I haven’t written anything in months.
That realization honestly fucking sucks. Music used to spill out of me whether I wanted it to or not—lyrics scribbled on receipts or napkins, melodies hummed into my phone at three in the morning. Now there’s just…nothing. Like that once beautiful and alive part of me has gone quiet after all this time.
I start playing anyway, softly at first. Just my fingers, muscle memory doing most of the work. I hum under my breath, not really singing, just letting sound exist. The guitar feels comforting in a way nothing else does these days. It doesn’t ask or demand anything from me, other than presence.
As I play, my thoughts drift backward. They always do in these quiet moments by myself. I’m twenty again, standing in an LA penthouse with a drink I didn’t pour in my hand. Nolan is there, his sharp smile telling me how special I am. Adriana is draped over the arm of a couch, watching me like she already knows what I’ll taste like. Someone hands me something small and white and says,Trust me.
I did.
I remember the first time I woke up with blood on my hands and no clear memory of how it got there. The panic. The way Nolan talked me down was calm and reassuring.It’s fine, Jude. Accidents happen. You’re safe. I’ve got you. I can make it all go away if you let me.
I didn’t leave my old life all at once. I let it slip away in pieces through missed calls and cancelled plans. And somehow, every road led back to Adriana’s bed and Nolan’s money. The guitar vibrates beneath my fingers as I think about all the solo shows I’ve done for the laundering of drugs. It was always easier whenit was just me. Easier to move things through one name, one face. I was the talent. The product people wanted to see. My darkness. My volatility. The way I burned myself alive onstage and called it art.
It always worked. And now there’s Alexei.
The thought makes me cold. Nolan was dangerous, sure. But Alexei is something else entirely. I know, in my bones, that I could die here. Any day. If I displease the wrong man. If I become inconvenient in any way.
My fingers keep moving. And then, without thinking, I start playing“Smother”by Daughter. The first few notes slip out before I realize what I’m doing.
I still immediately. My hands freeze on the strings. My chest tightens like someone reached inside and squeezed. I remember the last time I played this song. The way she looked at me, and listened with tears in her eyes…
I don’t say or even think her name. I hope that one day, I might forget it. I exhale shakily through my nose and close my eyes. The guitar suddenly feels too heavy. I carefully set it back in its case, like I’m putting something fragile to rest, and set it beside the couch. Outside, the city keeps moving along. Inside, the silence rushes back in.
Fuck.
Chapter seven
EMMA EASTON
I unzip my suitcase and set it open on the bed. I just stare at it for a long moment. Micah took Heather home for a little bit so she could pack up some nicer clothes for the trip. They’ll be back soon.
I fold clothes with tired hands, organizing them with such focus that I hope can distract me from the stupid thoughts swirling around in my head. But it’s not working, unfortunately. I pause, one hand bracing on the edge of the bed, the other pressing flat against my sternum. The sensation sharpens, breath turning shallow. My heart starts racing.
Not now.
Please, not now.
I force myself to inhale slowly, but it barely helps. My fingers fumble as I reach for my pill bottle. I swallow the medication with a gulp from my water bottle, my throat tight as I tip my head back. I sit on the edge of the bed and close my eyes. And just like that...
I’m eighteen again.
~ A memory ~
The world is gone. It’s black and disorienting, the remnants of a free-fall terror still clawing at my throat. I bolt upright with a gasp, my hands scrabbling at the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping me from tumbling into a starless sky. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think—
“Emma.”
Jude’s voice is soft in the dark. Before I can even really process it, his warm arms are around me, pulling me gently against the solid wall of his chest. He guides me down until my head tucked perfectly under his chin. His heartbeat is a slow, steady rhythm beneath my ear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “I’m right here, baby.”
I do. I let my weight sink into him, let his warmth seep into the cold, panicked places the nightmare left behind. We lie like that for several silent minutes, melting into one another. And then, he reaches for his guitar beside the bed. The first gentle chords vibrate through his body and into mine. Then his perfect, raspy voice follows, quiet enough not to wake my parents downstairs.Home.The sound feels like his hands smoothing down my spine, easing the tight fist squeezing the life out of my chest.
My breathing slows, and my hands stop shaking.
When the last note fades into the dark, I’m calm enough to turn in his arms. I look up at him. In the faint moonlight, he’s watching me like I’m his entire world. He’s so patient with me, even when I wake him with my nightmares.