Micah counts us in.
The first note leaves me, and it’s frayed around the edges. My voice cracks on the second line, but in thegoodway. The way that sounds tragic and intentional. They’re all eating up this version of me that’s unraveling in real time.
I hate them for it.
Halfway through the second song, I catch Finnick’s eye. He gives me the look—the “brother eyes,” the silent plea to not push myself so hard.
Kami’s lip trembles between her singing.
Micah plays harder for me. Because he knows what’s colliding through my veins.
Nolan stands in the back with Adriana, hands clasped, nodding with sick satisfaction. When I hit the first lyric ofDark Streets, something inside me fractures.
"Dark streets whisper, 'come home, come home,'
But I don’t know which sins are mine to atone…"
My voice echoes through crystal and glass, bleeding straight into the New York night. By the time we reach the final note, I’m shaking so hard I nearly drop the mic. The crowd erupts in applause.
I want to scream.
The excited cheering and clapping follow me as security ushers us out the back exit. The night air is thick, humid, and sour with exhaust.
Adriana trails after me, guiding me out into the darkness. The second the tour bus door shuts behind us, the scent of weed andexpensive perfume envelops me. Her fingers circle my wrist, and she yanks me. Hard. My back slams into the edge of the counter, a sharp jolt of pain I barely register. Her other hand is already on myleather jacket, pushing it off my shoulders.
“Take off your jacket,” she murmurs. As usual, it’s a command that has my insides twisting.
My hands are moving before my brain can form a protest, the worn leather sliding down my arms. She’s already pulling the small, polished black kit from a drawer. The quietclickof its opening is louder than the screaming inside my head. My pulse kicks against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to break out. The skin on the inside of my elbow twitches, a Pavlovian response ofanticipation and dreadfused into one dizzying emotion.
“You didsowell tonight,” she purrs. The needle glints under the dim overhead light.
My stomach knots, but my arm is already extending as I sit on the couch. I look away, my gaze fixed on a smudge on the microwave door. The needle bites. Then, the warmth. It explodes in my veins like a wildfire racing through a forest of deadwood. My vision tunnels, and my heart is suddenly pounding in my chest. The world recedes as the meth tears through my body.
Adriana’s fingers trace the line of my throat, then tangle possessively in my hair, tilting my head back. “I love you,” she whispers, her breath fanning over my lips. Her mouth crashes into mine, and I let her take whatever she wants, my muscles tensing all over. Nothing feels quite real except her grip in my hair and the drug.
Love. Yeah. If you loved me, you wouldn’t do this to me.
We fall onto the narrow couch in a tangle of limbs, a blur of scraped teeth and hard, demanding kisses. This is a transaction. A leash. Her body is a contract I never signed but can never fucking escape. Her hands are at my belt, and I’m already hardfrom the chemical rush and the hollow, post-show adrenaline crash.
I hate her so much, but the meth makes me want nothing more than physical pleasure. She opens her thighs for me, and I unbuckle my belt on autopilot, the leather sliding free with a rasp. And when I bury myself in her in one rough thrust, my eyes roll back in my head. There’s no warmth or real love.
My breathing stutters as I immediately set a brutal, aggressive pace. It’s the only kind of sex I’ve had for seven long years. The only kind I’ve been allowed.The last time I had sex that meant anything...that felt like anything...was with…
The thought is a memory that cuts deep.Emma.
Knowing I’m hate-fucking this bitch is the only way I’m able to get through these nights. So I’m always aggressive. I can’t help it. But the problem is, she likes it. Adriana’s nails drag down my back, sharp little lines of pain that ground me in this awful moment. I focus on that sting, on the mechanical rhythm of my hips. And then—
The bus door swings open with a creak.
Micah steps in, grabs a cold beer from the mini-fridge, and glances over. His eyes meet mine for a split second. There’s no judgment, no interest, just a blank acknowledgment. Adriana doesn’t even pause. Neither do I. Because this is normal.
This is our life.
This is what we do on nights we should’ve died together in some hotel room.
Adriana’s legs wrap around my waist, her sharp heels catching on the loose fabric of my jeans. I pound into her, the meth-fueled energy making my movements hard and fast. My gaze clashes with hers, envisioning the life leaving her eyes as I squeeze her throat. I swear I squeeze it harder every goddamn time. Maybe one day, she’ll just die.
Her nails are so fucking sharp as her body tenses, and she orgasms with a short, clipped gasp, but I don’t flinch. I don’t feel a thing. I just keep moving, a machine set to a function, chasing a climax that feels more like a system shutdown. I finally come with a grunt, my forehead dropping to her shoulder as my body shudders through the release.