on a chemistry assignment we went into town for a pizza as our reward and he plugged fifty cents into a coin machine hoping for a pin with his favorite band’s logo on it. Instead, he pulled that one out. “You kept it?”

His breath hitches as he follows my gaze to the backpack resting on the floor. “I did.” His voice cracks just enough to cause a rose color to creep up his face.

“Pretty sure that pin was rusting at the bottom of your desk drawer the last time I saw it.”

“Yeah, well.” His voice softens, the edge of humor dipping into something else. His voice dips, rougher now, like gravel underfoot. “Some things… just stick. You know?”

I force a half-smile. “Guess you’ve gotten better at holding onto things. Back then you couldn’t even hold onto your car keys.”

He huffs out a laugh, but it’s short, empty. “Keys didn’t matter, but you did.”

The words hit me like a chord struck too hard, reverberating in places I’ve tried to mute for years. My throat goes tight, and for a second I can’t look at him. The backpack sits between us like proof of everything we lost, and everything we never stopped carrying. “You didn’t hold onto me, either.”

“I should have.”

The words hang in the air, heavier than I expect. My chest squeezes as the memory flashes in my mind. Us at that pizza shop booth, his knee pressed against mine under the table. I clear my throat, forcing lightness back in. “So basically, your entire sentimental archive fits on one busted backpack.”

He grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes as he takes a step back. “Don’t knock it. That bag survived beer spills, three continents and Jax trying to use it as a pillow after burrito night.”

From the hallway, Jax’s voice booms: “Hey, that was one time!”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Shouldn’t these walls be thicker than that?”

Deck shrugs. “Jax has superhuman hearing. It’s weird.”

I force a smile, but the weight of his gaze pins me in place. The backpack sits like a relic of us and the mistakes we made. All of our history and everything neither of us ever got right. My chest tightens, a dull ache spreading through my ribs.

He steps closer, brushing past the luggage as he leans down to snag his toiletries bag. The faint scent of his cologne, mixed with the antiseptic tang of the hotel, hits me. “You’ve… you’ve changed, though.”

I swallow, trying to anchor myself. “I’ve been through a lot.” My voice is quieter than I intended. I hate how small it sounds.

He sucks in a deep breath as he stands back upright. “I guess I also missed out on a lot.”

I nod.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

I want to tell him I know, but also that I don’t know how to trust that he means it. I want to scream that I’ve been waiting, aching for a second chance at everything we lost and that the memories we made together follow me everywhere. But instead, I bite my lip and look down at the pin on his backpack. That stupid, stubborn thing. It’s the closest thing I have to proof that some piece of him ever actually cared and I wasn’t just a convenient distraction until he could finally get out, leaving Oak Valley and everyone in it, including me, behind. But I can’t say all of that, so instead I just say, “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. How about we order a pizza and I get caught up on what I’ve missed?”

I hate to admit how much I like that idea, so I just nod and say, “Only if it’s pepperoni, pineapple and jalapeno.”

“I can’t believe you still eat that.” His nose scrunches as his face pulls into a frown. “Pineapple on pizza is a sin.”

“Some things never change,” I sigh with a roll of my eyes.

His phone vibrates in his pocket with the bright light shining faintly through the fabric of his jeans. He fumbles with it as he pulls it out and I see Megan’s name illuminated on the screen.

Great.

“Uh… I’ve got to take this.” His thumb hesitates over the screen, waiting.

“Oh, right.” I stretch my arms overhead, trying to appear casual while everything inside of me is still screaming from our conversation. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll just go make coffee or… check the minibar or something.”

He steps away, running a hand through his hair as he swipes the screen and answers. “Hey, Megan.”

The conversation starts exactly like I’d expect. Quiet, clipped and all business. Not that I’m eavesdropping. I shift my weight, sliding toward the small kitchenette at the far end of the suite. The fluorescent light above hums softly, casting pale rectangles across the granite countertop. I grab two ceramic mugs from the cabinet, the faint clink against each other echoes through the quiet. I can hear him, still clipped, still talking in low tones I can’t fully make out and I try to tune it out entirely as I dump the coffee grounds into the filter, twisting the top on the carafe with a sigh.

I fill the pot with water, the metal handle cold against my fingers, and hit the switch. The machine whirs to life, filling the air with the first hints of coffee and the low vibration of its motor. Steam curls up, brushing against my forearms. I let my gaze wander to the living room.

Deck’s leaning against the wall with the phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, it’s inconvenient but it fits the story. We’ll just play it out.”

The air left my lungs in a rush.

Inconvenient.

The story.

Play it out.

Like I’m just another piece of merch, good for a limited run until the market cooled. I already know that, so it shouldn’t be a shock except for the fact I let myself believe we could actually fix everything that had broken between us. I believed him when he said he wanted me for real this time and when he said he wouldn’t hurt me again.

I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

My hand shakes as I slide my keycard onto the marble countertop. I don’t wait for him to notice. My bag is in my hand before I can think twice. The door swings closed behind me with a soft click, muffling the low rumble of Deck’s voice on the phone. I move down the carpeted hallway, each step measured, heels silent. The hotel smells faintly of antiseptic and polish, a cold kind of cleanliness that makes my skin prickle. I reach the elevator and press the button for the lobby, letting my fingers linger on the metal panel, cold against my skin.

When the doors slide open, the fluorescent lobby lights hit me in a wash of harsh white. I step out onto the polished floors, which gleam too brightly under the excessive lighting meant to convey luxury but right now all it gives is a migraine. I pause for a moment, catching my reflection in the mirrored wall and I don’t recognize myself. Pale, tight-jawed, and red-eyed. The last time I looked like this was the day he left without a goodbye. I’m done letting Deck do this to me. My gaze flicks to the revolving glass door at the end of the lobby.

