Wicked Pretty Thing

Copyright © 2023 by Jessie Walker

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or

mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book
review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events,
locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in
a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual
events is purely coincidental.

Editing/Proofreading: Heather Caryn

Cover Design/Formatting: Jessie Walker

 For those who wanted more.

This wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for you.

wail forever <3

 “Los Angeles” - Midnight

“Believe In Dreams” - Flyleaf

“Lost” - Dermot Kennedy

“Under the Bridge” - Red Hot Chili Peppers

“Sunsetz” - Cigarettes After Sex

“Simple Man” - Lynyrd Skynyrd

“Daylight” - Shinedown

“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” - Elvis Presley

“Dirt” - Alice In Chains

And more…

Check out the playlist on Spotify.

 Please note that this is not a standalone. This novella picks
up almost immediately where the Epilogue in If There’s A Way
left off, with the Lost Boys out in Los Angeles, recording their
first album. If you’ve yet to read the duet, it’s highly, highly
recommended you stop here.

This isn’t an extended epilogue. Not everything will be

wrapped up nicely. This is part of a true series that is heavily
character-driven and takes place in “real-time.”

Will and Way might be more solid than ever, as individuals

and as a couple, but they’re still growing. They’re still healing.

Their lives have really only just begun.

 Triggers for this novella can be found at the back of his
book, following the Acknowledgments, or on the author’s
website.

www.authorjessiewalker.com

Lost Boys Series

Recommended Reading Order:

Where There’s A Will

If There’s A Way

Still Beating

Every Breath After — Coming 2023!

 “Rhythm is sound in motion. It is related to the pulse, the
heartbeat, the way we breathe. It rises and falls. It takes us into
ourselves; it takes us out of ourselves.”

—Edward Hirsch
IT’S THREE A.M. WHEN I get the call.

I wish I could say it woke me from a dead sleep, but I’m

lucky if I get more than a couple hours of undisturbed shut-eye
these days.

“Sorry to wake you,” the familiar voice says down the line,
his tone hushed and unsure.

I rub an eye, pushing up on my arm as I strain to hear him.

Wherever they are, it’s loud. It’s not helping that he seems to
be whispering.
 “S’fine. What’s wrong? Is he okay?” My voice cracks, and I
wish I could say it’s from sleep.

Mason blows out a breath. “Yeah, he’s… he’s fine. He just

—”

“Then what?” I cut in roughly, sitting up straighter, fully

awake now. “What happened?”

On a good day, I need at least two cups of coffee before my

patience kicks in.

On a bad day…

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to rein in my

frustration.

But can’t he just fucking spit it out already?

As soon as I saw the name flashing across my screen, I

knew something happened. Mason doesn’t just call me to chat
about nothing, especially knowing how late it is for me here.

He doesn’t say anything right away, and I’m just about to

really lose my cool on him when he finally blurts, “He’s
having a panic attack.” A beat passes. “I think.”

Everything in me grinds to a halt. “Where is he?”

“Right here. Next to me. We’re at a diner. Everything was

going okay, and then someone dropped a frying pan, I think, in
the kitchen.” He huffs, and it’s only now I can make out the
frustration in his voice. “It was loud and sudden and—”

“Like a gunshot,” I finish softly as images rush to the

forefront of my mind. Memories I’d do anything to purge the
fuck out from both our heads, Waylon’s and mine.

“Yeah.”

Loud sudden noises don’t always get to him, but when they
do…

I don’t even realize I’m jumping out of bed, flipping on the

lights, and rushing over to my dresser.

Our dresser.

I’ve been living in the apartment above O’Leary’s for

several weeks now. Just under a month. But it’s only been ten
days since I’ve had the place all to myself.

I fucking hate it.

The silence…

It’s deafening.

Terrifying.

The electric bill is going to be sky-high after this month,

what with me leaving the television and random lights on at all
hours of the day. Just to give me some sense of comfort.

My hands are grabbing things without me even really

registering what they are. I tuck the phone between my ear and
shoulder as I tug on a pair of black sweats, not even checking
to see if they’re mine, let alone right side on. “Put him on.”

“He’s not—”

“Just hold it up to his ear.”

 A beat passes, then I hear a shuffle through the phone. I run
my hand through my hair, blinking rapidly against my own
rising panic as I wait.

And wait some more.

I hear muffled voices. Mason’s. Shawn’s.

But not Waylon’s.

Fuck.

I’ve never been so acutely aware of just how fucking far

away from me he is until this moment, and time is moving at a
fucking snail’s pace. Slowing down with each dragging second
I don’t have him in my arms. Every beat of my heart that I
don’t hear his voice, see his dimples, feel his warm body
against mine.

Sure, I’ve missed him like crazy in the last week and a half
he’s been in LA. Counting down the days until I could see him
again.

Just nine more days.

Just six more days.

And now…

Three more fucking days.

But this is different. This is every fear and worry I’ve had
since I dropped him off at the gate, sling-shotting to the front
of my brain. Blotting out any rational thought.

How will I ever make it to Saturday after this?

 Sure, we knew this could happen. Hell, it wasn’t so much an
if, but a when. One we planned for as best we could.

And now it’s time to put our plans to the test.

A noise reaches my ears, like a frustrated growl, or groan,

coming deep from within his chest, repressed like his lips are
sealed tight.

“Hey, baby,” I breathe.

His breath hitches, and despite everything, my lips rise.

Lashes drop. Peace washes through me, as slow and steady as
a summer breeze.

But it’s not lasting.

“Will.”

Fuck.

His voice doesn’t just crack, it breaks. Shatters into gasps.

Like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, and now
that he finally released it, he can’t keep up. He can’t catch it.

“Easy,” I say, instilling a calmness in my voice I’m 100

percent faking. “You’re okay. You’re here, I’m here. The guys
are with you. We’re all good.”

“You’re not here,” he says forcefully. I can practically feel

the pressure of his teeth clenching through the words. “You’re
not fucking here.”

Shit.

I sink back down on the bed. Elbows on my knees, I rub my

jaw with the hand not holding the phone.
 “No,” I say tightly. My chest is on fucking fire. “I’m not
there. But I’m here. Right here. Hear my voice?”

I picture him nodding jerkily as he croaks, “Not enough.”

My knuckles rub against my sternum, trying to ease some of

the building pressure. “No, but it’s all we have right now.”

He sucks in a choked breath.

I quickly change the subject, shifting it away from what we

can’t control, to what we can. Or rather, what he can. “Mason
said you’re at a diner.”

“Yeah, finished up late.”

When Waylon and I talked last night, they were just

finishing up dinner and heading back to the studio to get a
little more work in on their album. That was about four hours
ago, give or take. I had just gotten upstairs after locking the
bar up early for the night. Wednesdays are always pretty dead.

“What’re you eating?” I ask, doing the math in my head. If

it’s a little after three a.m. here, it’s only a little after midnight
in LA.

“Waffles.” He says it so grumpily, I have to stifle a laugh

with my fist.

“Why do you sound pissed? Are they not good?” I ask, still
smiling like an idiot. I’m sure if he was in the right state of
mind he’d call me out for it.

“They were…”
 I give a quick shake of my head, despite knowing he can’t
see it. “Nope. Forget about that. Did you drown them in
syrup?”

“Obviously.” He makes a sound of disgust. His voice is

much steadier now as he says, “I think it’s in my hair. I may’ve
dove for cover face-first into the plate.”

I roll my lips together. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did.”

Grinning, I shake my head, catching myself just before I

remind him he can’t see me.

“This is so fucking embarrassing,” he grumbles, blowing

out a breath, and I hear a shuffle. I picture him rubbing at his
face, his eyes, like he usually does when coming out of a daze.

“Nah,” I say easily. “I’m sure I would’ve done something

even more embarrassing had I been there, like shove you
under a table or something. Maybe threw the syrup bottle at
Butter Finger’s head.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. A heavy moment passes.

“Or maybe I would’ve shoved you,” he finally says.

“Maybe.” A beat. “But I’m quicker.”

He groans.

“Stronger.”
 “Fuck. Off.”

I bite my lower lip, unable to contain my stupid ass grin.

“Shawn’s looking at me weird.”

Chuckling, I ask, “What kind of weird?”

“I don’t know, but it’s less weird than it was a moment ago.
Now it’s more like he wants to take the spoon he’s holding,
and scoop out my jugular.”

I hum. “Something about that sentence doesn’t sound right.”

“Whatever. What are you doing?” His voice still sounds a

little reedy, but I don’t point it out.

Shaking my head, I say, “Sitting on my bed.”

“Shit, it’s like, what, the middle of the night over there?”

My mouth ticks up. “It’s okay.”

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up.”

He huffs.

“You good?”

A moment passes, before he says, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

My teeth clench, and I feel the phone creak in my hand. The

hard screen digging into my ear. “Say that again, and this time,
make me believe it.”

That gets a short laugh out of him, but I know better than to
think that means everything’s all roses and daisies now.
 “I’m fine,” he says, dragging out the word. I picture the
barbell poking through his tongue flicking over his teeth, and
fuck me, I should not be getting a boner right now.

But I miss him.

I miss him so much it steals my breath.

I miss him more than I ever thought possible.

“Just three more days,” he whispers, and if I’m not

mistaken, his voice has deepened, as if he senses where my
thoughts have shifted.

“Three more days,” I repeat robotically, staring vacantly

around the bedroom, before landing on the ball of cotton on
the floor next to the hamper.

Waylon’s sweatshirt.

He threw it there the morning we came back from watching

the sun rise on the bridge. Our last morning together. The rest
of our clothes quickly found their way on the floor, too, but
have since been put in the hamper. Normally, Waylon doesn’t
leave anything laying around—he’s far neater than me—but in
our rush to get to Philly once we realized we were late, he
somehow overlooked his hoodie.

It hasn’t moved from that spot in ten days. I just can’t bring
myself to pick it up.

And while there’s only three days until I see his face again,
there’s still another month and a half, give or take, before he
will notice his hoodie’s still on the floor.
 Fuck. This is harder than I thought.

“Will?”

I shake my head and force a hard swallow. “Sorry, did you

say something?”

I can hear the grin in his voice. “No, you just got really
quiet—”

My eyes roll, already knowing where this is going.

“—and you’re never quiet.”

“Har, fucking, har.”

“I should go,” he says, and I don’t miss the exhaustion

settling in, weighing down his words. This was far from being
the worst panic attack he’s ever had, but it’s clear he’s still
zapped. “Mase just paid the bill. We gotta get back to the
studio early.”

“You think you’ll be up for it?” I ask, not even bothering to

hide my concern.

He sighs. “I have to be.”

“Way—”

“Shut up, Mase,” he says, making me think I’m not the only
one calling him out. “It was just a little one. I’m fine now.
We’re already behind as it is, and I—”

Either Mason or Shawn must cut him off, but I can only
hear muffled mumbling.

“Not if it means fucking you guys over,” Waylon says, and I

realize they’re talking about this upcoming weekend, when
I’m due to visit.

I already told him multiple times that I understood if he

needed to work—that we’d still find time to be together.
Alone.

But he was insistent.

“It’s only two days, Will. Two fucking days. They can work
around me. I’ll just make sure I’m caught up on my parts so
they don’t need me.”

I rolled my eyes at that. As if they could not need him.

But I know he meant recording. It’s different from writing

or practicing—when they’re rehearsing with the sole intent to
either perform, or to find their rhythm to hash out whatever
might not be working.

Recording is a far more isolated process, apparently. It’s just

them, their instrument, or their voice, and the guy behind the
glass barking orders at them.

Despite how much the guys didn’t want to rely on machines

to piece their music together, they kind of have to when it
comes to slapping their songs on an album to be distributed to
the masses.

“Babe, it’s o—”

“It’s fine,” he cuts in quickly.

That’s how many fines now? Three?

Shaking my head, I try again. “Way—”

“Look, I gotta go. They wanna clear the table.”

 “Are you—”

“I’m fine, Will,” he says. There’s a heaviness to his words

now that wasn’t there before. A pointedness, almost like he’s
pleading with me. To believe him. To drop it. To accept what
we can’t fucking change right now.

He’s there.

I’m here.

Thousands of miles away from each other, with nothing but

a phone line to tether us.

And all I can think is, that’s four.

“I love you,” I tell him, instead of what I want to say.

I’m not fine, Way. I’m not fucking fine, and neither are you,
and this, right now, saying goodbye to you, knowing just how
not fine you are, but not being able to see you, kiss you, touch
you, and breathe you in…

It’s straight up agony.

But I don’t say any of that.

I just let those three little words slip into his ear, and silently
pray the weight of them is enough to compensate for what I
can’t show right now. Not for three more whole fucking days.

Hearing his gulp in my ear, I know this is just as hard for

him. But like me, he’s trying to be strong. “I love you too.
You’ll call me in the morning?”

I smile thinly. “You know it.”

 After we say our too-quick byes, I let the phone drop to the
bed next to me and bury my face in my hands.

The television is still playing in the living room, but the

droning sounds of an infomercial ain’t cutting it anymore.

The place feels like a tomb.

This room, this apartment…

The bar without them, without him…

I know some of it’s in my head. These fears of mine, deep-

seated with nowhere to go but further in. To places I can’t
even reach. Places I don’t even know about until I get that itch
and can’t see anything outside of it.

Outside of what I need to do.

Muttering a curse, I grab my phone, pulling up my second

recent contact.

It rings a couple times before I hear a click, then: “You

better have a really, really fucking good reason why you’re
calling me in the middle of the night.”

Cracking my knuckles against my knees, I say, “There’s

been a change of plans.”

Ivy groans, but before I can say anything, she goes, “I swear
on my cousin’s life, if you don’t get on that fucking plane this
time, I will change all the locks and you’ll have no fucking
choice but—”

I hang up on her, shaking my head.

Guess that’s all the permission I need.

 Jumping to a stand, I head back to our dresser and start
grabbing shit.

Three days.

Three fucking days.

In the grand scheme of things, three days is nothing.

Shoving clothes in my old duffle, I grab my phone and pop

open the app I’ve been religiously scoping the last, well, ten
days, and pull up the schedule for Delta Airlines.

They’re gonna hate me there, I think dryly, hitting the

Confirm button without hardly a glance before throwing on the
first clean shirt I can find, and exchanging my sweats for
jeans.

I flip the lights, shut off the television in the living room,
and unplug the coffee pot before the timer can kick on.

Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and

hightail it to the front door, locking up behind me without a
backward glance.

Yeah, three days is a blink, but in the grand scheme of all

that is near and dear and holy to me…

Fuck. That.

West Coast, here I come.

TONIGHT’S GONNA BE A bad night.

Mason hits the lights, plunging the studio into black. He’s
the last one out of the room, so he locks up while Shawn and I
start heading down the dimly lit hallway.

Digging out my pack of smokes from my back pocket, I

slap them against my palm and focus on putting one foot in
front of the other.

Faded red brick walls stretch out on either side of me as we

pass by the other practice rooms, doors closed and already
locked for the night.
 The building is owned by Slater Records, the label we
signed with to produce our first album, with their state of the
art recording studio located three floors up.

Footsteps sound behind me, quick and loud before fading

off as Mason catches up to us.

I try not to stiffen. I know it’s him.

But there’s something about this narrow fucking hallway

and buzzing lightbulbs swinging from the ceilings that gives
me the creeps.

And not in a fun way.

More like a trapped in a closet way.

There’s a joke in there somewhere, and for a second the

pressure in my chest eases as I think of Will.

I don’t really think he’d appreciate the joke though, pun and
all.

Too soon, he’d say. To which I’d say back, When will it not
be?

I blow out a breath. In front of me, Shawn doesn’t break

stride as he flits me a quick look over his shoulder. He doesn’t
have to say anything. Neither do I.

Even Mason’s silence closing in on me from behind speaks

volumes.

They know I’m losing my shit.

Hell, who am I kidding? I’ve been slowly losing my shit

since our late-night dinner last night, when some fuckhead had
to go and drop a frying pan as I was digging into my waffles.

The pack of cigarettes in my hand crinkles from the

pressure of my fist, as I remember the echo of it slamming
against the linoleum floors of the diner ringing out like a—

“Way.”

“I’m fine,” I say sharply. I don’t even know who spoke.

Easy, a voice warns me, one that sounds suspiciously like

the guy I’m trying really hard not to think about right now.
Knowing it would only send me spiraling faster.

Blinking a few times, I wince against the grating buzz of

another stupid, swinging lightbulb.

I mean, really, couldn’t they’ve afforded something a little

less garage chic?

My teeth clench and I stare hard over Shawn’s shoulder,

counting the steps I have left as the hallway ends, giving way
to a small, but spacious, foyer. One with glass walls stretched
out before me, giving me an unobstructed view of the outside
world.

There, I think, cracking my neck as I step away from the

guys, finally feeling like I can breathe again.

Me and tight spaces, we have a love-hate relationship these

days. And today’s not a day where I’m feeling the heart-eyes.
Today’s a day where I want to curl up in a ball and not exist
for a couple hours.
 I frown, steps slowing until I come to a stop inches from the
double glass doors. “What time is it?”

Street lamps light up the quiet street. A car whooshes by,

spraying puddle-water on the sidewalk. Heavy bass thrums
from an old beater car idling in front of the apartment complex
across the street, rattling the glass.

“A little after midnight,” Shawn says, pushing open the

door. He holds it for me, and I hold it for Mason as he trails
behind us.

Shit, I think. Another late night.

We usually call it quits by nine, but we’ve been struggling

with this one song the label wants on our album. To diversify
it, whatever that means.

Because it’s happier than the other tracks? I scoff at the

thought.

Well, as it turns out tweaking happy music when I’m not

exactly happy is really fucking hard. Shocking, right? Who
knew?

It’s only been ten days, a voice reminds me.

I mentally flip it off.

Tonight, though, tonight was about more than just figuring

out why this song isn’t working. Hell, even our agent, Paul,
who usually never leaves our side when we’re at the studio,
left hours ago, knowing we were done getting anywhere. I
only vaguely remember him slipping out with a tired, “See
ya,” leaving us to our guitars and notebooks and Mason’s
keyboard.

In the corner of my eye, I watch as Mason steps around me,

snapping a photo with his phone of the semi-busy street.

I fight an eye roll. He’s always taking pictures these days of

the most random things. When I asked what that’s about, all he
said was, “Snapchat.”

