21. Chapter 21
Chapter 21
T he house was dark when Jesse got back. Just quiet and hollow, like it was waiting to be a home again. He toed off his sneakers by the door, his breath still coming hard from the run—longer than usual, farther than he’d meant to go.
His legs were shot. His ribs ached. But it was better than thinking.
The living room was empty. Of course it was.
No Hayley.
No music.
No soft humming from the couch, no thrown blanket or tea mug left out.
Just silence.
He wandered into the kitchen, ripped open the fridge, and pulled out half a rotisserie chicken. Ate it cold, standing in front of the open door, gnawing at a drumstick like a caveman. Then he grabbed a leftover pickle, a string cheese, and a protein bar. Dinner of champions.
He’d barely chewed the last bite when the doorbell rang.
He frowned.
Nobody rang his doorbell.
Jesse marched to the door, flipped the lock, and pulled it open—
“Sup, bro,” said Isaac Rayleigh, standing there like a damn GQ ad in black jeans and a vintage leather jacket. His hair was messily perfect, sunglasses still on even though the sun had been down for a while. “Nice socks.”
Jesse glanced down. Mismatched.
“Isaac,” he said, blinking. “The fuck are you doing here?”
Isaac smirked. “Guess who’s playing tonight?”
Jesse sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. I know.”
Isaac leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You going?”
“Pretty sure her band hates me.”
Isaac arched a brow. “The band, or the Irish guy?”
Jesse didn’t answer.
Isaac tilted his head. “Ohhh. Right. Him.”
“Yeah,” Jesse muttered, jaw ticking. “Him.”
Isaac chuckled, slow and easy. “Well, don’t just stay home and let Irish guy Mack on your chick.”
Jesse gave him a flat look. “She doesn’t want drama.”
“Who said anything about drama?” Isaac pushed off the frame. “Let’s go. Black op style. In and out. No one even sees us. We gather some intel, maybe you get to see her sing, maybe you remind Irish bro who she belongs to.”
Jesse groaned. “Fuck. Isaac…”
Isaac just grinned. “You’re thinking about it.”
“I’m not trying to start a war.”
“You’re not,” Isaac said. “You’re just showing up.”
A long pause.
Jesse cracked his neck, exhaled hard, then muttered, “Fuuckkk. Fine. I’m showering. Give me ten.”
“Atta boy.”
Twenty minutes later… the sound of tires crunching gravel hit as Jesse stepped back into the living room, clean and sharp in jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged his frame just right. He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, grabbing his wallet and phone from the counter as headlights flashed across the window.
He opened the door to find Isaac already climbing into the passenger seat of Zach Reed’s black truck. The door was open, music thumping low from the stereo.
Zach leaned out the window, grinning. “Get in, lads. We’re going recon.”
Jesse slid into the back—and immediately spotted the three plastic shooter cups balanced in the center console, each brimming with something dark and mean-smelling.
Zach picked one up with a grin. “Pre-game.”
Isaac, without missing a beat: “Bro. Jesse doesn’t drink anymore. You know this.”
Zach blinked. “Oh shit. Right.”
Before anyone could react, Isaac downed all three, back to back, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like a Viking. “Handled.”
He turned around in his seat, sunglasses finally off, eyes sharp. “Let’s fucking go, boys.”
Jesse leaned back in the seat, heart kicking harder than it had in hours. Not from nerves.
From something else.
* * * * *
Jesse stuck to the back wall of Black Coast, hoodie pulled low, hat brim shadowing his eyes. The venue was packed, bodies shoulder to shoulder, the hum of anticipation thick as spilled beer. It smelled like sweat and soundcheck, dim and smoky and loud. The kind of place where music lived in your chest more than your ears.
Isaac stood beside him, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, head bobbing slightly to the playlist still pumping through the speakers. Zach had disappeared somewhere deeper into the bar, already flirting with a pair of girls wearing heavy eyeliner and combat boots.
And Jesse… Jesse was trying not to let his heart pound out of his chest.
Dead Run Riot was being introduced.
He hadn’t seen her yet.
He’d heard the cheers rise like thunder, felt the thrum of bass through the soles of his boots, and then—
She stepped out under the lights.
And fuck.
Everything in him just… stopped.
Hayley Fox.
Waist-length auburn hair flipping around, his oversized plaid shirt, mic in hand. She moved like she owned the stage. Like she always had. But now—now she moved different. He could see it. Feel it.
Softer around the edges.
Sharper in the center.
She was more woman than girl now. Pregnant with his kid. Carrying a future neither of them had planned but both of them were trying like hell to figure out.
She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t have known he was there. But the moment she stepped to the mic, the crowd lost it.
And when she sang?
