Chapter two
JUDE GRAVES
The downtown traffic is restless like every other city. But something about New York in particular is even wilder. The second the bus pulls up to the hotel, the outside world explodes into noise. Fans pack the sidewalk, barricades barely holding them back.
Cameras flash so hard the light feels like needles punching through my skull. When the door hisses open, a tidal wave of screams crashes in.
“Jude! Mr. Graves, look this way!”
“We love you!”
“Are you okay?”
That last one hits like a sharp slap in the face.
No. No, I’m not fucking okay. I’m a walking corpse propped up by drugs, secrets, and the two people who own every piece of my soul. I’ve done things for them I can’t scrub out of my hands, no matter how hard I try. Things that keep me awake even when I’m dead on my feet.
Adriana reaches back, grabs my chin between her fingers, and angles my face toward the crowd. Her nails dig in just enough to piss me off. “Smile,” she murmurs. “Pretend you’re not dying.”
I bare my teeth at the flashing lights. It’s not a smile; it’s a snarl with good lighting.
Nolan follows close behind, waving to the cameras like a fucking asshole. The crowd swells. Micah is on my right, rigid and pale, eyes darting around. Finnick and Kami are behind us, smiling to the best of their ability.
Security shoves a path through the chaos, pushing us toward the revolving doors of the hotel. The glass spins around me, warping everything into a dizzy kaleidoscope.
How the fuck is life even real?
Inside, the lobby is quiet, as expensive places always are, with its marble floors, gold accents, and air smelling faintly of citrus and money. My pulse won’t slow down.
Adriana links her arm through mine like we’re a couple stepping into a gala. “You look awful,” she says softly.
“I feel worse.”
She smiles sweetly. “Fix it.”
I roll my eyes. The hotel suite is massive, portraying floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over one of the most epic skylines I’ve ever seen. I barely look at it, though. Micah and I have always roomed together since Finnick and Kami are a couple who enjoy their personal time. I’ve walked in way too many times on them in the tour bus.
Micah is already in the bathroom, door cracked open. The counter is lined with small baggies and a rolled-up bill. I enter and shut the door behind me. I glance up to see that the mirror shows two ghosts. His pupils are blown, and his sweaty hair is stuck to his forehead. Mine look like oil-slick water—dark, flat, swallowing the light. He taps a line out, splits it, and pushes one toward me. He’s been my best friend for years, trapped in the same pit as me.
“Take it slow,” he mutters, though we both know we won’t.
I snort it. Fire hits the back of my throat. Warmth spreads through my chest, up my spine, settling behind my eyes like hands pressing down gently from the inside.
My breathing loosens.
The anxiety in my ribs melts into a smooth and thick heaviness that always helps ground me. The world steadies again as Ilean against the sink.
Micah wipes his nose with his sleeve. “You good?” he asks.
“Not even close.” I need the needle, but I can’t right now. So I’ll settle for oxy.
He nods. “Same.”
It won’t be enough for long.
The rehearsal space is filled with dust and too-bright fluorescent lights that automatically agitate me. It’s a large ballroom attached to some grand hotel. Sound techs scramble aroundus, Nolan talks to some guy in a suit, and Adriana is pacing, coordinating interviews she’ll later cancel depending on how I look.
Finnick plugs in his bass without looking at me. Kami checks her mic with a shaky exhale, and I strum my guitar with the ease of someone who’s been doing this since he was a child. When that first chord hits, something awful and beautiful tears open inside me. My chest splits, and the music pours out.