At first I thought he was posting them for our followers on

the band’s page. We don’t have a crazy huge following,
despite what it might look like on our TikTok page—that shit’s
very misleading, we’ve come to find out—but it’s big enough.

Big enough to garner the attention of vicious assholes who

want to shit on our success for no other reason than they can…
or die-hard stalker types who want to have our babies.

So, yeah, I’d rather strangers on the internet not know

where we are in real-time, thank you very much. Hence why I
stay away from socials like my life literally depends on it.

But Mason assured me he wouldn’t do that, not without our

explicit permission, so I assume he just sends the pictures to
Ivy. Maybe Jeremy. Maybe that girl he befriended during his
last stint in rehab, the one he went on a date with a little while
ago.

Who fucking knows? And I don’t really fucking care so

long as I don’t have to worry about some crazy-ass fan pulling
a knife on me.
 Worse things have happened in my life, so I’m not one to
scoff off the possibility, as unlikely as it may be. I’m a fucking
trauma magnet, okay? Bad juju everywhere.

I groan as soon as the thought comes. “Fucking Phoebe,” I

mutter.

“What was that?” Shawn says stopping next to a parking

meter.

Reaching up, I pinch my nose and shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“Alright, enough,” Mason says loudly.

Slowly, I drop my hand back at my side and step back,

turning slightly as Mason joins us. He shoves his phone in his
back pocket, the buttons on his flannel pulling across his chest
with his movements.

“It’s not nothing, you’re not fine. You haven’t been fine all
day.”

I roll my eyes. “Mase—”

“Today was a bad day,” he says, as if it’s really that fucking

simple. He crosses his arms, silently daring me to dispute it.

And it’s gonna be an even worse night, I think tiredly, not

for the first or second or third time.

I didn’t sleep last night. Told the guys I did, when really I
just snuck down to the hotel gym for a couple hours once I
was sure they were asleep. Then I spent the early morning
walking the streets, and pacing the beach. Went for a run…
 Anything to keep myself away from the hotel bar.

Anything to keep me from calling Will and begging him to

hop on a plane.

So I’ve been dreading this all day. Counting down the

minutes to when I’d no longer be able to put off sleep. In a bed
that’s not mine. In a city as foreign to me as another planet.
Alone.

It’s been ten days since we arrived in LA.

Ten days, and while it hasn’t always been easy, it hasn’t

been hard. Not until today.

Because I had my first panic attack in weeks last night, and

it’s the first one I had in over a year that I didn’t have Will
with me to talk me the fuck down.

I mean, sure, he tried to.

Okay, he did.

But a cold, hard phone against my ear isn’t exactly the same
as a soft pair of lips against my head. Or strong arms holding
me tight.

Hearing him breathe means shit to nothing when I can’t feel

it on my cheek.

When I can’t feel his heart thumping against my chest.

When I can’t remember his dark blue eyes without picturing

them red-rimmed with tears and wide with panic. Blood
dripping down his temple. The smell of motor oil burning a
pathway up my nose and down my throat.
 “What do you need?”

At the sound of Shawn’s voice, I’m pulled from my

thoughts.

They’re both standing in front of me now. Like a wall

separating me from the world beyond. Or maybe like a wall to
keep me in. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to make me feel feral
or safe.

Ping-ponging my gaze between them, I wonder what I’m

supposed to say here. To give myself time, I quickly pull out a
cigarette, light up, and inhale a long, scorching drag.

What do I need, what do I need…

Tipping my head back, I squint at the overcast sky as I blow

out a cloud of smoke.

It’s not like I can tell them the truth. The truth is fucking
pathetic, and I’m trying really, really hard not to be pathetic.

It also doesn’t take a shrink to tell me it’s unhealthy too. I

know it is. The problem is, though, if it’s not Will I allow
myself to need, it’s—

“A fucking drink,” I gravel out up at the starless sky, nose

flaring as my eyes burn, throat searing.

I blink rapidly as my vision blurs. Dropping my head, I stare

unseeingly at the spot between their shoulders. I feel more
than see them share a loaded look.

“Well,” Mason says slowly, “I for one could use an Oxy

right about now. You know, something to take the edge off.”
 I still.

Shawn huffs, and my gaze snaps to him just as he runs a

tanned hand through his dark hair. “Pretty sure that’s a dealer
standing over there.” He jerks his head toward the right.

My eyes follow, to the corner across the street where a guy

shuffles about, hood drawn over his head and hands in his
pocket as he paces, face downturned.

“Saw him there the other night, slapping hands with a

couple of scrawny ass kids.”

Swallowing hard, I drag my gaze back to his.

Mason blows out a harsh breath. “And there’s a bar. Two

actually, right over there.” He nods down the opposite way.

I know, I think, taking another drag from my cigarette. I

already imagined all the ways I could sneak over there. The
excuses I could come up with. Even reasoned with myself that
I’ve cut back enough by now, that I can start fresh. Keep it
under control. I know better now.

But it’ll be a year sober in just under a month, and to be

honest, it’s that fact more than anything that’s been keeping
me from flushing it all down the drain. I want to hit that one-
year mark.

After that though…

Shaking my head, I try not to think about it. Especially

seeing as I won’t be home with Will when that day inevitably
comes.
 I’ll be here, in the City of Angels, with two other addicts
who just proved how easy it would be to give in to our vices.

And here I was thinking it hasn’t been on their mind at all.

It’s why I hadn’t even been able to voice the words until now.
Until it came down to blurting that or the fact I’m jonesing for
my boyfriend.

See? Pathetic.

I didn’t want to trigger them. So much for fucking that.

I swallow hard. “Don’t…” My voice trails off, and I shake

my head, unsure what I wanted to even say.

“Don’t what? Talk about it?” Mason says.

In the corner of my eye, Shawn lights up a cigarette of his

own. He’s been trying to quit. I probably don’t make it easy
for him, since I’m not.

Now is definitely not the time for that. Sorry, man.

I meet Mason’s light blue eyes.

His mouth ticks up, pulling at his lip ring. He shrugs. “It’s
what we’re all thinking, right?” He glances at Shawn for
confirmation, who nods, blowing out smoke from his nose,
before continuing, “It’s easy back home. We know who and
what to avoid. We’re comfortable. Our… need or whatever
isn’t so loud, because we’re used to it there.”

“And we’re not used to anything here,” Shawn finishes

quietly.
 Mason sounds pained when he says, “We could all give in.
Easily. And maybe… maybe no one would know.”

Shawn says, “It’s just us out here, right?”

I look between them. “What? No. Are you serious right

now?” I shake my head. “No. Absofuckinglutely not. No.
Fuck.”

Whirling around, I ignore my crushed smokes and the lit

cigarette in my other hand as I clasp the back of my head.

It’s starting to rain again, just a light drizzle that prickles my

forehead, dampening my exposed skin.

It’s been raining on and off since this morning, which is

apparently super unheard of in LA. Not sure if it’s a good sign,
or a bad sign, that out of the thirty-some days a year it rains in
this city, we happened to be here for one of them.

We need to haul ass, or we’re gonna have to grab a ride

before the skies open up on us. The idea of confining myself in
a car or bus right now, with no easy way out, is not really at
the top of my list of things I want to do in the foreseeable
future.

Mason and Shawn are quiet behind me as I pace. I feel like

a caged tiger, which is stupid. It’s not like I’m rooted to this
spot. Open roads surround me, and yet the world is closing in,

Make it make sense to me.

I’m not really taking anything in as my eyes dart around the

street. Slater Records is on a side-street, so it’s not too heavy
with foot-traffic. Especially at this time of night, even if it
seems to be bustling farther down at the intersection.

I stare blankly at the couple jogging hand in hand across the

crosswalk. It feels like there’s a boulder sitting on my chest
right now as it really sinks in just how easy it could be to give
in without Will here. Without anyone here.

Reggie, Ivy, Dr. Wells…

Deacon, my sponsor. An older man I met at the Addicts

Anonymous meetings I sometimes go to with Shawn and
Mason back home.

I don’t go often. Neither does Deacon. We met on a whim a

few months back and hit it off right away. I’m his first
sponsee, and he’s my first sponsor. It’s a match made in
whiskey Heaven, sans the whiskey, something he gave up two
years before I was even born. So he’s basically a pro at this
whole sober-livin’ thing.

I know I could call him, or any one of my so-called support

system, and they’d do what they can to talk me off the ledge in
a heartbeat. Even if it’s just to stay on the phone and listen to
me bitch for as long as I can stay awake. They’d fucking do it,
the masochists.

Hell, Will would probably steal a plane and fly himself to

me if he could. Especially if he knew I lied this morning when
I ignored his call, and sent him back a text with some bullshit
excuse about how I couldn’t talk because we were finally
making good headway in the studio.
 Spoiler alert: we did not make any kind of way today,
because said Way, as in yours truly, kept fucking everything
up. Losing count, losing focus, losing my patience…

Just all the losing, until ultimately I gave up, and just…
played angry nonsense on my guitar until my fingers bled.

But I try not to think about any of that right now, least of all
lying to Will, or the fact I haven’t heard from him since.
Because I know what he’d say if he knew where my head was
really at right now. I know he’d be pissed that I’m keeping it
from him.

But he deserves to have a life outside of worrying about me.

He deserves to have a fucking break.

“The point is we could,” Mason finally says, slowly,

meaningfully, and it takes me a second to remember what we
were talking about.

Right. Flinging ourselves off the proverbial wagon.

“We always know we can,” he says. “How else do you think

we manage to resist when it’s thrown in our faces?”

My brow furrows as I slowly drop my hands to my sides

and turn to face them once more. A long line of ash falls off
my cigarette, but I hardly notice. It’s not cutting it tonight.

“Ignoring that little voice,” he goes on, still side-eying

Shawn, “shoving it away, pretending that giving in isn’t as
easy as it is…” He turns his gaze on me. “It does us no favors.
It’ll just bite us in the ass later when it all comes to a head and
we’re at our lowest.”
 Shawn nods. “Over time it gets easier to ignore. It’ll
become less of a shout, and more of a passing whisper. So
when it does pipe up, usually when we’re not doing so hot, or
when we least expect it…”

“We’re strong enough to shove it away and move on with

our day,” Mason finishes.

I swallow tightly as tears burn the back of my eyes.

“It’s not a crime to… daydream about it,” he says after a

moment. “And it’s not always helpful, trust me, but it… makes
it more manageable. In a convoluted way, maybe, but… yeah.”

“It’s our way of planning for the worst,” Shawn clarifies in

a steady voice. “We picture it all. Taking that hit, that sip…
what we need to do to get it… how we might hide it…” His
shoulders rise, then fall with his exhale. He lifts his cigarette to
his mouth and takes a quick puff. “Then we think about what
comes after. The shaking, the nausea. The agonizing pain…”

Mason’s eyes redden. “Phoebe screaming and crying in my

face, beating my chest.”

Shawn tips his head. “That.”

They share a quick look and I frown, wondering what that’s

about.

“Whatever you need to do to keep that fantasy from

becoming a reality, do it,” Mason says, leveling his gaze with
mine. “Use it. Find what works and don’t be ashamed of it.
Trust me, we all have our little anchors to hold on to when we
feel ourselves drifting. It could be anything.” He pauses
meaningfully. “Including people.”

“Yeah?” I perk up, my voice shaky. Then why does it feel so

wrong?

He gives me a knowing smile. “You’re one of mine.”

My jaw quivers, and my eyes are on fire. “What? Why?

That’s…” I shake my head. I want to say that’s stupid, but…

“Let’s just say, the idea of seeing you spiral because I

spiraled doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Ditto,” Shawn says quietly.

My gaze snaps to his, wide with surprise.

And it suddenly occurs to me, we never really considered

what he went through last year. Not only when Mason
relapsed, but when I ghosted everyone for those couple weeks.

Shawn had Phoebe, I suppose. And Will. Ivy, too, when she
wasn’t with me.

So I guess he found other anchors.

But still…

I didn’t think about how triggering all of that might have

been for him.

“Why do you think we chose to be each other’s sponsors?”

Shawn says dryly, gesturing between him and Mason with his
cigarette. “Because sometimes, the only thing that keeps us
holding on, is holding on for someone else.”
 “The curse of being an addict,” Mason says in an equally
dry voice. “But also, maybe, our superpower.”

Shawn grunts at that.

“But you’re not each other’s sponsors any more,” I point

out. “Remember?”

Mason nods. “Yeah, ’cause I fucked up,” he says at the

same time Shawn says, “Because I wasn’t enough.”

Mason and I both still.

“Shawn,” Mason starts to say, turning toward him.

But he holds up a hand, looking at both of us. “It’s okay.”

His mouth even ticks up in a smile, which says a lot. The dude
never smiles.

Still, I feel my brows furrowing low over my eyes as a

frown pulls at my face. I take a long inhale from my smoke.

I didn’t like how easily he said that, I realize. That he wasn’t

enough. That it’s okay.

“That time,” he says pointedly, “I wasn’t enough.”

But that’s not what you said, I want to say. But like always
with him, something stops me.

“Nothing was enough to hold me back,” Mason grits out,

pain and frustration evident in his voice.

I think back to what he said about his sister earlier. Using

the memory of when she found him, after he overdosed.

Giving him a considering once-over, I blow smoke from the

corner of my lips. “You never did tell us…”
 I notice Shawn’s watching him too, confirming my
suspicions. He doesn’t know why Mason broke his sobriety
last year either; what triggered that whole breakdown he had.

I hate that I feel… relieved at that. That Shawn’s just as in

the dark as me.

Mason just shakes his head. “It was building up for a

while.”

My eyes narrow, because he’s not looking at either of us

when he says it.

Mason’s always been a shit liar, ever since we were kids.

He’s got tells louder than his angry fists.

I just can’t figure out why he’s lying. It’s not like saying it’s
’cause of Izzy would be anything new and groundbreaking.
We already know that was definitely part of it, if not a huge
fucking chunk.

Which means…

Whatever finally sent him over the edge didn’t have to do

with her.

Fuck, was it my fault?

“Point is,” Mason goes on with a little huff, “we gotta talk
about this shit. We can’t pretend any of this is easy, because
the fucking second we let down our guards, is the moment
temptation will strike and we won’t be strong enough to say
no.” He gulps and looks away, somewhere off in the distance.
“We gotta rely on each other, and trust that we’ll keep each
other standing.”
 Shawn nods, tossing the cigarette butt to the ground, and
stubbing it with his boot. “Now more than ever.”

I look at him, then Mason, hearing what we’re all probably

thinking.

Because here in LA, all we have is each other.

Following Shawn’s lead, I drop what’s left of my cigarette,

and ground out the cherry with my shoe.

“You’re not gonna make us relapse, Way,” Mason says

gently. “Trust me, we’re already thinking about it. Our heads
are already there. You can talk to us, and… and we’ll talk to
you. We just… we weren’t sure where your head’s been at, so
we wanted to give you a chance to bring it up yourself first.”

Nodding, I swallow thickly and finally manage to say, “I get

that.” A beat, then: “Thank you.”

Mason gives me a funny look and I just shake my head,

shrug, not really sure where that came from, or what it means.

He rolls his eyes, steps forward, and throws an arm over my

shoulders.

I try to shake him off, but he just squeezes me to him

tighter. “No one’s hitting up any bars, or slapping hands with
some random fucker on the street,” he says with a low
chuckle. “We’ve got you, man. Whatever you need.”

“It’s a bad night,” I utter. I still want to drink. I still want

Will more than anything else. But I guess I don’t feel as…
alone or pathetic about it all.
 “Yeah. It is.”

“But tomorrow should be better,” Shawn says quietly, voice

heavy with some unnamed… something.

I feel my face bunch. Will it though? He sounds far too

certain for my liking.

My gaze meets his, and something there gives me pause.

But he’s too quick to look away for me to try and figure out
what it is.

“Definitely gonna be a better weekend,” Mason says in a sly

voice, yanking me out of my thoughts when he messes up my
hair.

I side-eye him with a glare as I finally manage to shove him

off. “Shut up.”

I pat down my hair just as the rain starts to pick up.

“Fuck, we’re gonna get soaked,” Mason says, not sounding

too put out about it. He starts walking in the direction of the
hotel we’re staying at. It’s only a couple blocks, but…

“We can Uber,” I suggest, jogging to catch up with him.

Please say no, please say no.

He cuts me a look over his shoulder just as Shawn and I

reach him. “Why would we do that?”

Shawn and I share a glance and a shrug.

“We’re in Cali, baby!” Mason yells out suddenly at the top

of his lungs. He tips his head back and howls. Spreading his
arms out, he lets the rain beat down on his heaving chest.
Soaking through his thin white shirt.

Someone whistles from nearby, just as a car whooshes by,

splashing dirty ass water over the three of us.

Shawn curses as Mason lets out another obnoxious howl

and I’m laughing. I’m smiling so big, it feels like my face
might split.

My throat still feels thick, and it still feels like something

heavy’s sitting on my chest, but it no longer feels like an I
might die kind of pressure.

More like an I’m alive kind of pressure.

It’s a feeling I’m still getting used to. As is the emotional

whiplash that comes from hurtling between the two at any
given moment.

Something tells me I won’t have to be alone tonight after

all, even if it means they’re exhausted tomorrow. I have to let
them be there for me, just like I would for either of them.

By the time we reach the street our hotel’s on, Mason and I
are both belting the lyrics to “Under the Bridge” at the top of
our lungs. No one we pass seems to mind. Hell, I think a
couple people even had their phones out, recording us. We
sound good, I know we do, even if we’re choking on laughter
through most of it.

They probably think we’re drunk off our asses and I can’t
find it in me to care at the moment. We’re a goddamn cliché
set against the backdrop of Tinseltown, and fuck, I’m happy to
be alive despite missing Will.

Shawn’s shaking his head at us, but I don’t miss the smile
he’s fighting tooth and goddamn nail to hold back.

Mason skips ahead as the lights of the valet entrance draw

closer, welcoming us home.

I turn around, strutting backward as I press my hand to my

chest and serenade Shawn about the city who loves me.

I don’t realize Mason’s stopped singing, much less that he’s

come to a stop. Nor do I immediately register Shawn’s smile
dimming, brown eyes widening on something behind me.

Not until it’s too late and I crash into Mason’s back.

My singing cuts off with an oomph and a bark of laughter.

“Dude.”