The night air hits like a shock, impossible to ignore, just like the word that’s been clawing at me all night—inconvenient—slithers back into my chest. I hug the strap of my bag tighter, trying to breathe past the twist in my stomach as I pull my phone out and tap to open the rideshare app. The word hammers in my head, dragging every little proof-point I’d clung to, the backpack, the pin, our stupid perfect moments into question. I approve of location sharing and request a pick-up as I step onto the curb and shift my weight from foot to foot, listening to the distant hum of traffic and the faint scrape of shoes hitting pavement behind me as guests come and go from the hotel. Every instinct wants to turn back, to throw myself into the false comfort of him, but the echo of that word, inconvenient, gnaws at me. I force my eyes forward, watching for the car to appear so I can leave Deck and this feeling he always leaves me with, behind.

He’s my past, not my future.

Not anymore.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN – DECK

I slump onto the edge of the bed, letting my head fall into my hands.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

And I know this brand of silence.

It’s the same one that wrapped around my ribs like a fucking vice the night I left her a decade ago. The same one I’ve been trying to outrun ever since.

But it caught up to me again.

And this time, I know I’ll never shake it.

My phone buzzes beside me with an incoming call and my sister’s face filling the screen. I don’t answer it. I’m not ready for her to yell at me about how I screwed it up… again.

Although, I deserve it.

I had my second chance and let it slip through my grasp. I’ve been sitting here going over everything that’s happened over the last few days, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I still don’t know what I did.

My phone buzzes again. This time a text message from my sister, in all caps.

Charlotte: PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE.

It goes off again. I let out a long exhale and tap to answer the call. “Go ahead. Yell at me. I deserve it.”

“Oh, you don’t need me to yell at you. Something tells me you’re already kicking yourself hard enough for the both of us.” Charlotte’s voice crackles through the phone. Her tone is sharp enough to make me wince. “You two went playing house for the cameras, and then? Shocker! The second a real feeling showed up, everything blew to hell. Why’d you let her go this time?”

“I didn’t!” My throat tightens. “We were fine.”

“Fine?” She laughs under her breath. “If you were fine then she’d be there with you instead of on her way back home.”

“Home?” The only place I’ve ever felt at home in the last ten years was when she was by my side and now she’s running away from me. “I don’t know, Char. We were fine until we weren’t. It doesn’t matter.” The lie tastes bitter as the words leave my mouth. “It was just for PR, anyway.”

“PR?” she spits. “That’s not what I saw. You know why? Because she matters to you. I can see it from Nashville, so why can’t you?”

“I know,” I admit before I can stop myself. “I do see it.” My voice cracks on the truth as I press the heel of my hand to one eye. “Christ, Charlotte, she always has. I just—” I trail off, staring at the backpack resting on the floor.

“Do you even realize what you put her through when you left? What she risked just being near you again? And you couldn’t give her a single reason to stay.”

Her words land like blows. My hand grips the phone tighter as I cross the room, drop to my knees and drag the bag close. The zipper sticks halfway, but I yank and tug on it until it gives way. My hand slips inside, past the tangle of cables and the crumpled T-shirt I shoved in there days ago, until my fingers catch on the edge of worn photo paper.

I pull it free.

Aria’s picture. The one she snapped two weeks before I screwed everything up by leaving home without her. A memory from when it was just us and her camera, before the world chewed us up. And before the possibility of us had been buried under all of my screw ups along the way. That younger version of me in the photo isn’t looking at the lens for the picture, I was staring at her because I already knew she was the only thing that mattered.

She always has been.

“You don’t have to convince me that I screwed this up. I already know that. I’ve been sitting here replaying every word, every moment, wondering how I could’ve held onto her this time? But I don’t know why she left, Charlotte.”

“Well, I sure as hell do,” she groans into the phone.

“Wait… what? You do?”

An exasperated sigh filters through the speaker. “Yes. Now, would you like me to enlighten you or do you just want to continue your downward spiral?”

“Why’d she leave?”

“Because you said the one thing that could hurt her most.”

“I don’t know what I said. I was talking to Megan and trying to get her to shut up, so I could get back to arguing about what pizza to order with Aria.”

“You said that she was inconvenient.”

My stomach drops to my feet as the conversation with Megan earlier replays in my mind. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? Those words came out of your mouth, whether you meant them or not.”

“I don’t want to lose her, again.”

On the other end of the line, Charlotte exhales like she’s exhausted. “Then figure your shit out.” Her voice softens, but just barely. “Look, I don’t doubt you love her. Anyone with eyes can see that, but right now she believes she’s an inconvenience to you and your career because of the PR bullshit. And that’s on you.”

“How do I fix it, sis?”

“You have to figure that out on your own. I can tell you one thing, though. Aria isn’t gonna stick around for a guy who can’t open his mouth and say the damn words she needs to her and she sure as hell deserves a man who’ll show her he loves her when it matters.”

I glance at the photo still resting in my hand, the edges worn, her smile frozen in time. My chest aches so bad it feels like my ribs might shatter under the pressure of my next breath. “What if she doesn’t want to hear it?”

“Then at least you’ll know,” Charlotte says. 

The line goes quiet. My throat works overtime, trying to swallow around the lump that’s lodged itself back there.

For once, I don’t have a comeback.

Finally, she sighs. “Deck. Stop spiraling and go get her.”

I stare at the photo again, the weight of her words pressing in on me. “I think I have an idea. I’ll call you back.” My pulse kicks up as I tap to end the call because for the first time in years, I know exactly what I need to do and I’d be willing to make a deal with the devil if I can just convince Aria to hear me out.

The door to the suite creaks and I hold my breath as I push myself to my feet and hurry into the main living area, hoping to see Aria. Maybe she changed her mind and decided to come back. “Ari, I can explai—”

Except when I look toward the suite entrance, it’s not Aria standing there.

Jax leans into the doorway, like he’s not sure if I’ll throw something or tell him to fuck off. Honestly, I might do both.

“Phew! Good. You’ve got all your bits and pieces covered.” He grins and steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “I wasn’t sure what state I was gonna find you in after that text from your sister.”