Jesse felt the same punch to the ribs he’d felt the first time. That night in some shitty dive bar, years ago, when she got up and ripped the world open with nothing but her voice and a secondhand guitar. That was the night he fell. For real.
And now?
Now she was his.
Kind of.
Maybe.
He didn’t even know anymore.
Her voice cut through the bar like smoke and velvet, low and raw, chasing pain into the light. She wasn’t just singing songs—she was bleeding onstage. Jesse could see it in every note, every sway of her hips, every fucking lyric she’d probably written at 3 a.m. when the world was too loud and too quiet at once.
He watched her all through the set. Couldn’t take his eyes off her. The way she grinned mid-verse at her guitarist, how she closed her eyes like she was somewhere else entirely. Song after song, she let it pour out, and Jesse stood still, steady, throat tight.
Because shit had changed.
Because they weren’t just Jesse and Hayley anymore.
They were Jesse and Hayley and a baby and a past and a maybe and something so much fucking deeper than it used to be.
She was still his girl.
But now she was about to be the mother of his kid.
And somehow, she was even more of a rockstar now than she’d ever been.
When the set ended, the lights faded and the crowd screamed. Jesse exhaled, finally.
He glanced at Isaac.
Isaac smirked. “Lock that shit down, man. She’s fucking gold.”
Jesse rolled his eyes. “Let’s get out of here.”
They pushed through the crowd. Zach had a girl on each arm, laughing at something, and waved them off with a grin when Jesse passed by. Isaac and Jesse stepped outside into the cool night air.
Jesse lit a cigarette.
Leaning against the side of the building, he let the smoke fill his lungs, his head. His heart was still racing. She’d killed it up there.
He stared at the dark sky for a beat, then heard the side door slam open.
Heavy boots.
A pissed-off voice.
Caiden.
“Stalking her, now?” Caiden muttered, stepping into the alley like he’d just bitten into something rotten. His eyes landed on Jesse. Cold. Tight.
Jesse didn’t move. He exhaled smoke, slow and calm. “Evening.”
Caiden’s jaw flexed.
And just like that, the tension snapped back into the night like a tripwire.
Jesse just kept smoking, gaze fixed ahead, not looking. Not reacting.
But he felt it.
The shift in the air. The low heat of something circling the drain.
Caiden stepped closer, one drag in, smirking. “Didn’t expect to see you here, man. What, missing the high? Thought maybe you’d chase it with a little nostalgia?”
Jesse exhaled smoke, slow and even. “Fuck off.”
“Makes me wonder,” Caiden said, voice dry, mean. “Nobody sees you for years. Hayley’s finally getting her shit together. You show up. Next thing we know, she’s looking tired again. Pulled back. Off her game. Kind of weird, right?”
Jesse’s jaw locked, but he said nothing.
“Here we go again…” Caiden made a spiraling motion with his finger. “Show up, suck the life out of the girl, crash and burn. Rinse, repeat.”
Still, Jesse didn’t move. Finished his cigarette.
Caiden took a long drag of his own. “I won’t watch someone so fucking talented throw herself away. On what? Some washed-up trash addict with a record and a broken moral compass?”
That was the one.
Jesse’s voice came low, razor-sharp. “Watch your fucking mouth.”
Caiden laughed. “Or what?”
And that’s when Jesse turned.
One step forward. Direct. Solid.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“You’ve had a hard-on for Hayley since day one,” Jesse said, eyes dark. “But she never wanted you. Not then. Not now.”
Caiden’s face twisted. “You don’t get to talk about her.”
“I’ll talk about whoever the fuck I want,” Jesse snapped. “You don’t know her. You don’t know me. And you sure as hell don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Caiden shoved him.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
Jesse cracked him once—clean and hard—right across the face.
The sound echoed off the alley walls like a gunshot. Caiden staggered back, swearing, spitting blood.
And just like that, Isaac was there—grabbing Jesse by the collar, dragging him back before it turned into something worse.
“Bro. Hey. Enough,” Isaac barked, his body wedged between them now. “Don’t kill him.”
Jesse’s pulse roared. His breath came fast. Fists clenched at his sides.
Caiden wiped his mouth, sneering. “Yeah, run away, bitch. I’ll get her home tonight.”
Jesse lunged again—but Isaac shoved him back with both arms. “Let it go.”
A long second passed. Then another.
Finally, Jesse stepped back, chest heaving, eyes still locked on Caiden like a predator forced to turn his back.
He didn’t say another word.
Just ground out his cigarette with the toe of his boot, turned on his heel, and walked off into the dark.
Isaac followed. Silent.
The music kept playing behind them, unaware.
But Jesse? Jesse felt it in his bones.
That line had been crossed.
And shit was about to change.