It’s pouring now. Rain’s splattering over my head and down

my cheeks. My hair has been flattened, and dark pieces cling
to my temples and the back of my neck.

I’m still smiling, still breathless, using Mason’s shoulder as

leverage to turn around so I don’t fall over as I catch my
balance.

“What—”

Only I never get a chance to ask. Not that I need to.

I was wrong before, I realize, as the figure huddled under

the overhang comes into view.

So, so wrong.
 I watch, drenched and frozen, as he pushes off the bench,
coming to a stand.

Black t-shirt. Ripped jeans that look a little too tight to be

his.

Dark blond hair mussed up every which way, and stubble

lining his rigid jaw.

Knuckles white around the strap of the duffle he hikes up

his shoulder. Biceps bulging, flexing with his movements and
the tension lining his body.

His eyes are on mine, and mine are on his, and the whole
damn city of Los Angeles could be burning right now for all I
know.

Now, I think. Now I’m happy.

Not just happy, but relieved. Relieved I never gave up, never
gave in, just so I could get to this moment. Right. Fucking.
Here.

My eyes are burning, and I’m sure they’re bloodshot to all

hell. I can’t smile, can’t swallow. I don’t so much as blink or
breathe, too fucking terrified he might disappear if I do
anything but stare.

He came.

Head empty of everything but that.

He came, he came, he came.

Well.
 That is, until he opens his big, stupid, sexy mouth and ruins
everything.

“Is he drunk?”
AT FIRST, I’M PISSED.

Like, really, really pissed.

Something dark and cruel rockets up my throat. I can feel

my airway closing just behind it, telling me there will be no
taking back whatever it is that comes out.

“Is he drunk?”

His question tumbles around my skull like one of those

medieval weapons with the spike ball attached to a chain. The
words are cutting, sharp and grating as they seem to tear at
every good feeling I finally, finally managed to find after a day
from Hell.

Irrational? Probably.

But again. Day from Hell. Not really feeling rational right
now.

The irony doesn’t escape me that if I were in fact drunk, as

he just so rudely asked the guys—as if I’m not standing right
fucking here—I probably wouldn’t have been able to stop
myself. Catch myself from saying or doing something
unforgivable.

And if that’s not a straight kick to the solar plexus, I don’t

know what it is.

It’s my sobriety that probably just saved our relationship.

And that’s a, ah, well, sobering thought.

“Way…” Mason warns quietly from my side. I’m sure I

look about two seconds from blowing my lid.

I feel Shawn near my back just as he says quickly, “He’s

not. He didn’t drink.”

I grit my teeth, nose flaring.

Will shuffles in place ten feet away, the closest he’s been in
ten fucking days, and I’m over here, absolutely fucking
seething.

That is, until I realize what stopped me from said blowing

of my lid. Somehow under the red haze of my anger, my
subconscious must’ve picked up on what I was too fucking
blinded to see, and only now do I realize his question was not,
in fact, an accusation.

He’s not angry. Not disappointed.

He’s fucking heartbroken.

Scared.

It just takes Shawn assuring him for it to fucking click in

my head.

It just takes him crumbling for me to wilt completely.

“No,” I hear myself rasp, just as I take a step forward, then

another, and another. Not taking my eyes off his, I shake my
head. “No.”

The bag drops at his side with a thud.

“I didn’t drink,” I tell him, my voice breaking.

His face crumples just as I grab his shoulders and yank him
into my arms.

“I didn’t drink,” I whisper into the roaring rain and

whooshing static of LA nightlife.

His hair is dry, unlike mine. Clothes too, but not for long.

Water is dripping down on our heads from above. Rain’s

blowing into my back, and again, I can’t help but think, it
never rains in LA. Like that fact holds more meaning now.

Will’s cheek is hot and wet against mine, and I hold him
tighter to me, knowing the rain hasn’t touched him there.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

 His arms come under mine, sliding around my back,
gripping me so tightly it should hurt. It doesn’t.

He’s here.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” I croak. I try to pull back and
grab his cheeks to look at him, but he buries his face into my
neck, preventing me.

My eyes widen and I look over my shoulder, seeking my

two suspiciously quiet best friends out, silently begging them
for some sort of guidance here.

My boyfriend is fucking falling apart in my arms right now

and I have no idea what to do.

Fuck, did something happen to his parents?

“Will,” I breathe, glancing down at him. But I don’t think he

hears me. “Did something happen?”

He just holds me tighter.

Okay then.

I don’t think he’s outright crying. It’s more like he’s trying
really, really fucking hard to hold it together. Like he’s
imploding into himself, and he’s using me as a shield to keep it
all contained.

“Did you know he was coming?” I ask in a hush, looking at

Mason first.

He shakes his head, eyes wide like he’s just as shocked as

me.

“I texted him this morning.”

 My gaze snaps to Shawn. But he’s not looking at me. He’s
looking at the guy in my arms, brows pinched in something
akin to concern.

Will says something, but it’s too muffled for me to make

out.

Turning, I dip my head lower. “Say that again.”

A throat clears, and I feel his swallow against my neck just

before he pulls back. He doesn’t look up at me, just stares at
some spot on my chest.

“I was already on my way.”

I still.

His shoulders hunch slightly, and I can just make out the
muscles of his jaw working. “Got held up in Chicago. Got here
as fast as I could. Phone died…”

My eyes burn as what he’s telling me fully registers.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper before I can think

better of it.

He flinches.

Shit.

Looking around, I only now realize there are people around.

Not a lot, not with it being this late, but a good handful.

Some eyes drift our way, but not in disgust. Just curiosity,
maybe. Probably wondering why these two boys are hanging
on to each other in the rain for dear life.
 My pulse speeds up and I feel my fingers biting into Will’s
arms, but I don’t think he notices. Not when he’s too busy
trying to extract himself from my hold.

I snap my gaze to his face, but he still won’t look at me.

“Hey,” Mason says, approaching me. His hand brushes my

shoulder and he turns so his mouth’s near my ear. “We’re
gonna go grab a bite since we didn’t eat dinner. Why don’t you
guys go upstairs?”

He slips me his copy of the keycard, knowing I forgot mine

as usual.

Will turns away from me, bending down to get his bag.
Hoisting it over his back like it’s the heaviest thing in the
world.

He’s still carefully avoiding my gaze.

Mason tries to give me a reassuring smile when I turn to

him, but it falls flat. “If you need us, just call. Okay?”

My stomach cramps.

It’s not me you should be worried about, I want to tell him.

But I get it. I’m the addict here, not Will.

I’m the one with a history of suicidal tendencies, not Will.

Bitterness rears up its ugly, foul head.

Will matters too.

Shawn draws near, eyes still trained over my shoulder,

before finally finding mine.
 “You asked him to come,” I say quietly, my voice shaking
with some emotion I can’t place. I’m hoping Will doesn’t hear
me. I don’t want him to think I’m mad.

Shawn doesn’t so much as bat an eye. “You needed him.”

My molars grind and I feel my nostrils flare.

Mason turns away, sliding his phone out from his back
pocket as he gives us a moment.

“It’s better to need someone than to have no one to need,”

Shawn says, his fierce gaze holding mine. “Trust me.”

My eyes burn as all I can do is stare unblinkingly at him.

He lets out a little sigh, nods, and goes to turn around.

Before I can think better of it or second-guess myself, I

reach out and grab the hem of his shirt, taking care not to
touch him.

He can touch you, but you can’t touch him. That is the rule.

Halting mid-step, his shoulders bunch.

Holding my breath, I wait.

Finally, he turns his head just enough to look down at the

arm extending toward him.

His gaze tracks it up to my face, eyes swirling with

something dark I’ve only seen glimpses of.

“You’re enough for me,” I tell him roughly.

His eyes widen a fraction.

With that, I let go, step back and nod.

 Partially in thanks, partially in promise.

Something seems to splinter in his gaze when he realizes

what I mean, but he quickly looks away, shutting me out.

I watch as he jogs over to where Mason smiles down at his

phone.

Inhaling deeply, I turn away from them to find Will

watching me.

There you are, I think, pressing my lips together in a tight

smile.

“Come on,” I say.

And not giving him a chance to stop me, I quickly tug the
duffel bag off his shoulder, throw it over mine, grab his hand,
and head for the doors.

He’s here, I think.

That’s all that matters in this second.

The rest is just noise.

MY BOOTS SQUEAK ACROSS the linoleum floors of the
hotel lobby as Waylon all but drags me past the front desk,
past the lounge, past the empty luggage carriers parked against
the wall.

It’s late, but people still linger about. A group of

businessmen are checking in at the desk, and a couple of them
look our way with a frown when they hear the squelch of our
fast-paced footsteps treading rain water across the lobby.

But Waylon doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

 His head’s trained forward, eyes locked on some unseen
destination, and I can’t help but notice how wet he is.

Or how wet I am after hugging him so hard I’m pretty sure I

left bruises.

I should feel worse about that, but frankly I’m just too spent
to care about anything other than the fact he’s holding my
hand.

In public.

Not for the first time, no, he did that in Philly months ago,
but it still matters. It still means something. It will always
mean something.

Hell, it means even more to me in this moment than it did

then, because this isn’t a Pride parade. This isn’t him
trembling and sweaty, squeezing my hand so tight my fingers
grind as he stares wildly around at everyone, trying not to
panic.

This is a Waylon on a mission.

Strong, steady, determined.

A force to be reckoned with for all the world to fucking see

and damn anyone who has anything less than nice to say about
it.

Music filters out of the overhead speakers once we reach a

short hallway. Elvis crooning about missing his love. Fitting, I
suppose, minus the whole ex-lover aspect.
 Not so lonesome now, are we though? a voice remarks
dryly.

Waylon turns, leading us to a row of elevators. It’s an old

hotel, I notice, nothing too fancy, but clean.

Without letting go of me, he uses his other hand to jab at the

button a couple times, before hiking the bag up his shoulder
when it starts to droop.

“I could carry that, you know.” Fuck, my voice sounds flat

and exhausted even to my own ears.

He stiffens.

I feel more than hear his inhale, but before he can say
anything, the elevator dings and the doors open. A lady walks
out, not lifting her gaze from her phone as she easily side-steps
us.

Waylon’s hand tightens around mine, but then we’re in the

elevator and the breath is whooshing out of him.

The doors close. He hits a button.

Everything’s happening so fast.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

Staring at his profile, I take in the lines around his eyes as

they dart rapidly back and forth over the numbers lighting up
above the door.

I swear he’s holding his breath.

Fortunately, we only have to go up five floors and not the

sixteen this hotel holds.
 He had a panic attack last night, a voice reminds me.

Jesus Christ, has it really only been twenty-four hours?

Stepping closer to him, I bump his shoulder with mine. In

nothing but a gray t-shirt soaked all the way through, he might
as well be naked.

I take in his wet, inky black hair. The droplets of rain

streaking down his smooth, sculpted cheeks, and clinging to
thick dark lashes.

The pulse fluttering under his clenched jaw, and the purse of
his normally full lips.

Fuck, this boy is beautiful.

I bump his shoulder again.

He snaps his head around, hazel eyes clashing with mine.

“Hey,” I whisper.

His eyes drop to my mouth, and he swallows with an

audible click

Ding!

We separate like we’re going to be caught doing something

—save for our hands, which I’m pretty sure he’s somehow
welded together. It’s absurd. It’s all absurd. Unlike downstairs,
no one’s around anyway, once we step out into the hall.

We pass by one door, two doors, then, finally, he slows to a

stop. Room 504.

I was already up here a little over an hour ago. But no one

answered.
 The panic I felt earlier when I realized they weren’t here
makes a brief reappearance.

They worked late last night, I remember thinking. Today

was supposed to be an early day.

And when I went back down and asked the man at the front
desk where they may have gone, and he told me “I don’t know,
kid. Probably a bar,” like it was nothing at all, I just—

I lost it.

My phone was dead. I forgot to pack a charger because I

rushed out of the apartment like an idiot. Shawn knew I was
coming sometime tonight, but didn’t know when.

I was exhausted, having run on nothing more than a couple

hours of fitful sleep. Exhausted from the never-ending flight,
the never-ending layover, the never-ending day because of the
change in time zones that made it feel like I was getting
farther away from Waylon, rather than closer.

It was all too much.

It’s all been too much.

And here Waylon thought he’d be the weak one. The one
who’d break.

I barely notice as he slides the card in the slot. The door

seems to exhale as he unlocks it and pushes it open.

I already know what the room looks like, having seen it on a

shaky FaceTime video when they first arrived. Waylon’s wide,
dimpled grin, and his green-gold eyes lit up like a little kid’s as
he checked out each room in their joined suite, forever
ingrained in my memory.

It’s all paid for by the record company, of course. Well, with
the addendum that the Lost Boys make them money in return.
Nothing actually comes free in this industry.

The heavy door slowly closes behind us with a click as it

automatically locks.

Waylon doesn’t break stride as he tosses the keycard on a

table, dragging me by the hand past the first closed door.

He throws open the next one, drops my bag on the floor and
turns, grabbing me by the shoulders and guiding me toward
the bed.

“Sit,” he says, giving me a little push.

The bed is freshly made, telling me the cleaning lady has

been through. That or Waylon is the type of guy to make a
hotel bed every morning.

Frowning, I backtrack. Actually, he totally is the type of

person to make a hotel bed every morning.

Hands reach for my shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as he

starts pulling it off my body.

Looking up at him, I’m not quite sure what this weird

feeling is sitting in my chest.

It only grows stronger when he steps back, hardly even

looking at my bare chest as he sinks to the ground and gets to
work on unlacing my boots.
 His movements are almost rushed, not quite shaky in a
scared way, but jittery in a way that tells me he’s impatient.

And while normally him stripping me down like this would

be a total fucking turn-on, sex feels like the last thing on our
minds right now.

Once he’s got my shoes off, he begins working on my belt

and fly. My hands come up on top of his, pausing his
movements just as he gets the top button undone.

Our gazes crash into one another’s.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

Waylon’s throat bobs with a swallow. “I’m taking care of

you.” The words wrench out of him slow and deep. The power
in such a simple sentence would send me to my knees if I
wasn’t already on my ass.

He releases his hold on my jeans, pushes past my slack

arms, and raises his fingers to my cheeks. They’re rough with
callouses. Pretty sure I saw dried blood on them before.

But I don’t care, because he’s touching me, stroking the

paper-thin skin under my eyes and watching me with such a
soft look of adoration, I don’t know how my heart’s still in my
chest, and not at his feet.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he says.

I clutch my fingers in my hand. “Neither have you.”

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” he says slowly, carefully. Yet

emotion still breaks through, thrumming his words. “Three
more days.”

My eyes burn as I clamp down on my molars.

“I was gonna pick you up at the airport,” Waylon says, his

voice finally breaking. “We had a plan. We could do this.”

I’m shaking my head. Who cares? I want to say. Who cares?

“They shouldn’t have called you,” he says in a resigned

voice. His fingers fall from my face at the same time my gut
falls to the floor.

What?

He pushes to a stand and turns around, clasping the back of

his head. Wet dark strands of hair slipping through his inked
knuckles.

I force a hard swallow. “Should I not have come?”

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, his hands drop to his sides and he turns

around. Shaking his head, he starts to say, “What—”

I stare through him. “Am I making it worse?”

A heavy beat passes where it’s so quiet, there’s no possible

way he can’t hear the pulse pounding in my ears.

He was laughing, I think, remembering when I first saw him

tonight. He was laughing and smiling and singing…

And I thought he was drunk.

Because I didn’t see how he could possibly be happy after

what happened in the diner—after I spent the day in agonizing
worry over what I’d be walking into once I got here.

Imagining the worst…

I squeeze my eyes shut as the reality of what happened

finally sinks in.

I underestimated him.

I fucked up.

I let old ghosts win.

“Baby.”

My shoulders tense. Pretty sure my heart tenses too, if that’s

even possible.

My lashes flutter open to find Waylon watching me with

tear-filled eyes. He’s not quite smiling, but his dimples are out,
sinking deep into his cheeks.

“Baby,” he says again, this time so much deeper, and then

he’s crawling into my lap.

He doesn’t call me that often. He’s not one to use cutesy pet
names, not like me, who will call him every cutesy name in
the book.

He pretends to hate it, but he doesn’t fool me.

So when he does it, especially when he calls me that, it feels

like a weapon. One forged specifically to make me shatter.
Make me melt.

Hands clutch my face as jean-clad knees come down on

either side of my hips. He’s not much smaller than me, so it’s
awkward, but perfect, as his ass sits back on my knees.
 Lifting my face to his, I guide his rain-stained lips to mine.

He sighs—or maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s both of us as our

tongues push feverishly into each other’s mouths.

His fingers move into my hair, tugging, while my hands

move to his back, gripping.

Arching into me, his hard chest slides up against mine. I’m
shirtless, he’s not, but he might as well be.

He’s all damp cotton and slick, steamy skin. All desperate
fingers and grinding hips and if he doesn’t get naked soon I’m
going to explode.

“You’re here,” he pants, his fingertips finding my cheeks

once more, trembling over my stubble.

“I’m here,” I say, my voice breaking, as I wrap my arms

fully around his back, holding him impossibly tighter.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he growls into my mouth before

biting down on my lower lip.

A grunt punches out of me as I reach up, fork my fingers in

his hair, and wrench his head back.

Waylon’s lashes flutter up at the ceiling. Mouth agape.

So much for sex being the last thing on our minds.

Then again, we’ve always been better at combusting first

and reasoning with ourselves later.

I lean forward and press a soft kiss to his throat, just under
his Adam’s apple. His whole body seems to shrink then
expand with his exhale, tattoos and muscles rippling across his
body.

“You need sleep,” he says to the ceiling, voice strained.

I rub my nose back and forth over his jaw. “I need you,” I
utter thickly.

He gives a stilted nod. “Have me.”

And with that, I lurch up with all the strength I’ve been
conserving these last torturous twenty-some hours, gripping
his ass in one hand, his hair in the other, so as not to let go of
him.

Sucking in a startled breath, he then sinks into me as he

slides down my body. As soon as his feet are on the ground,
I’m attacking his mouth with mine.

“I-I need a shower,” he manages to gasp out as I pull back

just enough to peel the shirt off his body.

Jesus Christ.

His chest is heaving. Stomach muscles clenching. Tattoos

decorate nearly his whole torso, arms, and creep up the side of
his neck.