I intertwine my fingers behind my neck and throw my head back. “I should’ve known she’d send in reinforcements.”

“She threatened me,” he adds with a deep belly laugh. “She said if I didn’t check on you and report back, she’d fly out here herself and throat-punch both of us.”

“Don’t think she won’t,” I groan.

“The first thing I learned in school was to never underestimate your sister,” he says with a tone that tells me he’s completely serious. “Did she give you hell?” he asks, flopping down onto the overstuffed sofa like he lives here now.

I nod once, glancing down at the photo still in my hand. “Not as much as I deserved though.”

“What happened?” he asks, leaning back and kicking his feet up on the ornate coffee table.

I let out a dry laugh. “I’m an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.” He watches me for a minute like he’s studying me. “It’s been a long time since I saw you like this,” he says, eventually.

I glance over. “Like what?”

“Wrecked.”

The word lands sharp. I drag a hand down my face, exhaling hard. “I thought we’d actually make it this time.”

Jax nods like he already knew that. “So… what now?” He leans forward, putting his feet back on the ground and his elbows on his knees. “Are you gonna stand there and replay it until your brain melts or are you gonna get your ass in gear to go fix it?”

My jaw tightens. “I’m not sure I know how,” I admit. “But I do have an idea.”

“How about this? Start with a plane ticket,” he says, standing. “End with the truth.”

I nod once, my jaw pulling tight. The plan’s building in my head. Hazy and half-formed, but it’s there. “Jax?”

“Uh-oh,” he says, giving me a sideways glare. “I don’t like the way that sounded.”

“I’m gonna need you to cover for me with Megan and the label.”

His eyebrow lifts. “Cover how?”

“It doesn’t matter. Tell them I’m sick. Say I lost my voice. I don’t care what you tell them. Just… keep them off my back long enough for me to make this right.”

He crosses his arms with a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You want me to lie to the single scariest woman on the planet?”

“Yep,” I say, grabbing my backpack from the bedroom and shoving my feet into my boots.

Jax’s eyes widen. “Oh, hell no.”

“Jax.”

“I don’t even like Megan,” he squeaks.

“Exactly. That makes you the most qualified person for the job.”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re asking me to lie to a woman who could incinerate my balls with a single glare.”

“I’m asking you to buy me time,” I say, grabbing my jacket off the chair. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’m telling them you were abducted by aliens and won’t make the press junket.”

I shrug. “Desperate times.”

Jax stares at me for a beat, then huffs out a breath. “Fine. But I swear to God, if she starts asking questions I can’t answer, I’m sending her straight to your voicemail.”

“Fair enough,” I say, yanking the hotel suite’s door open.

“You better come back with her, man,” he adds, quieter now. “Because if you don’t, I’m not covering for your dumb ass twice and… I miss having her around.”

“I’m going to fix it.”

He nods once, serious now. “Atta boy. Go get her.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN – ARIA

The tires of Charlotte’s SUV crunch over gravel as we take the back road into Oak Valley, the one that winds past the Wright’s horse ranch and cuts behind the old feed store before it drops into Main. It’s like muscle memory, the way we avoid the traffic lights and the slow-as-molasses speed trap near the post office. I guess it’s just proof that some habits never die. They just go dormant.

Like grief.

And regret.

The sky’s that muted shade of late afternoon gray, the kind that promises rain but never quite delivers. It makes the whole town look older somehow. Like Oak Valley knows all of my secrets and even it’s holding its breath, waiting to see which version of me is pulling in this time.

I’m not sure I know either.

My bus pulled into Oak Valley an hour ago and I’ve been sitting in the passenger side of my best friend’s ride ever since, pretending not to see the worried glances she keeps throwing at me. “What is it Char?” I ask, leaning my head against the cool glass window. “You’ve been looking at me like I might dissolve into a puddle of emotional goo since we left the station.” I turn sideways in the seat and tuck one leg underneath me. “You’re afraid I’ll ruin the leather, aren’t you?” I tease, hoping to break the tension without having to admit anything that even remotely resembles the truth.

“The leather can be fixed. I’m more worried about you,” she admits, giving me a quick glance out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m fine,” I lie, looking out the window.

Charlotte scoffs with a quick shake of her head. “You left before the last show of this leg of their tour with zero explanation. You didn’t just ghost Deck. You ghosted all of them. That’s not ‘fine,’ Ari. That’s an emotional panic crashout wearing a cute hoodie.”

“Okay. First of all… wait. You like my hoodie?” I ask, glancing down at the grumpy unicorn sitting in the middle of my chest with the quote I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed underneath it.

She laughs and rolls her eyes. “Yes, I do,” she admits, again. “It’s very emo-cutesy.”

“Thanks.” I sit up a little straighter in the passenger seat and flick the hood over my head, which of course comes with its very own unicorn horn.

“Can we get back to the point?” she asks as we pass the edge of town where the Welcome to Oak Valley sign leans sideways like it gave up standing straight a decade ago. I remember it. Homecoming night, Deck agreed to race one of the guys off the visiting team’s starting line. Deck won. That guy lost control and spun out, hitting the sign dead-center. It hasn’t been right since.

“No.” I fold my arms over my chest and lean back against the headrest. “I just need to pick up my damn car and some pancakes. In that order.”

Charlotte hums. “Cool, cool. So we’re in full denial mode. I’ll make a note.”

The dollar store is still standing there on the corner, mocking me. And just like that, I’m back in Deck’s truck. The two of us high on sugar and chaos, after tearing through the aisles grabbing supplies for Charlotte’s surprise graduation party that she absolutely knew about. I was in the passenger seat then too, buried under bags full of streamers, water balloons, glow sticks and of course candy that is probably outlawed by the FDA now, with the crazy string he sprayed all over me stuck in my hair. His laughter echoing through the cab of that old beat up work truck when I threatened to take him out with a plastic glitter-encrusted crown.

