Chapter Twenty-Two
Paige
Everything’s the same.
At least, that’s what it looks like from the outside.
Inside? I’m keeping one of the hottest moments of my life to myself, pretending it doesn’t live rent-free in my mind, rushing to the forefront every time I see him walking around half dressed in the morning or waltzing around in a towel after a shower.
Maddox talks more to me now—still clipped, still at a slight distance—but his silence isn’t absolute anymore.
Sometimes he lingers, asking questions he never would’ve before.
Glances last too long, arms brush when we pass in the narrow tour bus hallway, and now, he doesn’t walk in the opposite direction.
Eli doesn’t seem to notice a thing, still joking, walking around the tour bus, documenting our every move for social media.
But Beau…Beau’s different. Quieter. Watchful in a way that feels like he sees more than he’s letting on.
I’ve caught him murmuring to Maddox a few times, their voices low and hushed, their words always out of reach, always cutting off the second I’m near. There’s a conversation happening around me, I know there is, and I think I’m the subject.
We don’t speak about what happened, either, or about the fact he left with the recording and I didn’t even try to stop him. It’s all deniable; it has to be. We’re not stupid. Band members don’t fool around together. Even if it was only once.
We act normal, professional, but my body knows he’s in the room before I even look his way. Each unsaid word has subtext, a memory of the way he said my name with his fingers inside me, the scrape of his jaw across my cheek. I can’t unhear it, can’t unfeel it.
And while we orbit around each other in this tiny space, it’s like we’re both waiting for the other to slip up, for it to happen again.
So in the meantime, we play, we tour, we act like nothing has changed.
And opening for Reign Cooper is…exhilarating. A rush I could get addicted to. We’re approaching the end of week one since we hit the road, already playing four shows with him, and the adrenaline hasn’t let up. Not once.
My ears continuously ring from the crowd, and every time I blink, there’s a flash of the stage, the lights…Maddox.
Always Maddox.
His chorded forearm braced as he plays, the way his dark hair sticks to the back of his neck by the fifth song.
I don’t even need to count anymore; I just know.
Sometimes he tosses his head back to breathe between songs, and I have to look away, because that throat, those veins, that sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest…
How am I meant to last another eleven weeks being trapped on this bus?
Being this close to Maddox and having to act normal…it’s killing me in a way that’s driving me mad and the only person I can confide in is too busy sending me eggplant emojis and suggestive gifs to take any of this seriously. Olive clearly finds my situation much more entertaining than I do.
Glancing around the bus, I soak it all in, not wanting to forget a single second. Eli’s sprawled on the couch, while Beau’s on the floor, the two of them locked in a Call of Duty match loud enough to crack eardrums and Eli’s trash talk is…garbage.
“Here.”
Jerking my eyes away from the guys, I stare up at Maddox, then at the mug with steam wafting from the top, the rich, nutty aroma flooding my senses.
“You made me coffee?” I ask, almost skeptically, because that’s…kind of sweet.
He shrugs, setting it on the table in front of me. “You’d made one earlier and left it on the counter. I just made you a fresh one.”
Shoot. I totally forgot I did that.
“Thanks,” I say as I slide it toward me and inhale. “I appreciate it.”
“It’s fine,” he mutters.
He doesn’t leave right away, just stands there, like he’s waiting for something.
Lifting the mug to my lips, my eyes flutter closed as I take my first sip, savoring the flavor as it hits my tongue.
A low groan reverberates in front of me, causing my eyes to snap open, finding Maddox’s gaze narrowed in on my mouth.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, swallowing thickly, my blood heating as he watches me set the mug down.
A muscle in his neck pulses before he jerks his chin toward my tablet on my knee. “What are you working on?”
Seriously, this guy. First, he’s picking fights over sleeping arrangements, and now, he’s making coffee and asking about my videos.
“I’m editing content for BehindTheSnare.” I tap the screen and spin it around, showing him the most recent one I’m working on. It starts to play, the volume so low it’s almost inaudible.
Maddox studies it quietly, lips pinched in a line. “You going to be able to post while we’re on tour?”
I bite my lower lip, fighting a laugh. Try as he might not to sound interested, there’s an unwanted hint of intrigue in his tone.
“I recorded a couple before we left. Got a stockpile of drafts I haven’t used yet, too.”
Though at this rate, it won’t last long and eventually I’m going to run out of things to post.
“If I’m honest, I’m not even sure I want to keep it going,” I mutter to myself.