The barbell poking through his nipple looks brighter than

fucking ever against his skin, making me realize he’s got a bit
of a tan since being in LA.

“God, I could eat you,” I say into a groan as I drop my face

to his shoulder. I open my mouth, nibbling at his flesh. He
tastes like sweat and rain water, dirty but mine.
 His chuckle is low and wicked as he strokes a hand up my
back. The other drops to my ass, pulling me against him.

“Shower first,” he croons into my ear.

I press my teeth a little deeper in him. “Fine.”

We grind up against each other one last time for good

measure, and then he’s pulling away, walking backward as he
starts undoing his belt.

I rub a thumb over my bottom lip, watching him, not taking

my eyes off his body as he slowly strips down to nothing.

“You just gonna stand there and gawk, City Boy,” he

drawls, kicking away the last article of clothing, “or are you
gonna make good on that promise you made me the other
day?”

My gaze flashes up to his, mouth drying as I remember

what we talked about on the phone the other day. All the plans
we made for this coming weekend….

His cock is hard and long, jutting out at me obscenely,

beckoning me.

My mouth ticks up and I shake my head.

I know I need to sleep.

Know we need to talk.

Know our growing issue of long-distance relationshipping is

far from solved.

But right now…

 Right now I’m gonna make my cocky, stubborn-ass
boyfriend forget his own name.
WE CRASH INTO THE bathroom in a tangle of limbs.

It’s the only one in the suite, and I send a silent thank you to
the guys for being so cool about this. It’s late and they’ve gotta
be exhausted after a long day of playing music without really
getting anywhere. I’m sure they would’ve just skipped food
and went straight to bed if Will hadn’t shown up.

But instead, they gave me this.

Will’s here.

He came, he came, he came.

Right when I needed him most.

 Firm fingers grip my waist, using me for balance as he
hobbles to reach one hand back, then the other, to yank off his
socks. I shove his jeans and boxers down once he’s steady, and
he wastes no time in shucking them off completely, before
plastering himself to me. Fully naked.

His bare cock brushes against mine, before pressing against

my stomach like a heavy, hot brand. I cup his ass, squeezing
him, pulling a deep groan from his chest as I grind my hard
length up against his.

Our tongues swirl hotly in his mouth, and then I’m pulling
back, scraping my teeth over his lip. He tastes like rain water
and something headier, something distinctly Will.

He makes a small noise of protest as I arch away from him,

reaching blindly around me for the shower knobs.

It’s a massive walk-in shower, with one of those fancy

rectangular showerheads that take up almost the entire stall.
Feels like you’re in a rainstorm. It’s fucking Heaven.

Hands spread widely over my lower back, the sides of his

pinkie fingers teasing the slope of my clenched ass.

“Damn,” Will breathes, pressing a quick kiss to my

shoulder. His pupils are blown, eyes heavy with arousal as he
takes in the shower behind me. “This is some fancy ass shit
you got here.”

The pipes creak the slightest bit, and then water comes
cascading down, crashing onto the tiled flooring. I hum a kiss
against his cheek, before turning away to adjust the
temperature.

Big wall to wall mirrors surround the shower from the waist
up, so I have a perfect, unobstructed view of Will standing
behind me. Tall and tanned. Muscular shoulders bunched from
holding me so tight.

Like he’s terrified to let me go.

Like I might disappear if he does.

Our gazes connect in the mirror, and I’m thrown back to the
many times we met like this.

That first night, over a year ago, in a dingy bar bathroom. A

girl caught between us, none the wiser to the storm brewing
around her.

Then months later, when he held me back from punching

out my reflection. The night I thought we might never come
back from.

The club bathroom, confetti and glitter sticking to our

temples. Chests heaving. Lips still tingling. His raw confession
— “You are loved. And I’m not better off without you.” —and
the heartbreak that followed…

“We’re not good for each other, Waylon. Not like this.”

“We have a lot of moments in bathrooms, don’t we?” I

whisper, chest growing heavy from the memories of our rocky
start.

His mouth lifts at the corners. “You noticed that too?”

 I laugh and it’s creaky.

His features soften and he drops his mouth to the side of my

head. “No regrets.”

Sliding my eyes shut, I nod. “No regrets.” But I’m still

sorry.

Steam fills the room, tickling my skin. The heat beckons,

even though I’m already boiling.

As if reading my mind, Will slides his hands to my hips, and

gives me a little nudge to get under the spray.

I hear the glass door slide shut just as I whirl around, grab
Will by the skull, and crush his mouth to mine in an open,
messy kiss. His arms come around me, catching me, just
before we would’ve gone tumbling into the doors.

The water pounds down on our faces and slides over our
shoulders. We’re pressed so tightly together, water pools along
the grooves of our collarbones.

“Fuck,” he mutters, sucking water off my bottom lip.

He pulls back, cupping my cheeks in his warm palms. I

blink through the water sliding down my head, my temples,
droplets clinging heavily to my lashes. He collects the ones
that fall with his fingers.

Moving his palm, Will drags a thumb over my lips, and I

pull the warm digit in, hollowing my cheeks as I suck him
over my tongue.
 His face bunches like he’s in pain, and the fingers still
clutching my side press harder. So hard, I feel his nails digging
into my skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, eyes darkening. He bows his

forehead to mine, rocking it back and forth. His knuckles and
the thumb in my mouth are all that separate our lips as we just
breathe, in and out, in and out, sharing air. “You’re killing
me.”

He removes his thumb from my mouth and crushes his lips

to mine in a sweltering kiss.

Time loses all sense of meaning as we map each other’s

naked bodies with our hands, re-memorizing anything we
might’ve forgotten in the time we spent apart.

Eventually our kisses ease into something lighter, something

more playful as we grab the soap and finally make work of
washing off the day.

My dick is still so fucking hard, as is his, so we don’t dally,

or worry about making some sensual thing of it. We both know
where this is headed.

Back home, we showered together more often than not, so

it’s long since stopped being awkward. It’s just two people
getting clean together. Routine. Methodical. Perfectly
mundane.

Intimate in the purest sense of the word. Boners and all.

At one point, I throw the loofah I was using at his chest.

Will grabs my wrist, tugging me to him with a growl that
breaks a low laugh out of me. We’re all jabbing elbows and
soapy fingers and not-so-secret looks as we fight for the
shampoo.

It’s insane.

Loving him this easily…

Like every piece of me was made for every piece of him.

He adds a big blob of shampoo to my hair before pouring

some out into his palm to run through his own hair.

Watching him now, it’s hard to believe it was just an hour

ago, not even, that I was losing my shit on the side-streets of
LA.

When he’s here, in reaching distance, it doesn’t feel so

pathetic to want him, need him, breathe for him.

My mind plays back what happened outside the hotel as my

eyes catch once more on the shadows under his eyes.

I’ve seen Will upset and scared before, but this time, it hits
different. I’m not really sure why. Maybe because we hadn’t
seen each other in ten days. Maybe because I had it all planned
out in my head how I would greet him in the airport.

Maybe because for a second, even before he spoke, I was

furious he jumped on a plane, days earlier than scheduled, all
because I had a stupid panic attack.

I was ashamed. Still kind of am, to be honest.

Hanging my head, I wash the shampoo out of my hair.

Later, I tell myself. I’ll deal with all that later.

 What matters is he’s here now. Naked and soapy and too
fucking gorgeous to be real.

After rinsing out the suds from my hair, I step forward and
press my hands to his chest, smoothing my fingers over his
hard muscles. His heart thumps steadily against my palm.
Nipples pebbling between my fingers.

Nope, definitely real. Yet impossibly all mine.

I watch through slitted eyes as he tips his head back, letting

the water cascade down his face. He runs his fingers through
his wet hair, washing out the soap, before slicking it back.

Stepping even closer, I press my nose to his stubbly jaw,

and slide my eyes shut against the water beating down from
above.

Big, strong hands come around my back as a mouth feathers

across my temple. “Done?”

I hum, nodding as I rub my nose all up in his soapy, wet

skin. He smells like me now, like my soap.

His fingers find the back of my head, much gentler now

than they were before as he cradles my head, pulling it back
just enough to bump noses. Then lips.

He flicks his tongue out, before replacing it with his teeth.

He gives my bottom lip one last tug, then pulls back with that
crooked, infuriating grin of his. “Turn around,” he orders
deeply.

Heat explodes across my cheeks but I do as he says.

 At first I freeze when I come face to face with my
reflection. It’s not as clear as it was, thanks to the steam and
water droplets streaking down the surface, but still clear
enough to see my hooded, dark eyes staring back at me. The
flushed cheeks. The parted lips.

It’s nerve-wracking and hot all at once.

Hands come around my waist, giving me a little shove

forward.

Not expecting it, I throw my arms out, slamming my palms

against the mirror.

“Good boy.”

Fucking. Christ.

I watch through wide eyes as he drops down behind me. His

knees are bent between mine as he balances on the soles of his
feet. Hands clutching my ass for leverage.

Warm, slick hands stroke over my cheeks. “God, I’ve

missed this ass. Maybe even more than who it belongs to.”

That startles a choked laugh from me. My knuckles push

against my skin as I dig my bruised fingertips into the mirror.
“You’re such a dic—”

My words cut out with a sharp hitch of air as I feel his teeth
clamp down on my ass.

“Be nice,” he says softly, before flicking his tongue over my

skin to soothe the ache.
 His words echo all around me, and I shudder, dropping my
forehead to the mirror. He squeezes my bottom, moving his
lips toward my crease as he spreads me.

And all I can think is, thank God the guys aren’t here.
Because not a moment later, I feel warm, wet heat right over
my hole, ripping a sound from me that I can’t even be sure is
human. Caught somewhere between a whimper and a moan, it
fills the room, clashing with the rush of water pouring down
on us.

I feel more than hear the dark chuckle that dances along the
most private part of my body. He pulls back just enough to
say, “I might be in love with this bathroom.”

I might be in love with you.

But I don’t say that. That would defeat the purpose of…
of… well, fuck I don’t know, his tongue’s now in my ass,
wreaking havoc on my senses. There’s really no might about
it. I’m in love with this guy.

In love with the way he loves me, fiercely and unabashed.

The way he makes me feel, the way his mouth feels on my
body, in my body. Jesus Christ, he’s fucking me with his
tongue.

So. Much. Love.

All of it. I’ve got nothing else left in me.

I don’t realize I’ve shut my eyes until I peel them open to

look down at where Will’s reflection kneels between my legs.
From this angle, I can only make out the jut of his jaw as he
fucking buries his face between my cheeks. His knees are now
digging into the tiled floors, but if his cock is anything to go
by—hard and flushed against his stomach, leaving a sticky,
glistening mess—he doesn’t mind.

A deep-chested groan rises out of me when I feel his stubble

scrape over my inner cheeks and thighs, and I don’t even care
anymore how loud it sounds. The guys could be back and
listening in on us for all I fucking care.

He sucks and bites at my rim exactly like he promised me

the other day, laving it up with wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“I’m going to devour you. Make you forget everything but

the feel of my mouth on you. Gonna make you scream.”

To which I told him, “Bet.”

…knowing full well I’d lose.

My cock stands rigidly against my stomach, balls tingling as

he sweeps his tongue over my entrance. Pre-cum weeps from
my tip, sliding down the reddened head.

I reach down to give myself a squeeze, some kind of relief,

only for Will to pinch my ass. “Hands on the wall.”

Nose flaring, teeth gnashing, I do as he says. “Hate you so

much.”

He stands up suddenly, plastering his front to my back. His

dick’s hot and hard, wedged between my cheeks. He reaches
around with one hand, clasping my jaw, pushing out my lips as
he tips my head back.
 “No you don’t.” He presses a kiss to the bridge of my nose,
then moves away completely.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“Need lube.”

My ribcage drops with an exhale.

Cold air tingles along my spine and lower. Something wet

trails down my inner thigh. His spit.

Shudders rack through my body. That shouldn’t be as hot as

it is.

It feels like an eternity, when really it has to only be seconds

before he returns.

The glass slides shut, boxing us in once more. Steam clouds

rise above our heads.

“You stayed put,” he says, mouth twitching.

I blink at him over my shoulder, muscles tightening as I

realize I’m still facing the wall, arms braced against the mirror.
Ass out, ready and waiting.

And still, I don’t move. What would be the point?

His gaze drifts lazily down my body, teeth sawing into his
bottom lip. “I love you like this.”

“Just like this?”

A slight shake of his head. “I love you always.”

My chest rises. Pretty sure my heart damn near stutters.

 His eyes lift to mine, so dark, I can’t make out their blues.
“But I especially love when you take what you want.”

My voice is rough, wrecked as I say, “Pretty sure you’ll be

doing the taking.”

His lips rise. “That so?”

He draws closer, and my gaze drops to the little packet in

his hand.

“Came prepared, did you?”

Will grabs my waist with his free hand and presses against
my back. His nose is in my wet hair, inhaling deeply. “I’m
always prepared.”

Pulling back, he lifts the hand not gripping the lube and
holds up three fingers in the sign of the Boy Scout salute.

I roll my eyes and grab them, bringing them to my mouth,

and snapping my teeth at his fingertips. His shoulders shake
with a silent laugh.

He rips the packet of lube open with his teeth.

Damn, that’s hot.

Releasing his hand, I turn to face the mirrors once more,

bracketing my forearms next to my head.

I watch him through the steam-coated mirror. His hair is wet

and slicked back, so I have a perfect view of his downturned
face as he slicks up his fingers with lube. My dick gives a
mighty twitch and I bite my lip.

Fuck, ten days is too long to go without this.

 And to think a year ago, I actually believed I could go the
rest of my life without it. Without this. Without him.

Will steps closer, pressing against me. His other hand comes
around front, fingers spreading wide over my clenched
stomach.

I spread my legs, giving him easier access as he dips his

slicked up fingers down my crease. The lube is chilly and
slippery, and I suck in a breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Impatient.”

I nod jerkily, thinking, me too.

His finger skims my hole, gentle, yet prodding.

“Breathe,” he whispers, his other hand sliding up to my

chest.

I do what he says, releasing the tight hold I have over my

muscles, and relax.

Still soft and wet from his mouth and the lube, he has no
problem sinking a finger inside me, right down to the knuckle.

My fingers clench over the mirror as I bite down hard on

my lip.

“That’s it,” Will says into a long moan. He drops his mouth
to my shoulder as he starts planting open-mouthed kisses over
my tingling skin. “Just relax, I got you.”

Pressure builds at my hole, awkward and uncomfortable at

first as he starts to move in and out, before sneaking in a
second finger. I already feel so full, and I’m only going to be
fuller.

But I just continue to breathe through it, knowing it will

pass. Knowing what comes next. Prepping doesn’t take nearly
as long as it used to. My body now welcomes the invasion. It’s
when he leaves that it revolts.

“Goddamn, baby,” he says, scissoring two fingers in and out

of me. “So fucking tight for me. My balls are aching.
Definitely not gonna last once I’m inside you.”

A groan scrapes out of me as I tip my head back against his

shoulder. He turns his face into my neck, sucking kisses into
my flesh, just under my ear. I can feel his chest heaving for air,
and we didn’t even get to the best part yet.

His deep voice rasps into my ear, “Ready, babe?”

“Uh huh.”

I hear his smile in his voice as he says, “Thank God.”

His fingers make an obscene squelching sound as he slips

them from my hole. I shiver, my shoulders jostling, unable to
contain my anticipation.

In the mirror, my mouth dries as I watch Will reach down

for the lube packet.

Once he’s all slicked up, he tosses what’s left on the ground,
grips my waist with his other hand, and pulls me toward him,
guiding his cock to my entrance.
 He swipes the fat head over my hole, before giving a little
nudge to my rim.

A weird little noise escapes me, muffled only slightly by the

shower.

“God, I’ll never get over the sight of this,” he says.

Clenching my fists, I push back, desperate for him to break

through that first barrier.

“So fucking hot.”

My mouth is so dry, I have to swallow before I can manage

to whimper, “Will, please.”

I’m fucking dying here, man.

I don’t even care that I’ve been reduced to begging.

In the mirror, I watch as his eyes squeeze shut, his jaw

muscles ticking. Like my pleas physically hurt him.

What… But I never get to finish that thought.

The next thing I know, those deep blue eyes are snapping
open, blazing into mine just as he reaches up, grips my
shoulder, and fucks into me with one powerful thrust.

My mouth opens on a silent gasp as I arch into the glass.

Fingers grappling for purchase over the slippery surface. The
mirror is wet and ice cold against my bare body. My nipples
pebble almost painfully, but I hardly even notice as
unbelievable pressure fries my nerve-endings from the inside
out.
 “Breathe, baby,” he chokes out. I can’t even be sure he’s
breathing.

He’s inside me. Will’s inside me. Buried so deep within me,
it’s hard to remember missing him.

He’s not moving, just standing there, panting now, with my

ass impaled on his cock.

Jesus, did he get bigger since I last saw him?

I almost laugh at the thought, but it turns into a long-winded

moan as I throw my head back against his.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he grits out. “Missed you.” He

grunts, giving the shallowest of thrusts, putting himself
impossibly deeper in me. “Missed you so damn much.”

The weight of ten long days hangs heavily over each

syllable.

“Me too,” I barely manage to whisper, tears stinging the

back of my eyes. It’s all just so fucking much.

Something tells me Will hears what I’m not saying, because

he suddenly releases my shoulder, seizing my face instead, and
guides my mouth to his for a kiss.

It’s an awkward angle, so it’s more tongue than anything

else. Lips sliding messily over our jaws, his rough, mine
smooth.

“Love you,” I mutter into his chin.

Another low grunt punches out of him, and then, without

warning, without waiting for my permission, he pulls almost
all the way out before slamming back into me.

A grunt bursts out of me as sharp little tingles, like tiny

explosions, go off all over my body. It hurts, hurts so goddamn
good. And I ride that wave of pain and pleasure for as long as
it’ll carry me.

Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.

And he doesn’t.

He takes me roughly, fucking me without mercy. Without

reserve. Just when I think his thrusts will slow into something
heady and bone-melting, like they usually do, he changes the
angle to assault that white-hot spot inside me. Over and over
and over again.

Holy fuck.

This time, I know the sounds coming out of me are anything

but human.

He wins, he wins, he wins all the things, I think stupidly,

eyes rolling back into my head.

There’s a frantic, almost unhinged edge to the way he’s

pounding into me, one I’ve never quite felt from him before.
Not like this. It’s animalistic and desperate and I realize—

He’s been holding back.

