Seven
Scarlett
I ’ve never been more enraptured in my life. The low hum of the crowd buzzes like an electric current coursing through my veins as Whit takes the stage. My breath catches, and for a moment, the world fades away. His white blond hair shines eerily through the spotlights, casting an almost spectral glow around him. The silver hoops through his nose and his lip glisten like cold, metallic promises of something both beautiful and dangerous.
Tonight, he is enigmatic—a dark star illuminating a universe filled with shadows.
“Hello, Cleveland!” Whit’s deep, gravelly voice rolls through the speakers, commanding attention as the band joins in with an awakening rhythm. My heart races at the raw intensity of his presence. Each movement is a dance, calculated yet effortless, as he grips the microphone like a lover, intimate and fierce.
The first chords of the guitar slice through the darkness, and I’m instantly captivated. His fingers strum with precision, crafting a tapestry of sound that wraps around the audience like a spell, drawing us deeper into his world. The energy is electric, charging the air and setting it ablaze.
With every note, every word, Whit channels a primal force that shakes the very foundation of my soul. The shadows seem to dance around him, drawn to this dark prince. I feel myself leaning forward, my heart thumping in rhythm, lost in the intoxicating world he creates. Whit is more than just a rockstar—he’s a dark prince, a master of the shadows, and I am utterly, helplessly ensnared.
His voice carries a haunting melody:
In the midnight haze, where the shadows roam,
I’m chasing whispers, but I’m all alone.
Searching for a love that’s forever out of reach,
A phantom touch, a promise I can’t keep.
I’ve never heard this song before, yet every word feels like a mirror reflecting my own hidden heartaches. The haunting beauty drips from his lips, and I find tears pooling in my eyes. It’s a visceral ache that worms its way into my chest, a tune that resonates at frequencies I thought long buried.
I’m forced to think of my own past—the walls I’ve built around my heart after years of pain.
When the music fades and the lights go black,
I wander lost, but there’s no turning back.
Every heart I seek, every soul I crave,
Leaves me hollow, sinking in this grave.
His lyrics twist around me, laying bare wounds I didn’t know were still raw. I remember the child I was back then, terrified and closed off. I had convinced myself that I didn’t need anyone, that I was okay in my solitude. But here, now, under Whit’s spell, everything feels different. My defenses are crumbling like stone, revealing old scars that still ache with the memory of broken promises.
Through the darkened streets, under the bleeding moon,
I hear the echoes of a love that ends too soon.
In the silence, I’m haunted by my past,
By broken dreams and shadows that won’t last.
Every note, every lyric feels like a dagger to my heart, stirring memories I’ve tried to forget. The parallels between Whit’s words and my own life are too strong to ignore. It’s as though he’s seen my past and is singing it for the world to see. The overwhelming urge to flee grips me. To escape the raw, unfiltered emotions he’s drawing out of me.
When the music fades and the lights go black,
I wander lost, but there’s no turning back.
Every heart I seek, every soul I crave,
Leaves me hollow, sinking in this grave.
In this endless night, I’m bound by chains unseen,
A restless spirit in a world that’s mean.
But I keep searching, though I know the cost,
For in the darkness, all hope is lost.
I can’t listen to another word. It’s too much, too close to the pain I’ve kept locked away. Jumping to my feet, I push through the throng of random workers that have stopped to listen. A security guard moves in front of me, his presence a looming barrier.
“I can’t let you through, miss,” he shouts over the screaming fans and music that I’m trying to leave behind.
“I need to use the restroom,” I lie, hoping he will believe me.
“Mr. Lockwood was adamant that you stay until his set is finished.” His words echo in my mind as the guard stands firm, his expression unyielding.
I glance back at Whit, his figure is a magnetic presence on stage. The depth of his performance, the way his gravelly voice brings the lyrics to life is almost too much to bear. Each strum of his guitar reverberates through me, making it feel like he’s reaching out and gripping my very soul.
Trying to maintain my composure, I look to the guard again.
“Please,” I say, my voice quivering. “I just need a moment.”