My throat tightens.

I used to love the sound of his laugh. The rare kind that started in his chest and shook his whole body, like the world could fall apart and he’d still find joy in it as long as we were together.

That was before.

Before record deals and rehab stints and the kind of love that takes more than it gives.

Charlotte glances at me, then back at the store in her rearview mirror. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Fine,” I lie. “Just… forgot it was still here.” Another terrible lie.

Charlotte reaches up to turn on the radio because she knows me and she knows the quiet might be enough to finally take me out. Silence is a relief for most people, but not me. For me, it’s a punishment because when it’s quiet then it’s just me and my brain and my brain is not a safe place.

Especially not right now.

As soon as she presses the button Deck’s voice fills the silence.

“Jesus, can we not?” I groan, sinking into the puddle of emotional goo she’s been worried about this whole drive.

“Sorry,” she screeches, reaching up again and changing it over to the local country station. “My brother definitely won’t be caught coming through these airwaves.”

I let out a half-hearted chuckle and bury my head in my hands. “He’s everywhere Char.” My throat tightens, making the words come out half-formed, and my eyes burn but that’s definitely from lack of sleep and not the tears trying to form at the corners.

“You two grew up here, together… with me. We all have memories buried deeper than Murphy’s secret barbeque sauce recipe.”

I glance back out the window on my side of the vehicle. There it is. The Oak Tree Cafe complete with the peeling Coca-Cola sign and the plywood patch in the front window Maggie’s been asking Murphy to fix for years. Someone did finally paint the benches out front though. “The sky blue color is nice.” It’s different, but not really. Oak Valley always has a way of staying the same while everything else changes around it.

Charlotte flicks on the turn signal, even though there’s no one behind us. That’s what we do here. We follow the rules, or at least pretend to, and we smile at people we hate in the grocery store because we’re all pretending like everything’s fine.

Except nothing’s fine.

Not my car, not my heart and definitely not my life.

I’m grateful the wheels on this car are still moving because I know the second I slow down, the weight of the last week and especially the last forty-eight hours are going to crush me and I can’t afford that. The last time I felt like this I was sixteen. I thought I had matured enough to handle it this time. I was wrong. The only difference between then and now is that sixteen-year-old Aria still had hope in happily ever after.

Now I just want my damn car back.

“Should we grab a bite first?” I ask, pushing my hood back and blinking like that’ll stop the prickle behind my eyes.

“I thought you wanted to pick up your car first?”

“I do… it’s just… I’m completely unstable and very close to losing it. Maybe I shouldn’t face actual law enforcement before caffeine and carbs hit my system.”

Charlotte snorts. “You’re not in trouble, Ari. You just need to show ID and sign some paperwork so they can release the car.”

“Which they only have because Jake violated his whatever-the-hell it was,” I mutter.

“A court-ordered restraining order, to be exact. He blew right past the line on that one. One of Gus’s bouncers flagged it when he showed up at Bottom’s UP looking for you and called it in.”

I let that settle over me, a strange mix of relief and rage sloshing together in my gut. “I didn’t file a restraining order.”

“Nope. Gus did.” Charlotte glances over at me with one eyebrow arched.

“W – Gus!”

“Yeah, seriously. Jake was out there causing a disturbance every night. Gus got tired of it and called the cops.”

The words hit harder than they should. “I didn’t know.” I press my palm against my sternum, trying to breathe through the pressure building in my chest. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Charlotte hums in agreement and takes the turn onto Main street, heading toward the Oak Valley Sheriff’s Office.

The building looks exactly like I remember. Brick, boxy, and smug about its small-town authority. Inside, it smells like burnt coffee. A man in full uniform stands at the front desk. “Can I help you?” His voice is familiar. I glance at his name, displayed on the left side of his chest. Hernandez. 

I square my shoulders, plaster on a smile and step up to the desk like I’m not two seconds away from falling apart. “My name is Aria Harper and I’m here to pick up my car. I think you were the one who called me about it.”

“Ah, I remember that one.” Officer Hernandez taps a few keys and scans the computer screen. “Alright. I’ll need your ID to process the release.”

I stand against the beige wall and try not to think about what would happen if the red dot from the camera scanning my face was a laser, which is harder than it should be. Great. Gotta love what stress does to the human body, I groan inwardly. Finally, the machine beeps then hums as it processes my face, which felt a lot like a mug shot.

He glances quickly between the image on his screen, my ID in the bag marked with my case number then back at me. He places the ID on top of a scanner. While the computer tries to decide if I’m me or not, he turns and grabs a tablet then hands it to me. “The document displayed is a standard release form for impounded property,” he says. “You’ll need to read it and then initial here, here, and sign at the bottom.”

I scan the lines without really reading them. Just more proof that my life has, once again, become paperwork and damage control. “Here you go,” I mutter, signing my name with a sharp flick of the wrist. “Is that it?”

He bobs his head from side to side in an iffy-motion. “There is one more thing,” he says, retrieving my license from the scanner and giving it back to me. “Since the vehicle was taken without permission, you have a right to press charges. We’ve already booked him for several other charges, so he will remain in police custody pending his court date. But if you want to file an official statement then those charges will be added to the growing list.”

“Should I?” I ask, glancing back at Officer Hernandez. He shrugs her shoulders with a soft smile on his face. “That decision is yours. The law supports whatever you decide to do in this case.”

If I say yes, it makes it real. And permanent. But if I say no? Jake gets away with hurting me one more time without any real penalties. I look up, meeting Hernandez’s gaze. “I want to press charges.”

“Alright,” he says, like he didn’t doubt it for a second. He taps a few more keys on his computer and the tablet flashes to a new document on the screen. “This is your statement form. Write out what you know. Make sure to include the timeline of events and anything else the judge will need to know. If we have any questions or need clarification on any of the details then you’ll be contacted for a follow-up interview.”