The thought forms, settles, then fractures, slipping through

my fingers like sand.

That fucker. That beautiful fucking fucker.

 Because it doesn’t matter. Not what led us here, not what’s
threatened to tear us apart. The distance we’ve failed so
epically to endure.

Nothing else matters but this.

My lips rise of their own volition into a breathless smile.

Fingers find their way into my hair, yanking me back. My
back arches, pulled tight like a bow.

“Fuck,” Will growls through clenched teeth. “I— I can’t—”

“D-don’t stop,” I manage to choke out. I’m nothing more

than whimpers and moans as mind-blowing pleasure wrings
me out from my head to the tips of my toes. My world starts
and ends where we’re connected. “D-don’t—”

This time, he’s the one whimpering. His lips tremble against
my neck. “Never.”

His hands find mine, linking our fingers together, slamming

them to the mirror.

The sound of our wet flesh smacking against each other

wars with the water pelting against the tile. With the moans
creeping up my throat and Will’s short, hard grunts, it’s a
symphony of all out pleasure. An explosion of the senses.

Nothing else exists but this.

Our eyes collide in the steam-streaked mirror, hooded and

fierce with love and unbridled wanting.

Hunger like nothing I’ve ever felt before consumes me, and
it’s a damn crime it took this long to get here. To this moment,
where he is me and I am him, and I will destroy anything or
anybody who tries to sever us.

Unhealthy, my ass. This love is just straight up primal. Our

need for each other ingrained in us as deeply as our need for
air. Inescapable.

Losing him would literally kill me, and I don’t care what
anyone has to say about that.

The seconds stretched out between us start to shrink as our

pleasure climbs and climbs.

“Will,” I whine, clenching his fingers with mine. My

cheek’s pressed to the mirror. His head is bowed to my neck. I
picture him watching us, watching the way our bodies collide.

I’d be jealous if I didn’t already feel that collision on an

atomic level, every cell of mine igniting as he fucks me so
spectacularly.

He groans, driving his cock deep inside me in one smooth

glide. This time, he doesn’t immediately pull back, just rests
against that little bundle of nerves like my entire body isn’t
trembling around him. Like I’m not about to shatter into a
million sparks.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Will, please.”

More. I need more. I need—

“Fuck,” he bites out, before pulling out of me completely.

So fast and sudden, I feel myself gaping from the emptiness.
My mouth opens on a gasp, but before I can even process
what’s happening, he’s whirling me around by the waist and
dropping to his knees.

Bracing an arm over my middle, he shoves me against the

cold, mirrored wall, pinning me.

“Need to taste you,” is all he manages to mutter before

swallowing my dick down his throat.

Oh my God.

My hands find his hair on instinct, gripping so tight it has to

hurt. Has to fucking burn. But if I don’t hold onto something,
I’m going to—

His free hand slides around to palm my ass. Fingers biting

into my flesh, squeezing as they creep toward the center. One
finds my stretched-out hole, sinking in, down to the root as I
clench around the digit.

I’m going to—

Everything’s fracturing. Colliding and bursting.

I’m—

He twists his hand, crooks his finger, swallows around my

dick with a low, guttural groan that I feel and I just—

Explode.

No warning.

No anything.

I’m just—
 Gone.

Done.

I’m pretty sure my heart has sunk into my balls. I feel like
I’ll never stop coming.

My body is quaking, fingers tangled so furiously in his hair,

they hurt. Will’s wild gaze is locked on mine from where he
kneels on the shower tile, lips stretched wide around my
pulsing cock as he tries to catch every last bit.

When I’m finally spent, I’m dimly aware of him lowering

his gaze and carefully easing back off my length. Behind me,
his fingers slip out, sliding wetly down the back of my thigh.

I watch through heavily lidded eyes as he lifts a hand to his

face and spits all the cum he just collected with his mouth into
his palm.

My mouth dries. Pretty sure I’m damn gaping at him,

because holy fuck.

Still not looking at me, he reaches down and coats his rigid
cock in my cum.

My body shudders just as he uses his other hand to grab my

waist and buries his face into my thigh, right next to my groin.
Inhaling me.

I wanted to do that for him, I think blankly.

I wanted to taste him.

But I’m frozen and tongue-tied, unable to do anything but

tug at his hair and squeeze his ears with the heels of my palms.
His back muscles quake, shoulders shuddering.

“That’s it,” I breathe. “Fuck your fist. Soak it with our

cum.”

His body gives a great jolt at my words, and a beat later, a

sharp sting radiates up my side as he bites into my thigh, just
under my hip bone. A deep, muffled groan vibrates over my
skin as he shatters at my feet.

“Fuck,” I mutter, chest collapsing like I’ve been holding my

breath. Maybe I was.

My grip on his skull eases, and I stroke him more gently.

When he starts to pull back, I don’t waste a second. I drop

down to my knees, clasp his cheeks in my hands and seal our
mouths together.

I taste myself on his lips, salty and musky, along with

something coppery. Jesus, did he break my skin? Draw blood?
My lips rise against his at the thought.

Goddamn, City Boy.

He’s still trembling, still breathless.

So am I.

Cradling his face, I pull back, searching his eyes with what
I’m sure is a goofy, blissed out grin.

His lip is red and swollen. It quivers. “Did I— Did I hurt

you?”

I shake my head. “Does it look like I’m hurt?”

 His eyes pinch at the corners, like he’s not sure. It’s such a
foreign expression to see on his face, especially after sex.

Especially after the best sex I’ve ever had.

Where’s the cocky guy I know and pretend to despise who

just fucked me within an inch of my life? He should be damn
gloating right now.

“Will,” I choke out on a laugh. “Are you serious? That was

the single hottest fucking moment of my life. What…” I drift
off, blinking fast. I shake my head, unable to find the words.
My brain is still offline. I smile stupidly. “How…”

Something softens in his dark blue eyes as they drop to my

cheek, before raising once more to my eyes. Some of the
worry there easing up as he realizes just how okay I am.

Then it clicks.

“So you have been holding back,” I say not unkindly as my

earlier suspicion intertwines with what I’m piecing together
now.

His lashes flutter over his cheeks as he drops his gaze,

confirming as much.

So I smush his cheeks and lift his face, forcing him to meet
my steady gaze.

“If you ever hold back with me again,” I tell him gravely,
fighting a smile. “I’ll never forgive you.”

Deep ocean blue eyes search mine, like he’s looking for
something. I don’t know what it is, but whatever he finds has
redness creeping around the edges and tears welling at the
bottoms.

What the—

My grip on his face loosens just as he chokes out, “I-I

missed you.”

My shoulders drop. Chest collapses. Heart splits wide open.

This guy. This fucking guy.

Will hangs his head, and I don’t think, I just wrap him in my
arms, and pull him close to me. Tucking his face into my
shoulder as I hug him as hard as I can.

“I missed you so much,” he says into my neck, his voice

thick and muffled as strong arms come around me. Water
continues to cascade down on us, still hot somehow, though
we’ve long since gotten used to it.

Eyes burning, throat tight, I nod against his head. “I know,

baby. I know.”

He shudders and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Our exhaustion is this living, breathing thing between us. I

can feel his as much as mine. And while there’s relief there
too, I can’t help but acknowledge the dread creeping its
spindly unwanted fingers around our shoulders. Whispering
into our ears as we hold ourselves tighter, breathe in each other
harder.

As if we could push away the inevitable with the sheer force

of our will and love alone.
 My mouth twitches sadly at the thought. Pun intended.

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” I tell him, voice breaking. I bury my nose in his

wet hair. “Shut up so hard.”

His shoulders shake at that and I smile.

He’s bigger than me, only just. And usually a force strong
enough to withstand anything.

But tonight, right now, he’s mine to hold. Mine to protect.

Mine to shield from what tomorrow might bring.

It took fucking forever for him to let me see him like this.
To let me in. Months spent trying to be stoic and fierce as he
helped me fight off my demons…

Only for the demons at his back to gather an army and pull
him under when we least expected it. When he could no longer
hold them back alone and I was left grappling.

I squeeze my eyes shut until I see spots.

We weren’t good for each other last year.

I wasn’t good for him.

Because he was in Hell too, and I was too weak to see it.
Too weak to do much of anything but hang on for dear life to
whatever I could grab.

He’s still there sometimes, as am I.

But I’m stronger now.

 Strong enough to withstand whatever comes his way… even
if I can’t always be strong enough for myself.

Pun 110 percent intended.

Because that’s why I have him, I remind myself.

To always have my back. To always catch me when I fall.

Just as I’ll have his. Just as I’ll catch him.

And if we fall together, then so be it. Our strength goes

beyond just the two of us. That’s what family’s for. That’s
what we have thorns for. Tethering us even when things get
ugly.

“We’re gonna be okay,” I promise him, smiling into his hair.

Fingers dig into my back, clutching onto me. “Still

beating?” Will rasps, just loud enough for me to hear.

I blow out a breath, tip my head back toward the Heavens,

and squint into the downpour of water just like I did earlier in
the rain.

“Yeah,” I tell him strongly. “Still beating.”

AT FIRST I’M NOT sure what woke me.

I blink heavily against the sleep still clinging to my

awareness, momentarily confused when the room around me
sharpens into focus.

It’s dark, so it must still be nighttime, but the cracked open

door sheds just enough light in the room for me to make out
my surroundings.

That’s not my ceiling.

“Shit, sorry,” a voice whispers, barely audible over the

steady hum of the fan coming from the unit under the window.
Footsteps sound over the floor, muffled against the carpet. I
think I hear something like paper rustling.

Frowning, I pinch the corners of my eyes, and roll my head

to the side to take in the hooded, hunched figure creeping
across the room.

The hell?

I’m on my back, which isn’t how I usually sleep, telling me

just how fucking exhausted I am. A warm, heavy weight is
plastered against my right side. An inked arm is thrown over
my chest. Soft puffs of air blow on my bare chest where
Waylon’s face is smushed against my pec.

“We brought food back with us. Wasn’t sure if you’d still be
awake, but…” The voice I now recognize as Mason’s trails off
as the guy passed out on top of me grumbles something in his
sleep. “I’ll just leave the bag here.”

My mouth crooks up and I nod. “Thanks.”

A beat passes, like he’s hesitating. Just when I’m sure he’s
gonna forget it and leave, he speaks.

“I know you’re worried,” he whispers in a rush. “I know it’s

hard. But we’ve got him, okay? We won’t let anything happen.
He had a bad day. We all do. But we get through them.”

My throat tightens with emotion as I remember what

happened outside the hotel.

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Waylon had said, and all I
can think now is, no shit. Our reunion should’ve been a happy
one. Not… that.
 But I try not to think about that right now. I’m too fucking
tired. And even though I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four
hours, I can’t find it in me to even care right now.

“I know,” I say quietly.

“Do you?”

My mouth parts but closes at that. Do I?

Another long moment passes, before he says more gently,

“It’ll get easier. With time. It took Phoebe months before she
could look at me without breaking down in sobs after I
ODed.” He pauses. “Taking even longer for Jer to forgive me
for last year.”

I still at that, blinking hard into the thin darkness.

Does he know I know?

I doubt that. As far as I’m aware, they’re still not talking.

Not while Jeremy’s abroad for school. He wanted space to get
over Mason, and Mason’s giving it to him.

“He’ll come around,” I finally manage to say.

A beat passes. “Maybe.”

My brows crash down over my eyes. He sounds… odd.

Closed off, and something else I can’t pinpoint.

“I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. I—” He mumbles

something I can’t make out. “Never mind, this isn’t about me.”

My confusion only grows. God, I’m way too tired for this
conversation.
 “Anyway, I just… wanted to make sure you guys got food.
He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and—” He blows out a breath.
“I doubt you ate anything either. So, take care of yourselves,
okay?” He swallows with a loud click into the quiet room.
“We need you. Both of you.”

An ache forms in my chest and I nod, taking care not to

jostle Waylon’s sleeping form. “Thanks, man. I mean it.
For…” I suck in a breath and blow it out slowly. “Thanks for
being there for him when I can’t be. Shawn too.”

“Always.”

His footsteps move farther away, heading toward the door. I

bite my lip, debating…

Just as the door creaks open, allowing him enough room to

slip through, I whisper out his name.

Fuck it.

He pauses with his back to me.

“He’s okay, you know,” I say, wondering if it’d be better to

just shut my trap. I don’t clarify who I’m referring to. “Happy,
last I talked to him. Said he met someone.”

All true.

It’s impossible to tell for sure, but I swear Mason stiffens

the faintest bit.

“Good,” he says after a moment, voice stilted. “That’s

good.”
 And with that he leaves, closing the door behind him.
Darkness envelops the room once more, utterly black at first
until my eyes adjust.

If they’re just getting back now with food, we must’ve not

been asleep for long. Pretty sure I was out as soon as my head
hit the pillow. I only vaguely remember sluggishly drying off
and creeping back to Waylon’s room, our fingers and toes
pruned from how long we sat huddled together in the shower.

And here I thought I was the one coming to the rescue.

I huff a humorless laugh at that and turn my head, burying

my nose in his still-damp hair.

How is it that he’s right here, and I already miss him?

His arm twitches, and then he mumbles something, before

rolling over onto his other side, away from me. He’s definitely
unconscious, and yet he scoots back, snuggling into me.

My lips rise as I follow his lead and roll onto my side,

sliding my arm over his waist. I take my other arm, which is
numb and tingly from him lying on it, and shove it under the
pillow under his head.

We’re both bare ass naked under the covers, having opted
out of getting dressed once we shut ourselves back in here for
the night. My soft cock presses against his ass as I cuddle
close, spooning him.

Nose pressed to his nape, I inhale.

He’s really here.

 No… I’m really here. In LA. On the other side of the
fucking country. God, has it really only been twenty-four
hours since I got that phone call?

Waylon stirs slightly, mumbling something before smacking

his lips. Then his breathing evens out once more, telling me
he’s still fast asleep.

He’s always been such a light sleeper, so it’s weird to have

the roles reversed. Kind of nice actually, seeing as I rarely get
to witness something as simple as Waylon sleeping peacefully.
Feeling him relaxed and boneless in my arms.

Normally, he’s either waking up at the ass crack of dawn,

hours before me, ready to start his day with a jog. Or he’s
gasping awake from nightmares he can’t remember, muscles
rigid, fingers clenched in my arms.

Or he’s waking me up from nightmares I remember all too

well. Shaking me, lips pressed together in a tight, bloodless
line, eyes creased with worry as all I can do is stare at him, not
sure if my mind’s playing tricks on me.

The world grows heavy once more as sleep beckons me

back. My thoughts splintering into nonsense.

I like this, I think. Not even sure what I like, but it has the
ache that’s been in my chest for days finally easing up,
breaking off into something softer. Easier to withstand.

My hand slides up Waylon’s bare chest.

His heart pounds and pounds and pounds, a steady rhythm

I’m well familiar with.
 “It gets easier,” Mason said.

And as I lay here, cuddled with the boy I love, his heart
beating sturdily against my palm as sleep drags me under once
more…

I can believe it does.

THIS TIME, IT’S THE quiet strum of guitar strings that

wakes me. Gently, like finger-strokes over my hair. Or a
breeze fluttering in through the window.

And still I bury my face into the pillow and groan.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

I reach up and flip him off.

He chuckles.

Okay, so I’m not a morning person. Never claimed to be. It

just didn’t take until we were dating and practically living
together for him to figure out just how much of a bear I am in
the morning, especially before coffee.

He loves to give me shit for it. For such a grump, he’s quite
infuriatingly chipper in the mornings. It’s like he sucks all the
happy out of me while I sleep, converting it into energy.

Fucking incubus.

Music continues to fill the room, slightly louder now that he

knows I’m awake.
 I don’t recognize the song, so either it’s a new one they’ve
been working on, or it’s new period. It wouldn’t be the first
time I woke up to Waylon playing around with something. It
would seem early mornings, or coming right out of a heavy
sleep, are when inspiration strikes hardest.

There’s also the fact the sheet is bunched at the bottom of

the bed, leaving my naked ass bare to the world. I’m not
conceited enough to think he’s waxing poetic about my body
right now, but also, I am that conceited. I have a good body, a
muse-worthy ass even, perhaps—I work hard in the gym for it
—and I have it on good authority he loves it.

I just might love his a little bit more. I just prefer to fuck
him senseless than try to spin sonnets about it. Talented fucker,
I grouse inwardly without any heat. He’s got more musical
talent in his pinkie nail than I’ve got in my entire body.

Yawning into my arm, I finally roll over and push up into a

seated position. Running my hands through my hair, I wince
when I hit a couple snags. It’s gotta look wild from going to
sleep with it wet.

A quick glance at Waylon shows his hair is all curly and

tousled too.

“What?” he says, looking at me through hooded eyes. He’s

still shirtless, but he threw on a pair of gray sweatpants. Pity.

Teeth gnawing into my bottom lip, I shake my head.

“The guys dropped off food while we were sleeping,” he

eventually says, fingers stilling on his guitar. He jerks his head
toward the bag rumpled up at the bottom of the bed. “I ate
mine already. Sorry. But I got you coffee from the lobby.”

Scratching my jaw, I reach for the to-go cup he gestures to

on the nightstand.

“It’s probably cold by now,” he tries to warn me softly, but

I’m already guzzling it down.

“Don’t care,” I rasp, wiping the back of my hand across my

mouth. Blinking a couple times, I screw my eye shut against
the orange sunlight streaming in through a gap in the curtains.
“What time is it?”

“A little after one.”

I whip my head at him, eyes bugging out. “In the

afternoon?”

He smiles and nods. “Yeah.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” I start saying, rubbing my chest, but he’s

already shaking his head.

“I slept so hard the first day here. Jet lag’s a bitch, and I’ve
been told it’ll be even worse when we get home.”

My knuckles pause as everything in me stills.

He seems to realize too what he just said, and everything

that happened yesterday rushes back to the forefront, hanging
heavily between us.

Because the fact of the matter is simple, sitting in me like an

unmovable stone.

We won’t be going home together.

 I swallow hard, and dig my nails into the cup.

“Will…”

“Are you okay?” I ask, lifting my gaze up at him through

my lashes.

His eyes tighten. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

I shake my head. “I meant… Are you sore?”

He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the slight flush on his
cheeks. “I’m fine. I’m sitting, aren’t I?”