But his resolve is implacable. “Mr. Lockwood’s orders, miss,” he repeats.
Anger surges through me, mixing with the overwhelming emotions he’s stirred.
Why the hell did Whit think this was okay?
His performance continues, each song more intense than the last. The exposed power in his voice and the dark, haunting melodies of Chaos Theory’s music cast a spell over the audience. I watch, mesmerized as Whit becomes one with the music, his body moving with fluid grace.
The crowd around me screams louder, completely absorbed by the performance that is unravelling me. I feel trapped, like I’m stuck in the spotlight of my own turmoil. Memories of my past flash through my mind, unbidden and relentless. I’m starting to spiral, holding the railing to keep me from falling into the black abyss of panic. My heart is beating erratically against my chest as heat envelops me.
The guard’s firm stance begins to waver as something in the crowd catches his attention. He turns slightly, just enough for me to see an opportunity. Without a second thought, I dart through the gap, my heart pounding with the fear of being caught. The echoing sounds of laughter and music fade into a distant cacophony as I weave through the throng of random workers and concert attendees. Their faces are blurred from my vision as tears begin to fall. A culmination of the past month’s events and everything I’ve kept buried are threatening to consume me. My lungs burn, as if I’m running through a room without oxygen. I need to get to the exit; I see it—a glaring red neon sign hanging above the door. I’m so close.
With a final push, I throw my weight against the door, but I’m instantly thrust backward into a wall of muscle. Stumbling, I look over my shoulder, and my breath catches in my throat. Whit fucking Lockwood. The man who tried to trap me. His presence looms large, an unyielding fortress against the tempest that threatens to envelop me. His eyes are intense, filled with concern and something else—something deeper. His breathing is heavy, probably from the performance but there’s a gentleness there too, the kind that both comforts and terrifies me.
“What are you even doing here?” I blurt out, incredulous. “You’re supposed to be on stage!”
His grip on my body is firm yet reassuring, as if anchoring me to the present while pulling me away from the shadows of the past. “Fuck the show. I’m more worried about you right now.” His hands slide to my cheeks, gently wiping my tears away, his thumbs capturing the despair as if to banish it entirely.
“I’m fine, Whit. You need to get back out there. They’re counting on you,” I whisper, not trusting my voice not to betray the uncertainty brewing in my chest.
“Scarlett,” he warns, his tone steely yet tender. “Don’t lie to me. I want to be here for you, but you need to let me in. Where were you going?”
“Was this your idea of fun?” I snap, blinking rapidly to stave off tears. “You don’t get to drag me back to those memories.”
He takes a step closer, closing the distance between us and the music of the show fades into a distant hum, swallowed by the gravity of this moment. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he replies earnestly, his sincerity almost enough to disarm me. “It’s just... I could see the pain in your eyes, and it was as though you were looking straight through me and into another part of your life.”
“That’s not any of your business,”I whimper, trying to pull myself from his grip.
“If it involves you then it is my business, Scarlett,” he states as if we’re already joined together forever.
“I don’t need anyone!” I protest, my voice rising with a hint of desperation. Even as the words escape my lips, I can hear how hollow they sound, echoing through the cavern of my heart.
“Are you sure?” he asks softly, still studying my face, searching for the truth etched into my features as if it were written in morse code. “Because I see you, Scarlett. I see the strength in needing to be vulnerable. It’s okay to hurt.”
Tension crackles in the air like the faint remnants of the bass pulsing through the walls. I want to push him away, wanting to scoff at his earnestness, but at the same time a part of me wants to lean into him, to soak in the raw emotion that’s threatening to overwhelm me.
“You have no idea what I’ve gone through,” I insist, feeling my composure slip. My voice breaks—an unsteady bridge across turbulent waters. “You don’t know my past.”
“I might not know everything,” he replies, softer still, as if he’s handling something precious and delicate. “But I can guess it’s been hard.” His hand reaches out tentatively, brushing a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb, silencing the storm within me for a brief moment. “And I want to understand. I want to know everything.”