I stare at the blank lines for a second too long then I pour my heart out onto a digital page. When I slide it back, Hernandez nods and adds his signature and badge number to the document. “That’s it. You’ll likely get a call from the DA in a few days and you may be asked to appear in court to corroborate your statement.” He walks back behind the desk and grabs a slip of paper. “Here’s your release ticket for the impound lot. It’s three blocks north, behind the old feed store. Tell Billy I sent you and show him this. He’ll unlock the gate and you’ll be able to leave with your vehicle.”

“Thank you,” I say, tucking the paper into my pocket and making my way back outside.

Charlotte’s waiting by the curb, leaning against her SUV with her arms crossed. “Well?”

“I got the release slip,” I say, holding it and the clear bag of my personal belongings up victoriously and the memory of Jax running across the parking lot with his freshly found shoe waving over his head hits like a freight train. I don’t just miss Deck. I miss all of them.

“And Jake?” she asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“He’s still in custody. And… I pressed charges.”

Her eyes widen a little, but she doesn’t say anything. She just opens her arms wide for a hug I didn’t know I desperately needed.

I sniff back the tears, still trying to fall and press both palms into my eyes to stop the flow because I know once it starts it’s not going to stop.

“You did the right thing,” she says, opening the passenger side door for me. “Now, let’s go get your car.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – DECK

The airport smells like pretzels, fake cheese sauce and B.O. worse than Jax’s protein farts. My backpack’s slung over my shoulder and the photograph of us is tucked into the inside lining of my solid gray hoodie like a goddamn compass as I study the flight logs displayed on the ticket kiosk. The earliest flight out of Seattle to anywhere near Oak Valley is in two hours, so I have nothing to do but wait and hope I’m not spotted.

I click through the payment screen on the kiosk and go to tap my card against the reader, but…

Shit.

Megan’s probably already had every notification rerouted to her personal device. I can’t use it, because if I use it then she’ll see it the second the charge hits the account then the label will know. And if they know, they’ll block it. They’ll send someone to “escort” me to “a safer environment,” which is PR-speak for hiding me until I stop making impulsive decisions that mess with their carefully orchestrated tour schedule.

I back away from the kiosk with a heavy sigh and open my wallet. I’m going to have to do this with cash, so I count the crumpled bills left from per diem we pulled at the last stop.

Four hundred and sixty-three dollars.

Good enough.

I keep my head down as I slide into the line for departures. When it’s my turn to be called up, the girl behind the desk looks about nineteen and entirely unimpressed. “Where are you headed?”

“Oak valley,” I say without hesitation.

“One way?” she asks, her nails clicking across the keyboard.

I nod.

“I have one flight heading out in two hours. There’s one layover in Denver.”

“That’ll work,” I say, grabbing my wallet from my back pocket.

“There’s only one seat available. Middle seat, middle section, coach.” She grimaces like that might be a deal breaker.

“That’s fine,” I say, pulling the bills from my wallet and sliding them under the glass window to her. “I don’t care where I sit.” I’d ride in the cargo hold if it got me back to Aria faster. The small screen in front of me flashes and displays a form asking for my name and contact information. Ugh! At least it’ll take longer for them to find me than if I used the label’s expense card. I type in all my details and press the button to finalize buying the ticket under my legal name because fake names raise flags and I’m too tired for that. A few seconds pass and all types of scenarios where label security floods in from all sides and Devon takes me down to the ground, but nothing happens except for a quick beep from my phone to let me know my ticket has arrived.

“You’re all set,” she says with a customer service smile. “Enjoy your flight.”

“Thanks.” I let out a relieved sigh and head in the direction of the giant overhead Departures sign. 

Security is backed up but the line helps me pass the time. It’s better than sitting in the waiting area twiddling my thumbs for two hours.

By the time I get past the metal detectors and guards, I have about thirty minutes left before take off and the automated voice overhead says, Flight 671 to Joplin is now boarding.

I glance down at the ticket pulled up on my phone for the terminal number and scramble to make it there in time. Of course it’s dead last. By the time I get there my thighs are burning and my legs feel like they might fall off at any minute, but I manage to stand upright and show the airport employee at the hangar door my phone’s screen. He scans the code and after a quick series of beeps and a green light appears on their device he says, “Enjoy your flight,” and motions for me to enter the boarding bridge.

“Thanks,” I say, checking my phone again as I jog through the bridge and step onto the plane. Row 32, middle seat. I wiggle in between a guy who smells like salami and a sweet grandma who keeps elbowing me every time she flips a page in her romance novel.

The irony is not lost on me.

No legroom and no overhead compartment space left, so I tuck my backpack onto my lap and lean my head back. I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t come.

Just flashes of memories.

Aria’s laugh when she found our branded toiletry line in the bus bathroom. The way her lips parted when she leaned in to kiss me. The sound of her saying my name like it still meant something.

Damn it.

I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, trying to block it out, but the overhead screen lights up with the inflight news.

And there it is.

Me.

My face, blown up and slapped next to a headline in all caps. MISSING ROCK STAR ABANDONS TOUR

“Oh my goodness,” the grandma beside me whispers. “That looks just like you.”

I turn slightly. “I get that a lot,” I rasp, voice low and gravelly. “I’m a professional impersonator.”

She squints, but thankfully doesn’t push it. I pull my hoodie over my head and slump forward, trying to disappear into the tray table as I tug my phone out of my pocket and tap on Jax’s face.

YOU HAD ONE JOB.

Dude.

You said…

and I quote

“TELL THEM WHATEVER YOU WANT, JAX”

I didn’t think I had to specify
nothing that would have my face plastered
on the news while I’m trying to lay low
under the radar!!!!

Megan’s ruthless.

What can I say?

BTW I’m gonna need hazard pay.

I can’t deal with this right now. I tap the screen off and drop the phone in my lap as my jaw clenches tight enough I can feel the muscles quivering in my neck. He was supposed to cover for me. Buy me a little time to fix this. Instead, the label’s already in panic mode and Megan’s probably halfway through writing a press release that makes it sound like I needed a spiritual retreat in the goddamn mountains.