A low creaky chuckle escapes me at that.

“It’s a good hurt, Will,” he assures me quietly. Something in

his voice has me sobering. He smiles, and it’s a gentle smile,
almost wistful. “Really good.”

Jesus.

“Masochist,” I mutter taking another sip of cold coffee.

His grin widens, dark brows wagging. “Sadist.”

My gaze drops to the dimples sinking deeply in his cheeks,

and my chest tightens. Mouth dries. Coffee goes down like
ash.

I set the cup back down on the table.

“Will—”

“You were happy,” I hear myself say, my voice no louder

than a whisper.

“What?” he whispers back. Not moving his furrowed gaze

off my face, he reaches down to set the guitar on the floor,
before scooting closer to me and grabbing my lifeless hands.

I drop my attention to our laced fingers, finally tighten them

around his. “Last night. When you got to the hotel. You were
happy.” I force a hard swallow and finally look up to meet his
wary hazel eyes. “You were smiling and laughing and singing
and…”

My voice trails off. I don’t need to finish the thought, but he

finishes it for me anyway.

“You thought I was drunk.”

My face bunches and I look away.

“Hey.”

His hands squeeze mine, jostling me a bit to get my

attention.

I drop my gaze before dragging it back up to his.

“I’m not mad,” he says.

“You were.”

“Yeah, for a second,” Waylon admits. “But I get it. I didn’t

at first, but… I get it. It makes sense why you thought that,
especially given what happened the other night.”

I study him, not sure I believe him. Not sure I can even
come up with the words to explain what was going on in my
head at that moment. Hell, not just that moment, but that entire
day. It’s like as soon as I got on that plane and had no choice
but to sit there, without any way of him getting in touch with
me or me getting in touch with him, I just…
 Lost it.

“Maybe…” he starts hesitantly. He tries again. “Maybe next

time I… have an episode, they don’t call you.”

I stare blankly at him.

His throat works with a swallow, and I can visibly see the
struggle in his hazel eyes. The flicker of fear at not being able
to come to me when he needs me. It’s a fear as familiar to me
as my own.

“I don’t like that plan.”

His brows lift. “Neither do I, but the alternative is…”

“Me coming to LA,” I say flatly.

He was happy. He was happy and I ruined it.

He makes a face. “What? You have to know I’m… God,

happy doesn’t even begin to cover it. You being here…”
Shaking his head, he looks down, blowing out a harsh breath.

I don’t say anything at first. I just wait, tense and unsure,

because I want to believe him. And today, in the light of day,
after the first restful sleep I’ve had in over a week, I feel like I
could believe him. I just…

“I don’t want to make anything worse for you.” The words

tumble from my lips stilted and unbidden.

His head snaps up at that.

I vaguely remember saying or asking something similar last

night. And yet, the admission tastes even more sour on my
tongue the second time around. But it’s too late to take it back,
even if I could. It’s out there now.

“Will,” he says, slowly shaking his head. “I… Are you

serious right now?” he says, voice cracking. Releasing one of
his hands from mine, he brings it up to rub roughly down his
face. “Do you know what you didn’t see last night, before all
the singing and laughing?” Not waiting for me to respond, he
drops his hand to his lap and says, “Me losing my shit on the
streets of LA all because I was dreading going back to an
empty bed.”

It takes a second for his words to process, but when they do,
I swear my heart grinds to a stop.

His face pinches and he looks almost angry as he throws a

careless hand out, gesturing at nothing. “I was a fucking mess
and I couldn’t even admit to the guys why. They knew, of
course they fucking knew. But I couldn’t tell them how much I
was missing you, because it felt weak. Needing you felt
fucking weak. It was easier to admit to them I wanted a drink.”

My lashes flutter closed at that. “Babe—”

“And I did. I wanted a drink. I wanted to drink ’til I passed

out. I wanted to drink until Saturday arrived, and you were
here, and I could hold you and not feel like I’m breaking apart
inside.”

I’m not sure whose fingers are squeezing whose anymore.

My eyes open, no doubt red-rimmed as they clash with his

glistening gaze.
 “You showing up like that…” he says, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t part of the plan,” I say, repeating his words from
last night.

He throws his hand out again. “I said that because I thought

it was my fault.” Compressing his fingers into a fist, Waylon
presses it to the center of his chest. “I thought you dropped
everything and flew here because I had a stupid panic attack. I
was mad at myself, Will, not at you for showing up. I just— I
wanted to be strong enough. I wanted to make it to Saturday,
for me.”

“And I ruined that.”

He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, shut up. Shut up!”

I blink wide at his outburst.

“You’re not listening, or maybe I’m just not saying this

right.” He huffs and runs his fingers through his messy dark
hair. “I said was. Past-tense. All past-tense. I don’t… I was
just being stubborn. And selfish. And-and…”

“Way,” I breathe.

“I don’t know how to talk about this without making it

about me, and I’m sick of making it about me. Because it’s
not. It’s about you too. It’s—”

“Hey,” I say, scooting closer, ducking my head to find his

gaze. “Stop. I know.”

He sniffs, staring into me with such sadness it steals my

breath. “I hate feeling like I failed you.”
 My brow knits. “What? Where did that come from? How
the fuck did you fail me?”

“If I was strong enough, if I didn’t… panic over a stupid

fucking frying pan…” He shakes his head. “You’d’ve had no
reason to move up your flight. I know… I know me falling
apart is a trigger for you. I get that. Maybe now more than
ever. Which is why I just—”

I release his hands and hurriedly cup his cheeks, jerking his
gaze to mine. “Do you really think that’s the only reason I’m
here? That that’s the only reason I fell apart last night?”

His features tighten, eyes darkening with some unnamed

emotion.

“You heard me,” I say slowly, voice raw and strung tight,
“when I told you I missed you. Right?”

Tears well in his eyes but don’t fall. He nods jerkily.

I inhale deeply, before releasing it. “What you don’t know is

that I went to the airport twice in the last week before actually
stepping foot inside the doors. Confirmed a change in flights
twice before actually sticking to one and getting on the fucking
plane.”

Huffing out a sharp, humorless laugh, I look away. “Ivy

knew it was coming. She all but threatened me, or rather,
threatened you, to get me on the plane this time. Not that I
needed it.” I pause as my gaze grows far-off and unfocused.
“There’s no telling if I would’ve made it to Saturday, even if I
didn’t get that call. I was almost,” —I scrunch up my face—
“grateful,” I spit. “Grateful you were freaking out so I had an
excuse to come out here.”

When he doesn’t immediately say anything, I turn to look at

him.

His eyes are wide and so very, very gold in the orange
afternoon light.

“And then, I got here, and you weren’t at the hotel. My

phone was dead. The man at the desk said you might be at a
bar—”

He’s rapidly shaking his head.

“—so I waited. I waited and imagined the worst. So when I

saw you turn the corner…” My voice breaks off and I shake
my head.

“You saw I was happy and thought the only way I could be
happy was if I was drunk.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Because if you were happy sober,

then why the fuck would you need me here?”

Arms come around me as he all but tackles me back against

the headboard.

“Will.” He squeezes me. “You’re such an idiot.”

I choke out a sound that is equal part laugh, equal part sob.

He pulls back, gripping my shoulders. His hazel eyes are

bright with unshed tears, but he’s smiling. “You stupid, stupid
idiot.”

“That’s not very nice,” I say quietly, lip twitching.

 Eyes still wide on mine, he says, “And here I’ve been
freaking out, thinking you only need me when I’m falling
apart.”

I blink at him.

He swallows with a loud click. “That you only miss me

when… when you’re scared for me, or-or… feel like you need
to fix something, fix me.”

I curl my lip up at that. “What? I told you you’re not a

fucking project to me.”

Smiling sadly, he shakes his head. Dimples peeking out,

slowly, then more deeply. “I know. I know that. Doesn’t mean
I don’t… worry.” He shrugs. “The whole foundation of our
relationship rests on fucking trauma, man. You gotta wonder
sometimes. Who are we without it? Not just us individually,
but as a couple.”

Another blink.

Is he fucking serious?

“I mean,” he goes on gently, “you just said it yourself.” He

gestures at my chest with his inked fingers. “If I was happy
sober, why would I still need you?”

I—

My head thumps back against the headboard. “Shit.”

I feel more than see his shoulders deflate as I stare

unseeingly up at the white ceiling.

He’s right to be worried, isn’t he?

 My breakdown last night makes a little more sense now.

“No,” I say quickly. Then louder, more determined, “Nope,

no, fuck that.”

I sit up and reach for him. His cheeks are only slightly
rougher than they were last night in the shower. His jaw works
in the cradle of my palms as I stare into those gorgeous,
glistening hazel eyes of his.

“If you think I only want you when you’re…” Lifting my

shoulders, I look around aimlessly for the right words, as if
they’re buried somewhere in these hotel walls. “At your worst
then…. then, fuck, I’m sorry. ’Cause that just means I haven’t
been doing a good enough job to prove to you that’s not the
case.”

“Will, no—” he starts to protest.

“Shush,” I say, pressing my thumb over his lips. He glares

at me, bringing a small grin to my face as I say, “It’s okay. It…
helps knowing that that’s something that’s been bothering
you.”

He shakes his head, tries to say something, but I only add

pressure to his lips, until his teeth dig into my skin.

“Even if you didn’t realize it ’til now,” I amend gently,

reassuring him. I know this is not something he’s consciously
worried about. On good days, it’s easy to see how we work.
Easy to see how much we love each other, no matter what.

But on the bad days… Days like yesterday…

 Days where we’re miles and miles away from one another,
with only the bad memories to keep us company in the dark…

It’s easy to forget.

Easy for our worst fears to slip in behind us unawares.

His throat bobs with a swallow. Lifting a hand, he pries my

thumb off his mouth so he can speak. “If that’s the case, then
that means I haven’t been doing a good enough job to prove to
you that for as much as I need and rely on you, I want you and
love you ten times more.”

I roll my lips together at that and shake my head. I don’t

want to believe that. I don’t. I know he loves me. Wants me.
He shows it all the time. In every touch, every kiss. This cold
ass coffee he got for me, made just like I like it.

He arches a brow, eyes remaining steady on mine. “Or

we’re both just really fucking stubborn.”

Barking out a laugh, I tip my head. “Or that.”

His mouth crooks up, dimple sinking in his cheek.

I stroke my thumb over it. “One day.”

“One day?”

Leaning forward, I feather a kiss against his lips. He exhales

against my mouth, tasting of mint, coffee, and something
sweet that’s all him.

Bowing my head to his, I stare deep into his eyes, giving

him no choice but to see me. Hear me as I vow, “One day, I’m
going to get it through your thick, stubborn skull that you
matter.”

He stills.

“Not just to me, but especially to me.” I swallow tightly.

“That you don’t just…” —I wet my lips, searching his bright
eyes— “disappear when no one’s looking.”

Something breaks in his gaze at that, telling me I hit the nail

on the head.

It’s been a while since I so viciously wanted to bring

Seamus McAllister back from the dead, just so I can break him
apart piece by piece. Give him a taste of what he did to his
son. His own flesh and blood.

My jaw clenches as I keep my hand gentle on his cheek. A

part of me will always be gentle with him, no matter how
much he might want otherwise. Sure, fucking him rough is one
thing, but this… moments like these…

It’s the fact that I know he would prefer abrasiveness that

keeps my touch soft.

“You don’t just stop existing when we’re not together,” I tell
him. Grabbing his hand, I bring it to my chest. “You exist in
here.” I push his knuckles against where my heart thumps
strongly, ensuring he can feel it. “So long as this thing keeps
beating, you’re not going anywhere. On the good days, the bad
days, and everything in between. Even when you’re miles and
miles away from me.”

His jaw quivers in my hand.

 Wetting my lips again, I rock my head against his. “I might
love you harder when you’re at your worst, but that’s only
because you need it harder then. But my love for you when
you’re at your best?” I release a breath, smiling. “It’s
unmatched. It consumes me.”

Pulling back, I tip his head back, cradling it in my palms.

His eyes are hooded and so, so soft on mine.

I smile down at him. “What happened last night was all on

me. My fears. If I could’ve seen beyond them, I would’ve
realized how… relieved I was. Proud, even.” I shrug. “Last
winter, panic attacks took you out for days sometimes. And the
fact you let the guys be there for you…” I shake my head,
emotion clogging my throat as I finish thickly, “Shows just
how far you’ve come.”

Against my palms, I feel his throat work with a swallow.

“You got through it without me.” I nod. “That’s a good

thing. Really good.”

His nose flares. “It doesn’t mean I need you any less.”

I start to smile, but he keeps going, voice rough with

determination to prove himself to me. Prove his love for me.

“That I don’t want you just as fiercely as I always do. Hell,

the whole time we were walking back to the hotel, I couldn’t
wait to call you and tell you that I-I was okay. I missed you, so
fucking much, and sleeping alone…” He shakes his head. “It
was gonna be a bad night, but I…” He lifts his shoulders and
drops them. “More than that, I just hated that I was enjoying
myself, even for a moment, without you by my side.”

My heart stutters at that.

He reaches up, clasping my neck in his hands as he crushes

our foreheads together once more. Our noses smush, but he
doesn’t make any move to fix that.

Staring deep into my eyes, he says, “One day, I’m going to

get it through your thick, stubborn skull that I love you even
more when I’m happy.”

My entire being seems to just clench and release as

Waylon’s words sink in. Pulling apart some of the tension I
didn’t even realize was there, and setting it free.

“That for as much as I need you when shit’s all dark and
fucked up in my head, I love you just as much, if not more so,
when I’m clear-headed. When I feel strong and capable, and
not strangled by the fear that I’m going to lose you, or by the
voices that try to convince me you deserve better.”

“Way…”

He inhales deeply, bringing us impossibly closer. “My love

for you when I’m sad and scared is very selfish. Even a little
ugly. But when I’m happy, it’s pure. Easy and simple as
breathing.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Is it wrong that I want it all? The

ugly and the pure. I’ll take it all.”

He chuckles against my mouth. “Greedy.”

 “When it comes to you, yeah.”

I feel his smile against my lips. “Of course it’s all yours,” he
whispers. “For as long as you want it, it’s yours.”

“Always,” I say automatically.

He laughs outright this time, the vibrations tickling my lips.

“Not even gonna think about it?”

“No.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, then a hand

comes around my nape, squeezing. “You’re ridiculous.”

I don’t try to deny it. Instead, I kiss him.

Our mouths explore each other slowly and heavily, like we

have all day. Like we don’t need to part for air. It’s a searing
kiss, the kind that stokes the flames, building and building
until I know we’ll eventually, inevitably, combust from the
pressure.

All I can do is hope that once it settles, enough embers will

have reached those dark, cold, deserted places where
loneliness lives and fear thrives.

Fuck if I don’t ever want this fire to die.

“How long do we have?” he whispers, as if sensing where

my thoughts have gone. His lips slide over my jaw, teeth
scraping my stubble.

I shiver, throwing my head back to give him better access.

“Five days.”

“Two more than planned, then.”

 Smiling, I hold his face to my neck. His tongue lashes out
against my overheated skin, and I thrust up against him,
bringing out a low, raspy chuckle just over my racing pulse.

“After that?” I manage to whisper, knowing it needs to be

addressed.

Lifting his head, he smiles up at me with that peaceful,

dimpled grin. Eyes like sunlit forests stare back at me. “After
that, we try again.”

Pushing away some of the dark messy hair from his eyes, I
nod. “We try again.”

Knowing it’s our only option. Knowing it’s what’s best, no

matter how much we now know it’ll hurt.

It will get easier.

I have to believe that.

His lips find mine once more, and my hands are down his
sweats, smoothing over his warm skin. We’re bare chest to
bare chest, hearts racing wildly as we lose ourselves once
more to this messy, stubborn love of ours.

Maybe we failed this time.

Maybe we’ll keep failing.

Maybe that’s the point.

TONIGHT’S GONNA BE A good night.

Mason and I finish belting out the final chorus to our newest
—and improved—track, “Sun Chaser,” headphones cupped
tightly over our ears, neck tendons straining as we lean up
against our respective mics.

With our hooded, heated gazes locked on one another’s, it’s

as if we’re silently daring each other not to stop. As if we’re
silently spurring each other on. Come on, come on. Higher,
higher.
 We’ve already hit that pivotal pitch where our voices
merged into one seamless, harmonized sound, so why not see
how far we can take it?

Why not see what we’re capable of together?

Maybe some musicians would resent it, but I’m not one of
them. And neither is Mason. This is about connecting, not
competing. And all I can think is, this. This is what was
missing.

For days, this song has been the bane of my existence,

despite how good it felt when I first wrote it on the plane. A
six-hour fevered rush where nothing else existed but the lyrics
pouring out of my pen, and the melody playing in my head.

As soon as we landed in LA and got settled in the hotel, I

unpacked my guitar and let the song trapped in my chest
finally breathe. And it felt good, so damn good. Like a soft
gust of fresh air, rather than teeth-squeezing anguish, like the
majority of the songs I wrote or co-wrote.

It felt easy. Like it was meant to be. And I didn’t mind

sharing it with Paul, our agent, or even the label once he
decided, Yes, yes, this is the one! and all but dragged our tired
asses to the studio.

I was all about adding it to the album, still running on that

high of finishing something. Hell, I was itching to share it with
everyone, the entire world if I could.

But then the label started doing that thing labels do.
Somehow, this one single song set off a chain of events as it
became a sort of anchoring counterpoint to the whole album.

Suddenly, it’s to be our first official single under Slater

Records.

Suddenly, it’s the name of our debut album.

Suddenly, this is what our whole fucking brand is going to

be based on.

And I just… I felt sick. I hated it. Hated what it had

become. Something that was supposed to be softer and
personal—something to be woven into the darker chapters of
our lives to shine a little bit of light and give a little bit of hope
—was standing front and center, potentially overshadowing
everything else.

It felt like a lie. Like a disservice to everything we’ve been

through—what we’re all still going through—all the blood,
sweat, and tears poured into an album that’s been years in the
making.

It no longer felt like us.

And fuck if I was scared people would no longer appreciate

all the rest, if this is what the Lost Boys ended up being known
for outside of the bubble of TikTok.

Our grief—our pain—is loud, maybe even too loud to be

digestible. So I get it. I get why the label has every reason to
want to market the album around this one lighter song,
especially with it being our first.