Each word feels like a gentle tug, unearthing feelings I’d buried beneath layers of denial and stoicism. The pulsing lights of the concert seem to dim in comparison to the intensity of what I see in his eyes. They’re not just windows; they’re mirrors reflecting my own fears and desires.
“Why me?” I ask, suddenly vulnerable. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because I see the real you, Scarlett,” he replies, pulling me closer, the warmth radiating from him almost palpable. “The one beneath the pain, the one who deserves to feel joy, not just to survive.”
The words sink deep, settling somewhere within me that I thought had long been buried. My silence wraps around us like a heavy blanket, the truth locked inside my throat—the fear that moving forward might mean letting go of the past, of the pain I’ve carried like a crumpled message in my pocket. I want to recoil, to retreat, yet somehow I find myself inching forward, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, despite the threat of the dark that clings to me.
“Whit, I—” The start of my confession crumbles, choking on itself as the moment shatters.
“What the hell are you doing, Whit?” Lennox’s voice tears through the moment, brimming with frustration as he storms darkly beside us. “You can’t just run off the stage in the middle of a show!”
Whit, still maintaining hold on my arm, seems unfazed, though I wish he’d release me—the intensity of Lennox’s burning gaze makes the urge to shrink down into myself almost instinctual.
“I’m taking care of something important, Nox. The show can wait.” Whit’s words are steady, resonating with a calmness that I wish I could believe in myself.
Lennox shuffles between us, glaring at me in a way that makes me dread the conclusion of his gaze; it feels as if he’s sizing up a threat. “You’re going to let some pussy get in the way of everything we’ve worked for?”
The rapid escalation takes me by surprise. Just moments ago, it felt like Whit was traversing the distance between our pasts, standing on the precipice of something profound with me.
His anger, raw and electric, snaps like a live wire as he steps between us. He seizes Lennox against the wall, the depth of repressed rage surging through him.
“Don’t ever talk about her like that again or you’ll be looking for a new front man.” Whit’s voice blazes with a fierce possessiveness.
Every second stretches thin, the air taut, punctuated only by the rapid thump of my heart. I stand paralyzed as Whit releases Lennox, sending vibrant shockwaves coursing through the corridor.
Lennox recovers, smoothing his shirt, then glares at Whit with his anger raging. “You’re going to fuck up our chances with these agents, Whit. This is the biggest night of our career! You know this! You’ve been the one drilling it into our heads every fucking day!”
“If they can’t wait five fucking minutes so I can make sure Scarlett is okay, then I don’t want to be signed by them,” Whit fires back, his posture unyielding, eyes locked onto Lennox with such an intensity it gives me goosbumps.
“You can’t be serious right now. Five fucking years, Whit! FIVE! That’s how long it’s taken us to get here. For fuck’s sake, you have money to fall back on, man! Me and Blaine? This is it.”
I wish I could fold back into my skin, disappear, but the energy pulsing around me feels so overwhelming, each word carving through the bravery I’m trying to muster.
“Stop it!” I finally blurt out, my voice cracking through the weight of their anger. “Listen, I’m fine. You both need to get back out there before we have a stampede of fans back here”
Lennox’s eyes shift towards me, tinged with irritation and maybe a hint of thankfulness. Whit, however, remains focused on me, concern etched across his brow as I try to muster a reassuring smile. I take a breath, donning my mask to cloak the storm brewing inside. I don’t belong in their glittering space defined by chaos and fame. This isn’t me.
“Fine.” Whit’s tone is clipped, taut with suppressed emotion. I urge them onward, gently pushing him along to follow Lennox, but I stay rooted to the spot, hoping he doesn’t realize I’m not following.
He looks over his shoulder as his eyes zero in on me. “Scarlett, you’re coming with us,” he states matter of factly. I’m about to protest, but it’s quickly silenced when he raises an eyebrow, daring me to argue.
Anger bristles inside me as I hesitate, willing my feet to stay planted. But the urgency in Whit’s eyes tugs at something deep inside me, even though my mind is still reeling. I take a shaky breath and force myself to follow them down the hallway. Each step feels like I’m walking a tightrope between wanting to be here for Whit and needing to run far away.