Whatever.

I don’t care.

Let them spiral.

Let the rumors fly.

I’ve spent the last decade doing what everyone else needed me to do. Keeping the peace. Carrying the brand. Pretending the stage was enough. But none of it means anything if she’s not there with me.

I pull out the photo from my pocket and let my thumb trace her image.

I’m not going back without her.

Not this time.

CHAPTER NINETEEN – ARIA

It smells like stale beer and cheap lemon cleaner Gus buys from the local dollar store. The soles of my boots stick to the concrete floor as I wipe down another table. Another Friday night and Oak Valley’s idea of a good time. A quote-unquote crowd of about fifteen people scattered across high-tops, spilling alcohol from their open beer bottles as they laugh too loud at an endless string of bad jokes.

I used to think this place was suffocating.

Now it just feels…safe.

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket.

Charlotte: You alive? I haven’t heard from you in days.

I snort, thumb flying across the screen.

Define alive.

Three dots dance in a bubble in the corner of the screen. Stop. Start again. She’s pacing wherever she is, I can feel it through the damn bubbles.

Don’t play cute with me. You’ve been MIA.

Rude.

Accurate, though.

I’m sorry.

I just needed to rest.

I think.

Across the bar, Gus hollers for another whiskey for his customer. I pour it, slide it down, and duck back into the corner to check my phone again.

She sends a gif of a woman diving into a murphy bed and it closing on her. I laugh out loud, earning a curious glance from the customers at the

Thanks.

Needed that.

You need tequila shots
a baseball bat,
and maybe…idk…therapy.

In that order.

What makes you think
I haven’t already done the first two?

Because if you had,
I’d be bailing you out of county jail right now.

I lean against the bar, smiling despite myself. That’s Charlotte’s magic, cutting through the ache with sarcasm until I remember how to breathe.

I’m fine. Really.

Lies.

You only say “really” when you’re absolutely NOT fine.

I roll my eyes. She’s not wrong.

Deck’s a mess.

My stomach tightens.

That’s a shame.

Aria!

You’ve been in love with that idiot since we were sixteen.

You can’t just turn that off.

My eyes burn at the corners as I attempt to tap out a reply, but I can’t find the words to say. The dots start dancing in the corner again and I shove the phone back into my apron. I’m not ready to see whatever she has to say next.

The shift is winding down, just a few regulars nursing their beers and the jukebox crooning some old country ballad. I grab a rag and start wiping down the bar, letting—

Charlotte’s message replays in my head. Deck’s a mess. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he felt the same way about me that I felt about him.

But if that were true I would’ve been more than an inconvenience.

Then the TV over the bar flickers to some late-night entertainment show. Bright colors, fake smiles, celebrities airbrushed to perfection. Ugh. Everything I’m trying to escape.

Deck.

His face fills the screen. That stupid lopsided grin, dark hair falling over his eyes. My heart lurches.

“Nope,” I mutter, already reaching for the remote. The last thing I need is his face staring at me, reminding me of every bruise I haven’t healed from yet.

But before I can click away, the words in bold red scroll across the bottom of the screen.

MISSING ROCK STAR: DECK KINGSTON DISAPPEARS MID-TOUR.

I freeze.

The volume’s too low, the anchors’ voices drowned out by clinking glasses and bar chatter. I jab my thumb into the volume button, turning it up.

“…last seen leaving a hotel in Chicago two nights ago. All scheduled tour dates for the band East Divide have been canceled. We’ve reached out to their management team and record label but have not yet received a response. As one would expect, fans are demanding answers. And refunds.”

The room falls quiet around me as the audio cuts through the hum. Heads turn.

“Aria, what the hell?” Gus barks from his corner. “Turn it back to the game!”

“Yeah, nobody cares about your boy band heartthrob!” another regular heckles.

But I don’t move. My chest is clenched like a fist, tightening with every word. Missing. No comment. Vanished.

Someone boos when I grab the second remote and flick the other TVs over. A chorus follows, half-drunk locals groaning like I’ve just killed their dog.

“Booooo!”

“Put the damn football back on!”

“Who cares about some wannabe?”

I ignore them all, raising the volume again until the anchor’s voice rings through the whole bar.

“…unconfirmed reports of erratic behavior leading up to the disappearance, including an onstage incident and canceled press appearances. Sources close to the band say the rest of the band was completely blindsided by Kingston’s abrupt departure. There has been no official word given on his current whereabouts.”

My pulse roars in my ears. My legs suddenly feel unsteady as the boos and heckles blur into white noise. All I can hear is that single word. Missing?

The word missing keeps flashing across the screen, burning itself into my brain.

I back up slowly, reaching to brace myself on the counter behind the bar with the remote still dangling from my hand. The anchor goes on about timelines and sightings and insider reports, but all I can focus on is that single, impossible truth.

Deck Kingston is gone.

“Aria,” Jerry, one of the regulars, barks, pounding his empty glass on the counter, “either turn that crap off or pour me another.”

I jolt back to reality, fingers fumbling with the remote before tossing it aside. “Yeah. Right. Another.” I grab the bottle, pour a shot that sloshes over the rim.

Missing.

It can’t be true.

Probably just another PR stunt, I tell myself.

There’s no way Deck, of all people, could fly under the radar long enough to be counted missing.

He fills every room he walks into, demands space and attention. Hell, even the oxygen itself. No, he’s infuriatingly alive and larger than life in a way that makes the word missing feel wrong on my tongue.

I shove the thought of him being in danger down and swallow the lump forming in my throat, shoving it down right along with it.

Not my problem.

Not anymore.

The news drones on, replaying the same grainy clip of him ducking out a side door of the hotel I left him in. His black hoodie pulled up, covering his face and his security team oddly nowhere in sight.