To them, it’s just business. It’s all about the money, about
what sells, what’s marketable.
 But for us, music is what saved our lives. What keeps on
saving our lives.

It’s what kept our hearts beating when it felt like we had
nothing else. It’s every vice of ours, every demon, channeled
into something a little less ugly. Something that feels…
purposeful.

And that’s not something I, or the guys, are willing to

sacrifice, even if it means we don’t reach as many people as
we would if we just “lighten up a bit.”

Not Paul’s exact words, but that’s the gist of it. And I know
he wasn’t trying to be a dick about it. He just doesn’t get it. He
wasn’t there. He’s never been on our side of the fence.

He’s one of the lucky ones, I suppose, and that’s okay. That
just means we have to push a little harder to stay true to
ourselves.

My thoughts return to the present just as Mason and I let the

last note fade as one.

He’s nodding, and so am I. Both of our chests heaving, like

we’re still connected in some indefinable way.

I wet my lips, slide the headphones off, and glance toward

the glass where Bryce, our producer, and Paul give up
enthusiastic thumbs up.

“That was it,” Mason whispers.

Sliding him a sideways glance, my mouth crooks up as I

pant, “Yeah.”
 That was it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the original, lighter version of

this song and what it stood for. Not only my song for Will, but
my song for me, for what kept me hanging on when literally
nothing else did, music and my family included.

But I only love it as much as I do because I was the one who

lived it. I lived the darkness that led up to that perfect sunrise. I
appreciate it in a way I don’t think many others could.

And it’s that fucking fact that made me ultimately decide

the world’s not ready for it. I’m not ready for the world to have
it.

It’s still there, though, that underlying heartbeat. But it’s no

longer so glaring compared to the rest of the album. The song
is grittier now. It’s edgy and raw. Something worthy of being
the title track without sacrificing who we are at our core.

At least, who we are now.

Maybe the original will fit one day, but we’re not there yet.
I’m not there yet.

This is just our beginning. And I’m not about to rush

through all the dark, ugly stuff, just to make it more palatable
to those on the outside looking in.

Outside the sound booth, Bryce meets us with hand slaps.

“That was the one! You fuckin’ killed it.”

Shawn appears behind him, nodding.

 I swallow and nod back before risking a glance at Paul.
Despite the thumbs up he gave us, I can’t help but worry he’ll
still insist we need to add something lighter, more cheery.

His head’s cocked as he studies me. Not Mason, but me, and
I try not to squirm.

Paul knew what he got into when we hired him, and hell,
it’s even written somewhere in our contract. Not just with him,
but the label. We do this, but we do it our way. That was
always the deal.

We made it clear from the fucking start that just because

we’re from a small town and don’t come from money, that
we’re not willing to sell our souls to this industry. And if they
couldn’t accept that from the get-go—if they weren’t willing
to meet us halfway, despite how risky it could be for them
financially—then we walk. Simple as that.

Either we’d find someone else to back us, or we’d go indie.

It didn’t really matter to us, so long as we got to keep making
music.

“If you ever want to strip that song down and do an acoustic
version, let me know,” is all he eventually says. There’s a look
in his eye I can’t really place. He glances down. “It’s too
personal as it was. I get that now.”

My brow furrows. Does he though? What changed?

But then my eyes catch on the guy still seated across the
room, blue eyes twinkling my way, and I realize, Oh.

Maybe that’s what changed.

 Scrubbing his jaw, Paul looks away. “You’re not the first
sad saps I’ve worked with, believe it or not.” He chuckles
quietly, almost tiredly. “But it’s my job to try and push you,
okay?” He turns to face me once more, brown eyes more
serious than I’ve ever seen them. “To see who you are outside
your comfort zone, whatever that is.”

My throat dries at what he’s saying, what he’s implying.

Next to me, Mason shifts, brushing my shoulder with his,

telling me he’s drawing the same conclusions.

Paul smiles. “You call the shots. The three of you. That
never changes.” He pauses, glancing at each of us, Shawn
included, who has now joined our side. “I never wanted to be a
sell-out either, and I’d like to think I’ve been successful so far.
My loyalty is to you, never the label. Okay?”

I nod, and in my periphery, Mason and Shawn do the same.

He bounces his gaze between the three of us. “I could tell

something was off, but I knew you needed to figure it out
yourselves, figure out what you wanted, and see outside the
expectations of everyone around you.”

Bryce gives a firm nod, backing Paul’s words up.

“As much as I—we appreciate you trying to appease the

powers that be…” he trails off, shaking his head. “It’s not
necessary. But…” Again he trails off, but this time a smile
crawls its way up his cheek. “I’m really fucking happy with
what came out of it. So maybe a little pressure is good, yeah?”

Mason chuckles as I roll my eyes.

 “Yeah,” I tell him. “It’s good.”

He claps his hands together, rubbing them. Turning to say

something to Bryce, he waves Mason over to the deck to have
a listen. He probably means for me too, but that can wait.

This can’t.

Will sits sprawled on the red leather couch on the opposite

side of the room, arms stretched over the back. Legs spread.
His head cocks when he sees me striding toward him, dark
wavy blonde hair curling over his eye.

Fuck, my boyfriend’s hot.

“Hey there, Cupcake,” he says easily, his voice deep in that

naturally smoky timber of his.

For half a second, I consider just plopping down on his lap.

But we’re far from alone right now, and I’m not that
comfortable with PDA yet. Especially of the lap-sitting
variety. Probably never will be.

So instead, I settle for plopping down next to him, throwing

a leg over his. Resting my arm just next to his on the back of
the couch, I search his face as I ask, “How was it?”

His mouth ticks up as he tilts his head side to side in a so-so

gesture. “I mean, I’m a little biased.”

“Only a little?”

His grin widens. “It was fucking perfect.”

I suck in my cheeks, holding back a smile of my own.

 “I mean,” he says, “don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely way
more biased when it comes to the original.”

Rolling my eyes, I huff a short laugh through my nose,

remembering how I played it for him and only him last night.

After we finally managed to pry ourselves away from the

bed yesterday, we met up with the guys for a late dinner once
they were done in the studio, and got Will all caught up on
what’s been going on. Or rather, what’s not been going on.

“It just doesn’t feel right,” I had told him. “Something’s

off.”

Then I went on to explain that it wasn’t even just that I was

miserable without him. It went deeper than that, but I just
couldn’t put my finger on it. The guys were in agreement.
While missing the shit out of Will definitely put me in a funk,
there was more to the block than just that.

It was confirmed when we got back to the hotel, and we

secluded ourselves in my room, and I took out my guitar and
played the song I wrote for him. Will. My guy. Sunshine
personified, even on the gloomy days.

God, that look on his face…

I’ll write him a song a day for the rest of our lives if it
means getting to see that look on his face again.

But it was after playing it for Will that I realized what was
off about it all.

It wasn’t the song that was the problem. It was sharing it

with anyone other than Will that felt gross. Wrong.
 “It’s easier,” I hear myself say as I return to the present, “to
be sad.”

Will’s brow knits. “What do you mean?”

Gulping, I look up at him through my lashes. “People shit

on happy things all the time.”

“They shit on sad things too,” he says slowly, eyeing me

carefully.

“But it’s… easier…”

Understanding lights up his blue eyes, widening them.

Behind me, I hear Mason’s and my voices playing back

through the speakers, isolated from any instrument. So
perfectly harmonized, it sends a chill down my spine hearing
it.

“You’re protective of it,” Will says quietly, nodding, as if

confirming something to himself. “The happy stuff. The good
stuff.” Us, I hear, even if he doesn’t say it out loud.

Pressing my lips together tightly, I simply nod back.

What Paul just said before, about pushing us out of our

comfort zone… combined with what Will told me yesterday…

“You don’t just disappear when no one’s looking.”

…It all finally clicked. The reason why this has been so
hard.

I’m… fuck, I’m comfortable being miserable. Not only that,

but I’m comfortable talking about it too. Between therapy and
meetings and just all the shit I’ve had to deal with over the last
year—hell, my whole life—I’ve gotten used to baring all the
ugly to the world, scars and flaws and all.

Because it served a purpose.

It felt meaningful.

What I’m not used to is sharing… this. The moments no one

else gets to see. The moments where I am happy for literally
no other reason than I get to turn to Will and ask him
something as trivial as what he wants to eat for dinner tonight.

Moments, like now, where I reach for his hand like it’s
nothing, and not because I’m choking on panic, chest blazing
with the need to breathe.

“I don’t want anyone to ruin this,” I whisper, loosely

tangling our fingers together where they rest over the back of
the couch.

His other hand finds my chin, lifting my head until I’m eye-
level with those deep ocean blues.

“No one can ruin this.”

“But they can try.”

He scowls. “So? Let ‘em. I dare them to.”

A quiet laugh slips through my lips. He makes it sound so

easy.

“You’re scared,” he says. There’s a finality to his tone that

leaves no room for argument. “I get that.”

“Do you?”

He opens his mouth, but quickly shuts it, as if reconsidering.

 Tilting my head, I inhale deeply as his hand drifts down to
my neck. Thumb stroking over my thrumming pulse.

I watch as Will pokes his tongue out to dampen his lips. The
way his throat bobs with a swallow, just before his chest rises,
shoulders broadening, as if bracing himself.

For someone so brash at times, he’s also so very gentle.

“I do,” he says simply, yet the gravity of his words tugs on

my heart. “I do get it, because I know you, and I know how
protective you are of what’s yours.” My eyes burn, and I see
that burn reflected in his glistening eyes as he goes on, “I’ve
known that since the day I met you, when you tried like hell to
scare me off. When you made it clear I wasn’t welcome to sit
with you and your friends.”

I feel my neck heat and I shake my head. “I—”

He chuckles. “It was cute.”

Rolling my eyes, I turn away from his hand. He only laughs

harder.

“He never did like sharing.”

Whipping my head over to Mason, I gape at him as he joins

us.

He shrugs, lips screwed up in a rueful smile. “Sorry. Didn’t

mean to eavesdrop.” Taking a seat on the black leather
armchair next to us, he stretches out his legs, and folds his
hands loosely together over his lap. Glancing at Will he says,
“It took him over a month to warm up to me when I moved to
town.”
 Scoffing, I say, “That’s a lie.”

“You glared at me every time I so much as breathed in the

same space as Izzy,” he says chuckling, light blue eyes
swimming with mirth at the memories. “Face it, man. You’re
kind of territorial.”

I open my mouth to refute that, but Will interrupts before I

can.

“Wait, you didn’t always live in Shiloh?”

Frowning, I glance my boyfriend. “You didn’t know that?”

His eyes are wide as he shakes his head. “No.”

Huh.

“I moved to Shiloh when I was six, not long after my dad

left,” Mason explains. “Just from a couple towns over, so it’s
not like I was totally new to the area.”

Shawn joins us then, gesturing for Mason to scoot a bit so

he can sit on the arm.

“We good?” Mason asks.

Shawn nods. “Said they should have enough to start

layering. We’re free ’til tomorrow morning.”

“Sweet.”

Will’s fingers play absently with the collar of my shirt as

Mason and Shawn start discussing how we should celebrate
finishing the new song. I don’t even think he realizes he’s
doing it. His gaze is far-off, almost wistful.

“Hey.”
 He blinks and looks up at me. “Hey yourself.”

The guys are still talking amongst themselves, and Paul and
Bryce are busy over by the sound deck, their backs to us.
Taking the brief moment of privacy, I press myself closer to
Will, all but sinking into him as I drop my cheek to his
shoulder.

He turns, pressing a kiss to my head, before burying his

nose in my hair.

God, I’m gonna miss this.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, ensuring his words are just for
my ears. “Not wanting to share all of this with the world yet.”

Pulling back, I meet his steady blue gaze, searching for any
traces of doubts.

“I’m not ashamed,” I tell him firmly, reaching for his hand
and squeezing.

His mouth tightens faintly in the corners, but for once he

doesn’t look like he doesn’t believe me.

“I know,” he chokes out quietly. “I know that. Slow,

remember? It’s okay to go slow. One day at a time.”

Blinking rapidly, I nod. “One day at a time.”

His lips rise. “I like that you’re territorial.”

Huffing through my nose, I shake my head. “Fuck off.”

“I told you, it’s cute.”

Groaning, I shove his stupid, smiling face away. “Fucking

asshole,” I grumble.
 He’s about to say something, probably something
infuriating, but the guys cut in before he gets the chance,
announcing we’re going for celebratory tattoos.

Will’s face blanches and I don’t bother stifling a laugh.

The guys and I always joked that we’d get matching tattoos
the day we “hit it big.” I wouldn’t say making a breakthrough
with a song counts as hitting it big, but you know what? Fuck
it.

We already did make it big. We’re here, aren’t we? We hit

our first of what will probably be many challenges, and we
fucking overcame it. All without caving into our addictions.

We didn’t give up.

If that’s not a reason to fucking celebrate, I don’t know what

is.
FIVE DAYS.

Five perfectly imperfect days.

LA is an inherently lonely city, one fueled by impossible

dreams and broken hearts.

But for five long, sunshine-filled days, I got to live what so

few achieve here.

Work didn’t stop for anyone, least of all me. And least of all
Will, who had no choice but to either watch me work or
traipse around the city by himself.
 But seeing him in the sound booth as I belted out lyrics
written for him into a microphone had a way of making up for
all that. Even though we would’ve much rather have spent the
little time we had together alone, and preferably naked.

But watching him smile through the glass. Watching him

laugh with the guys in between take after take after take…

Feeling his hand on mine, strong and warm, yet casual, and
so, so easy as we walked Sunset Boulevard on the days and
evenings I got a break from the studio, looking for somewhere
to eat…

That’s what the real dreams are made of.

Crashing into bed together at night was just the cherry on

top.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” he asks, pulling me out of my

thoughts.

I squint up at the setting sun, sitting big and orange in the

sky. It’s a September evening in California. Not too hot, not
too cold. Perfect.

Sand cushions the back of my head from under a thin white

sheet we brought from the hotel. Will’s sprawled out on his
stomach next to me. With nothing but the soundtrack of waves
crashing into the beach, it’s quiet. Peaceful.

“Just wishing we had more time,” I admit softly, before

rolling my head toward his.

“Me too,” he says just as softly. As if neither of us dare to

disturb the quiet, nearly empty beach around us.
 Messy, dirty blonde hair flops over his brow. Sand clings to
the wavy strands, but he doesn’t seem to mind. It suits him, the
salt and the sand.

This is what I’ll miss most, I think, making sure I ingrain

this image to memory.

The sun beating down on his face, lighting up his features

orange and gold like a canyon fire.

The crash of waves reflected in his navy blue eyes.

Wavy, unkempt hair burnished gold and rough from sea salt.

This boy of mine was made for California sunsets on the

beach, and yet he’s the one leaving tomorrow. While I remain
here.

His hand reaches out, finding mine, lacing our fingers

together.

I eye our matching tattoos, loving the way they seem to

interlock and merge into one from this angle.

My gaze then drifts up to the inside of my wrist, where my

new ink has started to scab over. It’s itchy as hell, but I’m used
to it by now.

It’s nothing too crazy. Just a simple heartbeat design, like

what you’d see on an EKG. If you line all three of our wrists
together, though—Mason’s, Shawn’s, and mine—it connects
to form one steady heartbeat.

Cheesy? Maybe.

But I love it.

 “I’ve been thinking about going back to school,” Will
announces suddenly.

My head shoots up. “Really?”

He nods, biting his lip. “Can’t really putz around forever,

you know. The bar’s great and all, but it’s—”

“Not long-term for you,” I finish gently, nodding in

understanding. And the income is far from stable. I search his
gaze. “So are you thinking of finishing your degree, or…?”

Blowing out a breath, he looks down, dark gold lashes

fanning his cheeks.

“I have more than enough credits to minor in psych,” he

says slowly, the words dragging out, almost like he’s stalling.

Frowning, I say, “So you don’t want to major in it anymore,

is what you’re saying.”

He starts nodding, but stops.

Then, suddenly, he sits up.

He faces the water with his knees pressed to his chest, arms
wrapped around his shins. He’s in jeans, like me, but he’s not
wearing a shirt—his faded gray AC/DC t-shirt left discarded
where he was using it as a pillow.

Slowly, I join him, watching the way the sun’s orange rays
war with the emotions playing out on his face. Wariness mixed
with something like determination.

His tanned shoulders bunch, like he’s bracing himself.

 “I think…” he says slowly. “I think I want to go into social
work.”

Oh.

My chest rises with a deep inhale and I turn to face the

water so I’m no longer staring at him. I watch the rise and fall
of water as the tide pulls back, then crashes forward once
more. Over and over and over again.

“The system’s fucked.”

“Really fucked,” I whisper through numb lips. I can’t be

sure if the roar in my ears is coming from the ocean, or my
thundering heart as what he’s saying sinks in.

“But maybe… maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe the only

way of fixing it, is from the inside out,” he says tightly.

Some strong, unnamed emotion has me by the throat,

holding my tongue hostage.

“I couldn’t save you,” he whispers, his words carrying on

the faint ocean breeze. “I couldn’t save you, but maybe, maybe
I can save some other little boy. Or girl.”

In the corner of my eye, I see him shake his head.

“Doesn’t matter. I just—” He gulps. “The system’s fucked

and it’s not right.”

Another blink. Then another. And I’m pretty sure salt has
sprayed into my eyes, because they’re burning, they’re
burning, they’re burning so hotly.

And all I can think is, of course.

 This is Will. Will.

Will No-Middle-Name Foster.

Mouthy, passionate, over-protective Will.

Of course, this is what he’s meant to do with his life. Of

course. It’s so goddamn obvious, it’s laughable.

My lips start to rise just as he blurts, “Unless you think it’s

stupid.”

I open my mouth to say something, but he doesn’t give me a

chance.

He whips his head around to face me, eyes troubled. “I

mean, I know it’s not as easy as it sounds, and I’m just getting
ahead of myself. Hell, maybe this is actually a really, really
bad idea for m—”

I shut him up with a hard, fierce kiss.

He stares at me wide-eyed and frozen as I pull back, clutch

his cheeks and say, “It’s perfect.”

“Really?” He doesn’t sound convinced, but he does sound

hopeful. He’s been thinking about this for a while. I just know
it. I kind of want to slap him for not bringing it up sooner.

I nod. “If anyone could fuck shit up, it’s you.”