The backstage area is a flurry of activity, but it barely registers. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion, the voices and movements around me muffled, as if I’m underwater. Whit and Lennox are ahead, their tense conversation continuing. I catch snippets of their words, but it’s hard to focus.
“We’ll talk about this later, Lennox. Right now, we have a show to put on,” Whit says, his voice strained but controlled.
We reach the edge of the stage, and I can see the audience beyond the curtain. The anticipation is palpable, the crowd buzzing with excitement. Whit turns to me, his eyes searching my face.
“Please be here when we finish,” he pleads. I wish I could give him that reassurance, but all I can manage is a nod. Whit kisses my forehead, then he’s back on stage and I’m left with the security guard looming at my side like a silent guardian against my escape.
The lights dance around him, illuminating the way his spirit dances free, while I remain a shadow at the periphery, tortured by words of my past, echoing like a relentless mantra in my mind.
You’ll never amount to anything, Scar. You’re a whore just like your mother was. Leaving this town won’t change that DNA runnin’ through ya’. Ever the damsel and always the fuckup.
I’m not good enough for Whit. He’s about to be thrust into stardom, while I’m stuck here in limbo because I won’t be fucking graduating. His darkness is being thrust into spotlights, while mine is pulling me down in its sinewy depths.
The darkness is suffocating, wrapping around me like a vice. I sit huddled in the corner of the closet, the weight of my father’s absence bearing down on me. As I try to breathe, the thick, stale air makes it feel like I’m drowning in despair, a stark contrast to the muffled sounds of laughter and music that seep through the door, hints of life beyond my prison.
“Will I ever escape this?” I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible in the oppressive silence around me. There’s a faint smell of my father’s cologne clinging to the corner where I hide—a cruel reminder of why I’m here. His rules, his punishment, his control.
“For what?” I wonder aloud, “For being human?”
The vague memories swirl in my mind, a fog of fear and confusion. I remember the last time I spoke out of turn. It was hardly a transgression worthy of punishment. “I’m too tired,” I’d said, as he demanded I help him move an old bookshelf. It felt like the sun had been extinguished in my heart. He had unleashed his fury, as if my fatigue was a challenge to his authority and now, I’m left to languish in this dark closet, alone with the demons of my mind.
The familiar sound of laughter causes my heart to ache. It twists in my chest like a knife. I imagine the fun my sister must be having, her laughter bright like fireworks in the starless sky of my existence. She was the brave one; the one that could stand up to him, the one that ran away to hide in the world of her dreams and far away from our home. Would I ever find that courage?
I shift slightly, pressing my forehead against my knees and block out the memories. I need to be strong, but it’s getting harder. Tears threaten to spill, and I desperately try to swallow them back. Crying only makes him angrier. I’ve learned that the hard way, too.
The scratching sound draws my attention, pulling me away from my thoughts. It’s soft at first, like a whisper in the dark, but quickly grows louder and more frantic. My heart races as the sound continues, insistent in its approach. What if it’s something worse than my father?
“No,” I whimper, fear rising in my throat. “Not now.” I have to be quiet, to still myself so I don’t draw attention to my predicament. The noise grows louder, and I press myself further into the corner, praying for the darkness to swallow me whole.
I hold my breath, every muscle in my body tense. The scratching continues, persistent and unnerving. Panic surges through me and my chest tightens. I start taking quick, shallow breaths, my lungs struggling to get enough air.
It gets closer, more insistent. I can feel it moving closer, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it to go away. But it doesn’t. I can feel its presence right beside me, so close that one move and I’m sure I would feel whatever beast I’m locked in here with.
I let out a broken scream, the sound echoing around me and slicing through my frazzled nerves. The door flies open, harsh light flooding in, blinding me.
“Dad!” I yell instinctively, shielding my eyes from the intruding brightness.
“Get out,” my father snarls, his silhouette magnified against the light, rage mottling his features. My heart sinks, both from the fear of his anger and the terrifying creature still lurking beside me.
