6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Jax
Man, I almost forgot how wild it feels to be up on stage.
And yeah, I’m acting like it’s been forever when it’s really only been—what, a year?
Maybe less. Still, with how fired up the crowd was tonight?
It definitely has me even more hyped for the actual tour.
Seeing our name on signs, people screaming the lyrics back at us, that’s been the dream since day one.
And now that we’re finally getting close? I want it even more.
Tonight was our first time headlining, and honestly, it went pretty fucking well... right up until the last thirty minutes.
Trying to finish the set after spotting Allie on the floor?
Brutal. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.
I don’t even know her—not really, anyway—so I don’t get why it hit me like that.
But it did. And I swear, it took everything in me not to jump off the stage and find the asshole who hit her, accident or not.
That moment’s stuck on a loop in my head. Allie on the ground, hands holding her head, red hair a mess across her face. The whole place just... froze. Like someone hit pause on the world.
I can’t shake it. And now, I’m stuck on this scratchy-ass hotel sofa, feeling like crap for not doing something about it.
It doesn’t help that she’s the first person who’s ever gotten hurt at one of our shows. And of course it had to be her . The girl I’ve met, what, twice? And somehow, I still can’t form a full sentence around her without sounding like a total loser.
A musician, someone who’s supposed to be good with words, completely speechless.
Yeah. The irony’s not lost on me.
I drag my hands down my face, trying to focus on what the guys are saying while James paces back and forth, carving invisible track marks into the hotel carpet.
“Did you guys see how many people were out there?” he practically shouts, eyes lit up.
He’s moving so fast that I’m surprised he hasn’t faceplanted yet. He’s at least three beers deep, and we’ve only been back an hour. Just watching him is making me motion sick.
Gareth pushes off the sofa, crosses the room in a few quick strides, and throws an arm around James’s shoulders.
“Mate. You’re making me dizzy. Sit your happy ass down,” he says, steering him toward the chair and giving him a firm shove.
Beer sloshes over the rim, splashing onto James’s lap. He swears under his breath, wiping at it with the sleeve of his shirt.
Gareth drops back into the seat beside me, the cushion sinking under his weight. He reaches for his beer, pauses halfway, then turns to look at me with narrowed eyes.
“What?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
A slow smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. He leans back, still watching me like he’s already figured something out. “Who’s Allie ?”
Just hearing her name makes the back of my neck heat up. It’s stupid, but for a second, I feel like a teenager again, trying to hide a crush from my best friend, knowing exactly how brutal the teasing’s gonna be if I don’t.
Except it’s not even a crush. Not really . Maybe more like… an infatuation? But even that feels too strong for whatever this is.
I glance at him and shrug. “What do you mean?”
“The girl who got hit. You said her name over the mic, mate,” he says flatly.
Shit . Yeah, that was probably not my smoothest move. But in the moment, I didn’t care. I just wanted to know if she was okay.
“She was one of the fans we met at soundcheck,” I say, trying to keep my tone as casual as possible.
He quirks a brow, studying my face harder. “We met like a hundred people. You’re telling me you remembered all their names?” His tone is a perfect mix of half accusing and calling me out.
I pretend I didn’t hear his jab and reach for my laptop, desperate for a distraction from the guilt still gnawing at me. The screen lights up instantly, and in the corner, the little bell icon glows bright red—ninety-two notifications.
Ninety. Two.
My chest tightens and I just stare at it, frozen. That old, familiar dread creeps up from the pit of my stomach. The kind that keeps whispering what if they hate us until I’m nauseous.
Suddenly, I regret opening the bloody thing in the first place.
What if someone’s telling us to pack it up, to go home, or to quit while we’re ahead?
Music’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. And the thought that people might hate what we’re putting out there? It messes with my head more than I’ll ever admit out loud.
I’ve said more than once that we should ditch social media entirely. But James always says it’s the best way to stay close to the fans.
And yeah, he’s probably right.
Still doesn’t make it easier though.
I suck in a breath and swipe the trackpad before I can talk myself out of it. The screen floods with comments, tags, likes—everything hits all at once. My heart stutters, and the anxiety coils tighter around my throat, like it’s trying to choke me out.
My eyes scan along them one by one like I’m searching for something. A single complaint. Any proof that we’re not good enough. That they didn’t really like us. That this whole thing is a mistake and we’re wasting our time.
But there’s not a single one.
Every comment says the same thing. How much fun they had, how genuine and caring we came off, and how badly they want us to come back.
By the time I scroll through them all, my cheeks ache from smiling so much. Something I didn’t even realize I was doing.
I rub my eyes, wondering if I’m just seeing what I want to see. But when I open them again? The comments are still there, a little blurrier now, but they’re definitely real.
“They liked us?” I say out loud, the words slipping from my mouth before I realize it.
“That’s what I’m saying!” James shouts, lifting his beer so fast it sloshes over the brim— again .
I glance up to see Gareth smirking over his bottle. “Yeah, man,” he says with a shrug. “They loved us.”
A short, disbelieving laugh slips past my lips while I turn back to the screen. I scroll through the last of the comments until there’s nothing left, then tap into the tags.
It’s the same exact story. Countless pictures and videos appear in a long stream. Shots of us on stage with the yellow stage lights illuminating every one of our faces, and then some of how big the crowd was.