His lips rise into a wide grin. “Pretty sure that’s not—”

“Shut up,” I growl, slamming my mouth back on his.

Our kiss is hot and heavy, before tapering off into

something soft and teasing.
 “You’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh?” I say
when we finally part.

His fingers play with my hair, and mine play with the collar
of his shirt.

Shrugging, Will says, “Pretty much ever since I found out

CPS failed you not once, but twice. The fact my parents tried,
the fact teachers probably knew but were too scared to report it
because of your dad’s position…”

A muscle thrums in his jaw and he shakes his head, looking

down at some spot on my chest. “Hell, maybe my parents
weren’t the only ones who called, which makes it even more
fucked. It shouldn’t feel hopeless. It shouldn’t be hopeless.”

Throat dry, I can only nod.

Shifting, he turns to face the ocean once more, but this time
our fingers are interlocked and his head’s on my shoulder. The
sun is big and red-orange, lighting the sky up in swirls of pink
as we watch it sink slowly into the horizon. Leaving behind an
purplish haze on the sand and water as it disappears.

“Not quite a sunrise,” he whispers.

“No,” I say smiling into his blond hair, looking over his
head into the distance. “Not quite.”

And yet, I can’t help but feel hopeful, even as the night
creeps in on us from behind. As the hours tick by, drawing our
time together to a close.

Today was a good day.

 And the following morning, when we rush off to the airport,
bleary-eyed from hardly any sleep, that hope lingers, fueling
our steps to the moment we must part.

It’s in the steadiness of my fingers as we walk hand in hand

through a bustling airport to catch his flight to Chicago. It’s in
the jut of my chin as I wait for Will to check his luggage.

I inhale deeply, taking in all the sights and sounds

converging on us.

The dread isn’t as heavy as it was when he first arrived in

LA, replaced instead by a bittersweet longing for more days
like the last five.

Days filled with pink sunshine and salt-laced kisses; jostling

elbows and gentle hair-tugs.

Nights filled with long steamy showers where I bite into

Will’s fist as he bites into my back.

Stolen hours spent touching and whispering under cool,

crisp sheets that smell of the ocean, making promises only we
have the key to unlock.

We’re stronger this time around, I remind myself. We know

what to expect. Know what the other needs, even if we can’t
always voice it.

He made me promise to still call him if I have another panic

attack.

And I made him promise to call me when the loneliness

back home becomes too much for him to bear. When his fears
become louder than reason.
 We’ll be each other’s burdens. We’ll be each other’s
strengths. Pillars to rest upon until we can be in each other’s
arms once more and remember what it’s like to sit under a hot
pink California sunset, watching the waves crash along the
beach.

Only fourteen days to go.

Eventually, we won’t have to count the days anymore.

Once his bag’s handed off, he turns to me with a small,

knowing grin.

I suck in my cheek and shrug. This is it.

He takes a step forward, then another, before pausing just in

front of me.

I know we’re out of time, so I soak the goddamn marrow

out of this moment. Hoping this right here and the five days
that brought us closer together will be enough to hold me over,
hold him over, until he flies back out two weeks from now.

Two weeks.

It’s nothin’ right?

His mouth crooks up into a stupid grin, blue eyes glistening

like little pools. There’s a question in their depths, one I’m
well familiar with by now. One he shouldn’t even have to ask
anymore.

Especially here. In an airport, thousands of miles away from

the fishbowl that is Shiloh, Pennsylvania.
 I’m free here in a way I’m not back home, despite most of
the town already knowing. Free to be me, the real me I’m only
beginning to unearth. Free to be the guy so hopelessly in love
with another guy without fear of jeers or repercussion.

It’s easier, I guess, when no one knows who I am. I can

almost pretend I’m someone else as I reach for Will and press
my body to his, burying my face in his neck.

But I don’t want to be anyone else, I decide as his arms

come around me, holding me tight.

His voice is in my ear, and it’s all, “Way, Way, Way.”

No. I don’t want to be anyone else but me. But his.

Even when we’re apart, I’ll always be his.

He steps away, brushing his lips over mine with a quiet,

“See ya in two weeks, Rockstar.”

“Later, City Boy.”

Then he’s gone, turning his back on me, and walking

through the metal detectors. He grabs his carry-on, looks over
his shoulder and gives me a two finger salute, before
disappearing around the corner, out of sight.

I press a hand to my chest.

Still beating.

Still his.
IT’S LATE, JUST AFTER midnight, when Ivy grabs my arm,
hauling me out of my seat.

“They landed!” she says in a breathy rush.

Phoebe’s practically bouncing on her toes, fingers pressed

together in front of her lips. Her hair’s thrown up into a messy
top-knot that teeters to the side with her movements.

They might be even more excited than me, seeing as it’s

been two and a half months since they saw the guys. But only
just, I think dryly, picturing the guy I haven’t seen in three
long weeks.
 Not long, in the grand scheme of things. Not long compared
to the others.

But in the grand scheme of what matters to me…

It’s been three weeks too long since I left my other half in
the City of Angels. An unanticipated three extra weeks, seeing
as they were only supposed to be out there for eight weeks.
Two months, give or take.

But they needed more time to fine-tune the album. It

sucked, but it was unavoidable.

And it could’ve been much longer.

Fortunately, after that first hiccup, it was mostly smooth-

sailing. Not just recording the album, but managing a long-
distance relationship.

Not that we spent more than a few weeks apart…

Still, if someone asked us months ago if we’d be able to

make it even just a night away from each other, let alone three
weeks—our new record—without losing our fucking shit, it
would’ve been a hell. Fucking. No.

It hasn’t always been easy, but we made it work. We had to.

There was no other choice. No rational one, at least, and we’re
far from the irrational guys we once were.

Mostly.

“There they are!” Phoebe all but squeals.

The Scranton airport is quiet—a stark contrast to LAX, or

even Philly or Chicago—so her voice carries, momentarily
drowning out the distant chatter and the soft rock music
playing through the speakers.

This time, the final time, the guys sacrificed a direct flight
in order to not have to make a long drive back to Shiloh after a
day of traveling. They haven’t seen their beds in over two
months now, and I know they’re impatient to just finally be
home. Back with family. Back with all the supports they’ve
built over the years to keep them from slipping off the edge.

They did it though. They made it on their own. Stuck

together like glue and powered through until they reached the
other side.

This side.

Our side.

Mason comes into view first, light blue eyes tired but lit up
as he takes in Phoebe running toward him. Shawn’s just
behind him, and if I’m not mistaken his dark eyes light up too
as she wraps her brother in a hug, and reaches an arm over her
shoulder, hand outstretched, fingers wiggling.

Much to my surprise, Shawn actually meets her offered

hand. It’s just a quick squeeze of her fingers, but it’s
something. I can’t see her face, but I can picture the huge,
face-splitting grin as clear as if it were right in front of me.

Behind them, Waylon appears, dragging along a black

suitcase, a black guitar case peeking out from over his
shoulder. His mouth is twisted to the side as he watches his
family reunite, before his gaze drifts beyond them to the girl
standing next to me.

His gaze flickers to me as he hurriedly crosses the distance,

meeting his cousin in the middle when she can no longer
contain herself. They collide in a tangle of limbs as he scoops
her up off the ground, swinging her around.

“Hey, Satan,” I hear him say quietly.

She flicks him in the forehead and he grins widely, dimples

sinking deeply in his cheeks.

She wiggles in his arms, forcing him to lower her back

down.

Brushing off her jeans, she flips her black hair over her
shoulder and steps back. They exchange a few quiet words I
can’t make out from here, before he gives her the suitcase.

Dark eyes find mine, and then he’s moving toward me.

Or maybe I’m moving toward him.

I’m not sure. All I know is the distance is shrinking, finally

shrinking. His face is in my hands, and my lips are being
crushed under the desperate weight of his kiss.

I stumble back, so I just figure, fuck it, and grab him,

holding him for leverage. He’s finally in my arms again, and
I’m holding him so tight I lift him off the ground. Guitar and
all.

He’s grumbling into my mouth, digging his nails into my

shoulders. But I don’t care, I don’t fucking care. We could go
tumbling to the ground, for all I care.

Something tells me he doesn’t mind either, if the pierced

tongue flicking the back of my teeth is anything to go by.

“Asshole,” he mutters against my mouth.

There’s my Grumpy Bear, I think, smiling against his pouty

lips.

When I lower him to his feet, I pull my head back just

enough to brush the tip of my nose over his. “Hi.”

“Hi back,” he says, voice slightly choked. Features visibly

tense. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was nervous or
paranoid or ashamed.

But I do know better now.

I know he’s trying not to crumble.

We’re nose to nose, chest to chest. Just breathing each other

in like it’s been years rather than just weeks.

His hazel eyes glimmer the longer we stare at each other.

I’m sure mine are just as bright.

“We did it,” he whispers after a moment.

I nod against him, sobering. “We did it.”

He gulps, and I squeeze my eyes shut, tightening my hold

on him.

And he did it without even a single drop of alcohol, I think.

Hit that one year mark and kept going, in spite of every
challenge he faced.
 Pride doesn’t even begin to cover what I feel.

No, this won’t be the last time his career takes him from me,
nor will it be the last time we’re tested. There’s already talks
of a tour to promote their new album coming out early next
year. Life is just kicking off for him.

For both of us, really.

I’ll be starting classes in January to get my degree in social

work, which means being his own personal groupie on tour
won’t be possible. Not anytime soon. Not full-time at least.

But he begged me not to hold back anymore. Not with him,

not with my life.

“We grow together,” he said firmly. “Together or not at all.

That’s the only way this works.”

Knowing his words to be true, I promised him I’d try. If he

can be strong without me, I can be strong without him. And
that starts with finishing what I set out to do years ago. Sure,
my goals shifted a bit, but I’m here now. Here and certain I
know where I want to go with this one and only life of mine.

And who I want to spend it with.

Not that I wasn’t already certain of that months ago.

So if that means doing this all over again. Trading airport

hellos for airport goodbyes… East Coast sunrises for West
Coast sunsets…

Over and over and over again…

 Just so one day, we could meet back here, in the middle, and
stay here. Happy, fulfilled, and stronger than fucking ever,
then so be it.

Bring it the fuck on. We’re ready for it.

He hums against my lips. “Missed you.”

My fingers stroke over his dimples. “Missed you more.”

“Not possible.”

Pulling back, his mouth crooks up into that wicked, bad-boy

grin of his. The one that never fails to crack my chest wide
open, filling it with so much love and want, it’s a wonder I
don’t burst from it.

“Take me home, City Boy?” is all he says, voice deep and

rumbly.

A deep-chested groan vibrates through my chest. “Don’t

have to ask me twice.”

And with that, hand in hand with our family trailing us, we
walk out of the airport.

Free, and together again at long last.

 Thank you for picking up this book. For loving these boys
so hard you wanted more. I hope you enjoyed this little
glimpse into their lives as they continue working toward their
hard-earned HEA.

Mason and Jeremy’s book is next. Every Breath After will

be releasing in 2023. More details to come.

Before we return to Shiloh, though, I invite you somewhere

a little darker, and a lot less forgiving…
 Little Bird Lost is a full-length, dark romantic
thriller/horror novel set to release in U.S. Winter/Spring 2023.
It is loosely based on the Golden Bird/Firebird mythology. It is
NOT fantasy or a literal retelling. Reader discretion is advised.

Flip the page for an exclusive sneak-peek!

THIS ISN’T HOW I thought it would end.

The blood on my fingers looks black, like I’ve dipped them

in ink. Try as I might to wash it off in the snow, the evidence
of what I’ve done is here to stay. It’s a part of who I am now,
woven into the tight-knit fibers of my skin, sinking down into
the marrow of my bones.

A plague of the soul, he would call this.

“Is there a cure?” I imagine myself asking him.

For a moment, I’m back in his parlor. It’s just me and him,
his black leather gloves, that stupid cane with its gaudy, gold
falcon-head handle, and the string music playing softly from
the phonograph in the corner. The fireplace is dark and vacant,
as always, but it’s not cold.

And for once, I’m not afraid.

 He gives me a smile, one as bloody as the last one he gave
me. “Mors mihi lucrum,” he says. But it’s not his voice I hear,
it’s mine, cracked and brittle.

The parlor fades away, taking the music with it.

Mors mihi lucrum.

Death is my reward.

I tip my head back and stare up at the moonless sky bearing

down on me.

Big fat flakes of snow hit my face, intermingling with the

blood and ash streaked across my cheeks and temple.

It’s cold now. So very, very cold. But I’m no longer

shivering.

Somewhere in this deep, dark, wintry wood, a fire still rages

on, blazing up into an indifferent night sky as it battles against
the frigid temperatures. A scream into an endless, timeless
void.

If a castle burns in the woods with no ears to hear, no eyes

to see… I sing-song silently, a sluggish grin pulling at my
frozen face.

I lift a heavy hand, reaching for the sky.

“Is it even really burning?” I finish out loud, my voice

nothing more than vapor on the wind.

My bare, bloody fingers grip at nothing before they fall

once more to my side.
 I take a step forward, then another, eyes trained on the trees
reaching for me as blackness creeps in around my vision.

I don’t know how long I’ve been walking. How I’m even
still capable of standing, let alone moving. It feels like I’ve
been walking forever. Trudging through an endless forest on
the cusp of freezing, lungs charred from smoke, fingers and
soul forever stained with the blood of my crimes.

“Do you really think the world out there will be enough for
you after this?” I hear him now, his voice a hiss in my head,
like that of a snake twisting down from a tree limb, beckoning
me. Bite the apple. Just take one little bite.

“Do you think they’d even want you back?”

What world? I think, head drooping as I fight to stay

upright, fight to stay awake. There is no world left. There is
only this. Only snow and ash and a forest that never ends.

The ground shifts, my vision tilting, trees stretching and

twisting. Somewhere I think I can hear wings flapping in the
wind. Chirps and calls that are weak and somber.

I stumble, blink, and I’m suddenly on my knees. Another

blink, and I’m sprawled out on my side. Dark red hair fans out
around my face, snow crystallizing the strands.

“Get up,” a voice tells me. It’s one and yet it’s not. It’s
more. It’s many. And their voices are pleading.

But the air is heavy. My limbs, even heavier. And my eyes,

the heaviest of them all.
 In my head, I hear familiar chanting as the darkness
welcomes me. It grows louder and louder until it reaches
deafening decibels. And yet, somehow, it doesn’t drown out
the broken voices still urging me to get up, begging me to keep
going.

I can’t, I try to tell them, fingers flexing toward that pitch-

black sky. I’m sorry.

For a moment, it all stops. The chanting, the pleas, the

flapping of wings.

Everything just… stills. And that’s when I hear him. Clear

as day, exactly as I remember, for the first time in… I don’t
know how long. Years, I imagine.

“Can you see the moon? It’s huge here.”

My breath hitches, and this time, I don’t take another one.

No, I respond to him silently as understanding finally sinks

in. No, I don’t see it.

The moon is hidden from me. It’s always… been…

hidden…

“Do you see now?” the snake hisses as my thoughts slow.

“Do you finally get it, dear?”

Somewhere in the distance, a crow caws mournfully into the

night, and all I can think is, I tried. I tried so hard…

If I could still cry, I’d never stop.

If my heart could still break, it’d shatter completely.

 But I can’t, it can’t. I’m fading, I’m losing, I’m already
gone.

Because the moon doesn’t shine on dead girls.

And I’ve been marked for death a long, long time.

*this excerpt is unedited and may be subject to change

Little Bird Lost Copyright © Jessie Walker 2022

 Also coming in 2023…

This Valentine’s Day…

the bad boys come out to play…

Get ready for an anti-Valentine to remember in this limited

release M/M romance anthology. Eighteen authors have
come together to bring you a collection of brand-new short
stories with a combination of dark, enemies to lovers, and
bully themes. All proceeds from this anthology will benefit
LGBTQ+ mental health organizations.
Sign up for Jessie Walker’s newsletter for updates on future
projects, early sneak-peaks, and bonus material.

Have you joined Jessie Walker’s official reader group The

Black Sheep yet?
 Every single person who put up with me these last few
weeks…

Thank you.

This release happened in a whirlwind, and there are so many

people who helped me not only get this novella in tip-top
shape, but worked with very little notice to help me get
everything in place.

Heather, my editor. We couldn’t have planned the timing

better if we tried. Thank you for working so tirelessly and
diligently, hashing out any issues we ran into, and encouraging
me throughout. It’s always a comfort to know my babies are in
good hands.

Gloria, my alpha and sanity. You saw me at my most

neurotic with this one. Thank for for the endless chats, for
reassuring me when I just wanted to scrap it all and run away.
I’m always throwing books at you, making you cry, and
blowing up your inbox with all my worries over every little
thing… and yet, somehow, you still put up with me.

Tasha and Nat, my beta readers. Thank you for taking the
time to read my surprise little book in such short-notice. Your
feedback helped me tremendously with filling in any gaps, and
helping me ensure this story stayed true to itself.

Chelsea and Dee, my very own PA Dream Team. You guys

came in right when I needed you most. I look forward to
seeing where this journey takes us.

My Wailers! — Thank you for all the help promoting this

novella. I’m so excited to finally have a Street Team of my
very own. I can’t wait to spoil you rotten.

All other bloggers and instagrammers who helped me get

the word out, shared teasers, promoted this book,
read/reviewed ARCs… I couldn’t have managed such a
surprise, last-minute release without you.

Lastly, you guys. My readers. The ones who made this

novella possible in the first place. The ones who still always
want “more” despite having had 300k+ words already. The
ones who continue to share their love for these boys and my
words, and find comfort in this world. Y’all are greedy and I
adore you endlessly. I can’t wait to take us back to Shiloh.
 Triggers: addiction, mental illness (panic attacks/PTSD),
grief, vague past mentions of abuse, vague past mentions of
suicidal thoughts/ideations
 Jessie Walker is a New Adult/Contemporary romance author
based out of Scranton, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her
long-time partner and fur-spawn. Drawn to all things dark and
twisted, nitty and gritty, she likes to pretend she’s not the
hopeless romantic at heart that she is. When she’s not drudging
away at a keyboard, there’s a very good chance you’ll find her
vegged out on her couch, listening to sad ’90s grunge, and
dreamin’ up all the ways she can make the voices in her head
suffer (just so she could put them back together again). She
has a BS in Psychology, and will diagnose you.

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