Before I scramble to my feet, a rat scurries out of the darkness, darting past my father’s feet. “Oh—” I gasp but manage to quickly suppress my disgust. “It’s just a rat,” I mutter under my breath as I cower in fear.
I don’t want to see my father’s headshake of disgust at my fear of the vermin. His eyes burn into me, searching for any semblance of defiance. Instead, I dash past him, and up the stairs toward my sanctuary, my bedroom.
“You’re worthless!” he barks after me, but I shut the door behind me, blocking out his words. In the solitude of my room, I catch my breath, reminding myself that I am safe.
For now.
The roaring of the crowd floods my ears, jolting me back to the present. The guys are all smiling and fist-bumping once the stage lights cut out. I catch a glimpse of Whit, his rumpled hair fanning out around him as he downs the last of his drink.
Embarrassment clogs my throat when I feel the hot tears cascading down my cheeks, a complete contradiction to the electric atmosphere around me. Fortunately, it’s dark backstage, so I turn slightly and use my sweater sleeve to blot my face, praying no one notices.
Memories of my past still linger at the edge of my mind, making the tears feel even heavier. I can’t shake the images of those dark, terrifying nights from my childhood; the darkness, the screams, the sheer hopelessness that slashed my insides like a serial killer. It feels incongruous amid the ‘should be’ thrill of the concert, and I fight to calm my racing heart. But at the same time, there’s a sense of relief. Despite my little disruption to the show earlier, I think they were able to come back strong, and by the sound of it, they rocked the hell out of their set.
I’m sure my makeup is running, and I have no idea how I’ll be able to play it off. Maybe say I was hot? But, fuck, that much sweat would probably be even more of a turn-off than the tears. Just as I’m thinking about the best escape route through the frenzy, I feel a strong pair of arms lift me into the air and spin me around. My heart skips a beat, but I relax a bit when I smell his signature blend of leather and cedarwood enveloping me. His scent is warm and comforting, like a safe harbor amidst the chaos of the night.
Whit leans in, his light stubble brushing teasingly against my neck as he purrs in my ear. “Do you know how sexy you looked sitting over there watching me? I could barely focus on the crowd when all I wanted to do was stare at you.” His raspy voice vibrates through me, and for a moment, I forget everything else. I meet his gaze, those deep-set eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a jolt of electricity sparking through my core.
I’ve never encountered someone like Whit before. His larger-than-life presence combined with that rugged, doesn’t-give-a-fuck attitude is intoxicating. On stage, he transforms, a whirlwind of sound and charisma, as if he’s a force of nature, unapologetically carving his own path with every strum of his guitar and every lyric he sings. I find myself irresistibly drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. It’s terrifying, this connection, but I lean into it.
The energy of the performance still buzzes through him, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, palpable and electric. Whit is a total contradiction to everything I thought I was attracted to; he’s raw and real in a way that obliterates my reservations. Each moment with him seems to shatter the glass walls I’ve carefully constructed around my heart, replacing them with an intense fascination for everything inherently Whit. He’s an inescapable force that both terrifies and enthralls me.
“Hey.” His voice breaks the spell, drawing me back from my thoughts. I can see the concern curling in the corners of his brow.
“Talk to me.” He pulls my chin up gently, his fingers brushing against my cheeks, wiping away the last tears that fell. In this moment, he seems to hold the power to peel away my barriers, leaving me vulnerable yet safe.
“I’m proud of you. The band was on fire,” I deflect, forcing my smile to hide what still lingers inside me.
Whit narrows his eyes, skeptical “Thank you, but that’s not the whole story. You looked so…” he hesitates, searching for the right words. “You didn’t look like you were celebrating.”
His expression is earnest, and I feel a pang of guilt settle in my stomach for not being fully present for him. “I just... had a moment backstage.”
He shifts his grip, pulling me a little closer, like I might evaporate if he lets go. The heat of his body vibrates against mine, grounding me. “Scarlett,” he begins, but is cut off when Lennox strolls up beside us.
