The name alone smashes me like a fucking sledgehammer. I lean on the counter and breathe through the dull ache behind my ribs. We were supposed to make it, her and me.
Just two dumb kids with big dreams and wild hearts, thinking our love could survive anything. She was sixteen when we first met at my sister’s house party. I was seventeen, pretending I knew who the hell I was. We were inseparable. Every weekend was dedicated to her sketching while I wrote lyrics in the Oregon sun. We swore we’d build something big out of nothing. We were creatives, after all. That kind of thing was easy for us, in our blood.
Then the label called. Nolan fucking Marshall. Said he could make me a star and that I had the kind of voice that could buy us a future. I was twenty when I left her crying on her front porch. I had lied through my teeth and told her it was best and that she deserved someone better. Told her nothing about the blood on my hands or the debts I’d been suddenly forced into.
Seven years later, I’m still paying.
I never loved anyone after her. Never tried. You don’t fall in love again after someone like that. You just look for distractions that burn a little less. The drugs, the crowds...all of it just noise to drown her memory out. My music went from soul to static,and somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to claw myself out.
Now I’m twenty-seven, washed up before I ever really lived. More fans than ever before, even if I always look like I’m a bad day away from dying. And, well,I am.Clearly.
“My chest hurts,” I mutter.
Micah appears in the doorway, his lean body filling the frame. “That’s because your heart stopped for almost a minute, you fucking idiot.”
The sink sputters cold water when I turn it on, and I splash it on my face before getting in the shower. Everything hurts.
The mirror is still fogged from the shower, so I wipe a streak through it and stare at the wreck staring back. And before I can stop myself or evenrealizeI’m doing it, I hum. It’s only a few notes, and barely a sound. But behind me, Micah starts humming too, sliding right into the melody. That’s when I freeze, realizing what song it was that was haunting my subconscious.
“Right Here” by Lil Peep.
Hersong. Ours.
Fuck.
My throat tightens so fast it almost chokes me. I shut the sound off in my brain immediately, jaw locking. Micah keeps humming for a beat longer, completely unaware of the painhaunting me now. I grip the counter and look away while his voice trails off.
I grab my phone just to have something to hold and perhaps steady myself. I shouldn’t open her contact. I shouldn’t even fuckinglook, but I swipe anyway to open the blank message screen. I tap on her name and sigh when the screen flashes:
Blocked Contact.
Right. My thumb hesitates, then presses.
Unblock.
The thread opens. Empty. Waiting. I don’t think. My thumbs move on their own.
Em—
A fist slams against the door, the sound startling me like a goddamn bullet shot through the bus. “Jude,” Nolan barks. “Open the door.”
Everything in me shuts down at once. Panic tightens my grip on the phone. Delete. Block. Gone. Micah sees it, but he stays silent. I shove the phone in my pocket, force my face blank, and stare at the door like whatever part of me hummed that song is dead again.
Micah reluctantly opens it, and Nolan breezes in. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an icy stare sharp as glass and slicked-back blonde hair. His polished black shoes always annoy me for some ungodly reason, and that charcoal suit smells like cigarette smoke and cologne far too expensive for a man like him. He’s my manager. Has been long enough to sound bored with my near-deaths. And lately, it feels like they’ve been happening more often than ever.
Adriana Britton, my 30-year-old publicist, enters behind him. Her auburn hair is pulled into a tight bun, a few strands curling around her face, sharp cheekbones catching the dim light.She’s another person who won’t save me because she’s profiting fromall of the shit Nolan’s putting me through. Not to mention how many times she’s fucked me when I can barely see or function. Her green eyes lock with mine, and I want to fucking vomit.
Nolan’s on the phone, voice irritated.
Damage control.
Because Jude Graves, lead singer ofDissonance, collapsed on stage tonight in front of twelve thousand fucking people. Cameras caught everything.
“Fans are already posting videos. He’strending,” Adriana announces. Micah steps aside and lets them pass. His jaw tightens when Nolan claps him on the back.
“We need to talk,” Nolan says, eyes sliding to me. “Now.”
Adriana stands near the bathroom door, tapping her nails impatiently on the frame. I grip the counter, knuckles white. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper to the reflection.