This tour is demanding, and it’s only been a week. The travel, the soundchecks, the actual shows, it’s exhausting. A good exhausting. But part of me wonders if it’s time to step away from the account completely.
“Why?” His question cuts through my thoughts.
Glancing up, I frown. “What?”
He doesn’t look away. “Why would you give it up?”
Heat creeps up my neck. Shit, did I say that out loud?
I hesitate, trying to put everything into words.
“I guess that’s who I was before all this”—I gesture around us—“made it easier to pretend I didn’t want more because the account was successful, y’know?
” I shift in my seat, gaze lowering to my hands wrapped around my mug, steam curling up between us.
“But now we’re here, a small part of me wonders if keeping the account is like I’m still half-hiding. ”
He doesn’t speak straight away, carefully choosing his words too. “You don’t have to pick one version of you, Paige. They can both matter.”
My gaze darts to his, lips parting in surprise. He shifts back, almost like he’s afraid he’s said too much, nodding toward his usual spot across the bus.
“I’ll let you get back to it then.”
“Thanks again for the coffee,” I say as he turns to leave, sliding into his seat and resting his guitar back over his lap.
I watch him as he settles, his words echoing in my head like it’s a simple decision. He hunches over his notebook, head bowed, hair falling in loose strands across his forehead, thumb clicking the pen against the table.
Three fast, two slow. My teeth catch my lower lip, the hot porcelain burning my hands as I get sucked into a haze, my entire body fidgeting in the booth.
That rhythm. Almost the same one he used when he…
Stop.
The tablet screen fades, grabbing my attention, and I tap it with my finger, waking it back up. But even the half-finished edit can’t distract me for long. My eyes drift again, to his knee bouncing under the table, the jittery movement of restless tension.
His headphones are on now, brow furrowed, our moment from before a distant memory as he gets sucked into the space he disappears into whenever he’s chasing a sound that won’t land.
Whatever’s in his head isn’t working, and it’s pissing him off.
I should look away, focus on my own work, but every time his thumb shifts, that ring catching the light, my stomach tightens. Same hand, same fingers, the ones that slid over me like they already knew what I needed.
My thighs press together, heat pulsing low, and I shift against the leather again, pretending it’s the seat making me squirm and not my traitorous body.
One touch, and he’s rewired me completely.
I force my gaze down, cheeks hot, eyes on the screen.
Not on him.
Maddox exhales sharply, cutting through Eli’s groans and Beau’s laughter as he dies in-game, again. His guitar is silent, notebook open in front of him, lips pressed beneath his ever-present scowl.
I recognize the spiral. The frantic pen tapping, the weight in his expression. The page is probably half-filled with scratched-out lines that I’d bet were good until he second-guessed them.
I should let him struggle and pretend I don’t care. Lord knows I’ve already been burnt before. But I do care. I always fucking do. Because I know that place he’s in. I’ve lived there, and I could help. Hell, I could fix the damn problem before we hit the next gas station.
But I don’t move. Helping means getting close again. And close is where I lose my grip. Close is how control rooms turn into pressure cookers. It’s how recordings end up saved instead of deleted.
Shoving away my thoughts, I refocus on my tablet, getting lost in my editing while the rest of them are wrapped in gameplay and banter.
“You’re up, Mad,” Eli calls out sometime later, breaking through my concentration.
Maddox’s head stays down, ignoring him as he strides over, tugging one side of his headphones away.
“The fuck?” Maddox snaps, jerking back as they clatter to the floor.
“I said it’s your turn to play,” Eli says, hands up, sheepish.
“I’m busy.”
“You’ve been busy since we left LA,” Eli mutters. “Come chill. Play with us.”
“No.”
“Maybe if you asked Paige for help,” Beau suggests from the floor, “you wouldn’t be staring at the same four lines like they pissed in your Cornflakes.”
The bus stills, even the game fades out. Everything pulls toward Maddox, waiting for a repeat of what happened the last time Beau suggested my help.
He’s already looking at me, that dark stare locked, unreadable. But under it? Heat. Always heat.
And I’m becoming addicted to feeling it aimed at me.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, voice rough, trying to shake off the awkwardness. “If he doesn’t want my help, that’s fine.”
“Dude, that line you fixed for him at the first show? Killed,” Eli says, grinning. “I swear I’ve seen people get it tattooed on their wrists.”
“What?” Beau asks, brow pinching. “Where have you seen that?”