“See?” I mutter under my breath. “Classic PR stunt. Stir up drama, sell more tickets. They’ll ‘find him’ in a week, conveniently right before the next leg of the tour.”

“Huh?” Jerry says, downing the shot I just poured him.

“Nevermind.” It’s easier to believe that than the alternative. Still, my hands shake as I refill another customer’s beer, foam spilling over. I wipe it away quickly, forcing myself into motion, into anything that isn’t staring at that screen. I just need to finish my shift, ignore the headlines and keep my head down.

Deck’s problems have nothing to do with me anymore. I’m not his girlfriend. I’m not even his fake girlfriend. I’m just Aria Harper from Oak Valley, pouring beers for men who’ll never care about anything beyond the next round.

Except…

my phone buzzes in my apron’s pocket.

I suck in a deep breath and pull it out and check the notification.

Charlotte: You seeing this? Call me.

I shove the phone facedown without replying. I couldn’t. If I said it out loud, if I admitted I was scared then it would be real. Instead, I clear plates, scrub glasses, and mop the floor with a smile that doesn’t feel like it belongs in the moment. Stop it! I yell silently to myself. He left me before. I left him this time. We’re over. But every time my gaze flicks to the screen, that red ticker screams the same word and my heart can’t pretend it isn’t worried for him.

After the final call alarm goes off, the bar empties slowly. Jerry shuffles out with a grumble because I took his keys. 

“You can pick them up tomorrow,” I remind him.

The jukebox goes silent as I lock the door behind him, and then it’s just me and the TVs.

Midnight passes. I should turn the TVs off, lock up and go home. I don’t. Instead, I lean against the counter, staring at Deck’s face frozen on the screen.

His grin—the one I know isn’t real, just a fake for the cameras—cuts into me sharper than anything.

The bell above the door jingles.

“Sorry, we’re—” I start, turning toward the door, but the words die in my throat.

He’s standing in the doorway wearing that same black hoodie, shoulders slouched forward like the weight of the world’s pressing down on him. He meets my gaze and I see it, the shadows under his eyes, dark and deep.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” For a second, I think I’ve conjured him. That my brain, tired and frayed, finally snapped under the pressure.

“Aria.”  The sound of his voice, rough and low, saying my name, is enough to shatter all my carefully constructed walls.

The rag slips out of my hand as I run toward him and wrap my arms around his neck. “You’re okay?”

His arms close around my waist, pulling me tight against him. He nods at first, then shakes his head. “No, Ari. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since you left.” He shoves his hood back, hair a mess, stubble rough on his jaw. He looks… wrecked. Tired in a way I’ve never seen, even after back-to-back shows and nights without sleep. “Before you say anything,” he starts, pulling back to look at me. “I know I screwed up.”

The memories crash in like waves.

And I remind myself that it’s entirely possible to be glad he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere and still not let him waltz back in like everything between us is okay.

“What’s with the disappearing act? Was it all just a ruse since the fake relationship didn’t work out so well?”

“That one’s Jax’s fault,” he says with a half-hearted chuckle. 

“That’s convenient.” I let the sarcasm drip.

He winces, but I’m not done.

“Oh my gosh, that’s it, isn’t it? Megan probably thought this one up, so you could go from spiraling rock star to prodigal son and have fans cheering for your return instead of predicting your downfall. That makes sense, actually. She really nailed it.”

He shakes his head, reaching out for me again.

I pull back.

“That’s not how it is, Aria.” He takes a cautious step forward. “I left the tour to come back to Oak Valley. I knew they’d block me at every turn, so I didn’t tell anyone except Jax.”

“Why?” I ask, feeling every protective instinct I possess lock into place at once.

“Because this,” he gestures between us with one hand, “this fake relationship is the only thing that’s felt real to me since I left home.”

I bark a laugh. “Nice line. Bet it kills in interviews.”

“It’s not a line,” he shoots back, voice rough. “I walked away from everything to tell you that…”

“To tell me what?”

“That I love you. And that I don’t care if the label drops me, if they cancel the tour, if the world thinks I’ve lost my mind. None of it matters without you.”

There it is. The big, sweeping, rom-com-worthy grand gesture. The one every girl secretly dreams of. Except I’m not some starry-eyed girl anymore. I’ve been burned more than once by Deck Kingston. I cross my arms, cock a hip, and level the best unimpressed glare I can muster.

“Wow. You really rehearsed that, didn’t you? I half expected a boombox over your head.”

His lips twitch. “I tried. Gus said he’d shoot me if I showed up outside the bar like that.”

“Good for Gus.”

“Aria, I’m serious.” He moves closer. Close enough I can smell the faded cologne on his skin mixing with the sweat beading around his temples. The scent is familiar and… dangerous. “I screwed up, and I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making it right if you’ll let me.”

I swallow hard, keeping my chin high. “You think one speech wipes away all the years of history between us, Deck? All the years you chose the spotlight over me? The ghosting, the distance, the… You can’t just show up in my life again, like some runaway rock star, and expect me to melt into your arms.”

“I don’t expect you to melt,” he says softly. “I expect you to fight me every step of the way. But I’ll take it. Because fighting with you is better than breathing without you.”

Damn him. My nose wrinkles and my eyebrows furrow, but my heart stutters behind my ribs anyway. I force a smirk, clinging to sarcasm like armor.

“That line’s so cheesy it should come with marinara sauce like our mozzarella sticks.”

He grins, a flash of the boy I used to know. The one who waited for me to sneak out of my bedroom window and climb into his beat-up car with a camera around my neck.

“Yeah, but you love cheese sticks.”

He’s not wrong.

I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “Deck…”

“Just… give me this one last chance,” he pleads. “Let me prove it to you.”

The room feels too small and the air’s growing thick. Every instinct screams to run, because if I stay I might actually give in.

“You look like hell,” I say flatly. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t liquid?”

His grin widens. “Are you offering to cook for me? Because if so, that’s basically a yes.”

I throw a rag at him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still standing here.”