“Krista just said that Mike with Echo Heights Records wants a word with us,” he smiles, slapping Whit on the back.
His expression shifts from concern to excitement in an instant. “Hell yeah. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says as his eyes flick back to mine.
Lennox, however, shakes his head. “We have to go now. Mike isn’t going to wait.”
Whit’s jaw tightens, and for a moment he looks like he might argue. But then he gives me a reassuring squeeze. “This isn’t over, Scarlett. We’ll talk when I get back,” he promises. I just nod, pulling out my phone to call a ride share.
I don’t see Whit walk back over to me before my phone is out of my hands.
“You aren’t going anywhere, little flame,” he hisses. “Now, go wait in the green room like a good girl.” I open my mouth to protest, but the words die on my tongue at the sexy, domineering asshole in front of me. He threads his hands into the back of my hair, angling my face up to his. “Krista will bring you anything you need, and then I’ll come get you when we’re finished.” Whit presses a kiss to my lips, and I’m left speechless as he and the band head in one direction while I’m being pulled in the other.
I’m ushered into the green room, the door closing behind me with a soft click. The room is dimly lit, the muted colors and soft furnishings creating a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the concert venue. I sink into a plush chair, my mind racing.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I glance down to see a message from Whit.
Whit:
Hang tight. I’ll be there soon.
I type out a quick response as my fingers tremble.
Scarlett:
I’m not going anywhere.
I set my phone down, trying to calm the storm inside me. The memory of the performance, the energy and this connection we share is all jumbled in my mind. I should be focusing on my plan for getting my life back on track, but every time I close my eyes, all I see is Whit.
This room feels just as suffocating as the stage did earlier. The walls are closing in as my thoughts spiral. I stand and pace, trying to shake off the feeling of restlessness. Various drugs are scattered around, pills and powder lining different tables. Their wet bar looks more like an actual bar with the amount of different liquors there are. This is the life of a rockstar, isn’t it? I’ve never even touched alcohol because I hated what it made my father become, and I’ve been terrified it would do the same to me.
The sound of the door opening snaps me from my thoughts. “Whit said you might need something,” Krista mentions as she walks over with a tray of various drinks and snacks. She’s older, maybe in her late thirties with short brown hair and kind eyes. She doesn’t seem the type to manage a bar, but then again this is my first time in one.
“Thank you, Krista. You didn’t have to bring all of this,” I murmur, wringing my hands together.
“It was no problem, hun. Whit was very adamant that you were to be taken care of.” There’s a quiet pause before she turns to leave.
“Have you known him long?” I blurt out, wishing I’d have just let her go.
“I’ve known him since he was in high school. The kid stumbled in here begging for a spot on our line up,” she says thoughtfully, as though she’s remembering the day fondly. I realize I don’t even know how old he is. I don’t want to admit as much to her though.
“Sounds like he was determined,” I laugh.
“Oh, honey. Once that boy sets his mind on something, it will happen. He’s stubborn like his ‘ol man in that sense.” Her face twists into a scowl, and I wonder which part of that confession irks her. For some reason, I know it’s the latter.
I grab a bottle of water from the tray, needing something to cool the burning in my throat.
“You know,” Krista begins. “Whit’s never brought someone with him to a show before,” she muses, looking at me with awe and maybe a little skepticism.
“Oh?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual despite the whirlwind of emotions inside me. “That’s… surprising.”
Krista nods. “He’s always been a bit of a lone wolf. Focused, driven. But you… you must be something special to him.”
I feel a flush creep up my cheeks and quickly take a sip of water to hide my reaction. The idea that I might be special to Whit is both thrilling and terrifying.
Krista gives me one last look before heading back to the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask. That phone dials straight to the bar.” She points to the one on the table. “And Scarlett,” she pauses, her voice softening a bit. “Take care of him. He’s been through more than most people realize.”
As the door closes behind her, I’m left alone with my thoughts, and the weight of her words..
Is it possible that he’s just as broken as me?
Can two broken pieces make a whole?
Or will this just leave us even more shattered?