He’s not wrong about that either.

“I wrote something,” he says quietly. “For you.” He tips his head toward the tiny stage in the corner where open mic nights usually kill brain cells with bad poetry and worse guitar playing. 

My laugh is automatic, sharp enough to cover the sudden hammer of my pulse. “Let me guess. Another tortured rock ballad about your demons?”

His mouth curves, not offended. “Not demons, plural. Just one.” He winks over his shoulder as he makes his way up onto the stage.

Oh, hell.

I shake my head, backing up a step like distance can blunt the impact. “Deck, don’t. Don’t act like one song fixes everything. That’s not how this works.”

“I know.” His voice is calm, steady, like he’s already had this argument with himself a hundred times. “But it’s the only language I have left. You taught me that once. Remember? You said music and photography had one thing in common, freezing a moment in time so no one could forget.”

Damn him for remembering that.

And damn me for saying it in the first place.

“I’m not some fan in the front row waiting to be serenaded,” I snap. “I’m not… that girl anymore.”

“You’re not,” he agrees softly. “You’re stronger. Fiercer. Smarter. And I’m the idiot who had to lose you to figure that out.”

He grabs the cheap acoustic guitar perched against the wall and drapes the strap around his neck. “Just one song, Harp. No press, no crowd. Just me saying everything I should’ve told you years ago.”

My chest aches. I hate how part of me wants it and how my traitorous heart whispers, What if he means it this time? So I do what any self-respecting woman facing a romantic moment from the one man who could destroy her completely would do. I roll my eyes.

“You realize this isn’t a movie, right? You don’t just… cue up a heartfelt ballad and win the girl.”

He grins, boyish and reckless, and for a second I see the seventeen-year-old who kissed me on the hood of his car while the whole damn world disappeared.

“We’ll see about that.”

I groan out loud.

The mic squeals when he tests it, and for once Deck looks nervous. Really, truly nervous. His gaze locks onto mine from across the room, and I hate that my stomach flips like it always has when he looks at me.

“This one’s for someone I was too stupid to hold onto the first time,” he says into the mic, voice low, raw. “But I’m hoping she gives me another chance.”

He starts to play—soft, stripped down. No distortion, no walls of sound, just him and that old worn-out acoustic guitar. His voice slides through the room, low and rough.

And the words…

God, the words.

Before the lights, before the noise,

Before the weight of every choice,

There was you, behind the lens,

Seeing the pieces no one else could mend.

Every shutter, every frame,

You caught the man beneath the fame,

And when the world spun too fast,

You slowed it down

You made it last.

It wasn’t the stage, it wasn’t the crowd,

It wasn’t the chaos, the voices screaming loud.

It was late-night drives on backroads,

Pizza, homework, and walks through the grove.

You’ve always been my home.

I clench my jaw, refusing to let the tears forming in the corners of my eyes win.

When the last note fades, his eyes never leave mine. “Still think it’s a cliché?” he asks when he climbs down, voice husky, guitar strap sliding from his shoulder.

I swallow hard, forcing my walls back up brick by brick. “Of course it is. A guy writing a song for the girl he lost? That’s rom-com level predictable.”

He smirks, cocky even in defeat. “Rom coms usually have happy endings.”

“Deck.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. “You can’t…” My words trail off before I can talk myself out of it. He’s right here. Too close. Smelling like every ounce of nostalgia and heartache I’ve been running from. “Deck, I—”

“Aria,” he murmurs back, and then pulls me in and kisses me.

And the worst part? I kiss him back. Hard. Hungry. Like the last decade’s been a bad dream and we’re finally waking up.

Somewhere through the blur of adrenaline and heat surging through my veins, I hear a faint tap. When I break the kiss, breathless and flustered, Deck’s grinning from ear to ear and holding up his phone.

“You are not—”

He snaps another photo, this one with me glaring at him despite one arm being wrapped around me. Then he types a quick caption, thumb flying.

A second later, my phone buzzes.

I pull it out, horrified.

There it is.

A picture of us, uploaded to his official account.

Finally home.
Tagged location: Oak Valley

“Oh my God, you reckless lunatic!” I smack his arm. “Do you even know what you just did?”

“Yeah,” he says smugly, slipping the phone back in his pocket. “Told the truth.”

Before I can strangle him, my screen lights up again. This time with an incoming group video call.

Incoming call: Charlotte

I swipe and her face fills the screen, hair in a messy bun, eyeliner smudged like she’s been crying or maybe laughing too hard if she’s already seen the post. “OH. MY. GOD. IT’S ABOUT TIME!” she shrieks.

“Charlotte—” I start, but she steamrolls me.

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve had to listen to him mope? Ten years, Aria. Ten. And you—” she points at me through the phone “—pretending you were over him when clearly you were not.”

“I was—”

“Don’t even. I’m hanging this over both your heads for life.”

Deck leans over my shoulder, waving into the camera. “Hey, sis.”

“Deck!” she squeals again, then scowls at him. “If you hurt her, again, I swear—”

“Oh my God, Charlotte, I’m hanging up.” I jab my finger at the screen.

Before the call ends, Deck’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He fishes it out and scowls when he glances at the screen. “It’s Megz.”

“Answer it!” I hiss. “She’s probably already planning the next PR move.”

Instead, he declines the call and tosses the phone onto the table like it’s radioactive.

Her text lights up his lock screen in bold letters. 

Megan: THIS IS GOING TO RUIN THE TOUR!

“Do you promise you’re not just with me because it’s… convenient?” I pout, crossing my arms.

Deck slips an arm around me and presses a kiss to my temple. “Babe, you’re anything but convenient.”

I scowl back at him, torn between melting or punching him.

“And I wouldn’t change a thing,” he adds, his voice softer this time.

And just like that, the noise of everything else, Charlotte, Megan, the damn tour and all of our messed up history, fades to static. For the first time in ten years, it feels like we were exactly where we were supposed to be, together.

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