The next video starts from somewhere near the back. It’s grainier than the first few, making it harder to see, but I recognize Gareth’s shout through the speakers, clear as day.
And just like that, the euphoric high I was riding?
Crashes and burns.
A few seconds in, someone nearby yells, and the camera jerks downward. It faces the floor briefly before the fan steadies it and redirects it to a larger portion of the crowd.
My stomach plummets down somewhere near my toes.
When people begin to clear a space, all I can make out is red hair sprawled on the dirty floor, and Allie cradling her head in her hands before a man kneels beside her, and then the video ends.
The regret hits me like a punch to the gut, and I pinch my eyes shut. Seeing it up closer than where I stood at the time? I should have jumped down there and said fuck the show. But what good would that have done?
If I had seen a mark on her, I know I would have lost my cool and tossed the bastard out by his neck.
And that’s exactly why we have Don.
He wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about the reason. He would just go straight to the label and report everything, and then it’d be buh-bye record deal.
There wasn’t anything I could do at that particular moment, but maybe there’s something I can do now . Even if it’s just to clear my own selfish conscience. But not knowing if she’s okay or sitting in a hospital somewhere while I sit here scrolling through social media is eating me alive.
I quickly pull open the search bar and type in “Allie,” then scroll through every profile. I squint through each one, combing through bios and photos, hoping something stands out. But none of them are her.
“You can’t just search a first name like that and expect to find her,” Gareth says, voice low and closer than I expected.
I snap my head toward him. “What are you talking about?” I ask, forcing a chuckle while I turn the screen away like it’ll somehow help. Even though he’s clearly already seen it.
He points lazily toward my laptop. “If you don’t know her last name, just change the filter to Boston,” he mumbles with a shrug, then leans his head back and closes his eyes.
My brows pull together. “Why aren’t you teasing me like normal? Are you okay?”
He cracks one eye open, gives me a tired glare, then closes it again. “Too tired. Maybe tomorrow.”
I shake my head and turn back to the screen, irritation creeping in. I shouldn’t have to search without a last name. I know it’s right there on the tip of my tongue, but every time I think I’ve got it, it vanishes like smoke.
I try everything I can think of.
Allie Winslow? Nothing.
Allie Winter? Nope.
Winston? No.
Every time I hit search, I get the same result—none of them are her .
I’m just about ready to slam the laptop shut when the tiniest flicker sparks in the back of my brain.
Windsor .
It was freakin’ Windsor .
I quickly type “Allie Windsor” and hit search—
Nope.
Fuck .
Maybe she’s not on social media. I mean, I sure as hell wouldn’t be if it weren’t for James practically forcing me to have one.
Or... maybe I’m just not meant to find her. That’s also very likely.
I remove the Boston filter, type in her name one more time, and hit search for the last time.
A few new profiles pop up. Apparently there aren’t a lot of Allie Windsors in the world, which should make this easier—but it doesn’t. Not after two hours of scrolling through strangers to come up empty every single time.
I skim through them quickly and find a brunette kissing a dog, a rainbow-colored profile picture that could have been her, a blonde in a canoe—
And then my pulse stutters when I come across the last profile.
A profile picture of her with two little girls who look practically identical to her finally pops up at the bottom of the list. The same auburn hair framing each of their faces, just like Allie’s did when I met her.
God, she’s fucking gorgeous when she smiles.
But then the realization hits me.
If those girls are hers, and I’d bet anything that they are, there’s probably someone else in the picture too. Someone I shouldn’t be crossing boundaries with.
Suddenly, my laptop feels like a pile of bricks in my lap. I bite down on my lip and just stare , eyes burning from the harsh glow of the screen.
What the hell do I do now?
Do I say screw it and send a message anyway just for peace of mind? Even if I risk coming off like a complete creep? What if she is with someone, and this just complicates everything for her?
Or... do I leave it alone and pretend I’m not stuck in a constant loop of that moment? Her on the ground, me frozen on stage, guilt carving me from the inside out?
My thumb hovers over the trackpad, waiting for my brain to catch up and make a simple decision. But all it does is drown me in questions I can’t answer.
Why am I even taking it this far?
Would I do the same thing if it were anyone else?
“You look about the same way I feel when I have to answer those stupid maths security questions,” James says from beside me.
I let out a quiet laugh and finally tear my eyes away from the screen.
“It certainly feels that way,” I admit quietly.
“What’s going on?” he asks, turning to face me fully.
I frown. “Honestly, I’m not really sure where to start.”
“How about from the beginning?”
My eyes return to the screen where Allie’s profile picture is still glowing, and finally close out of the tab.
I look around the room to see Gareth passed out beside me, mouth hanging open and all. Casey is, too, only he’s somehow managed to fall asleep sitting upright like a statue.
Rubbing my hands down my thighs, my pulse picks up just thinking about saying anything out loud. Especially with other people listening in.
It’s not that I don’t trust Casey, but… he’s still new. We’ve never had a real conversation about anything that wasn’t music. And the idea of him overhearing this—this thing that I don’t even fully understand yet—makes my skin itch.
James looks at me again with every ounce of patience a person can hold, which is saying something. James is like a hyperactive kid who usually has zero ability to sit still.
I shift in my seat, facing him over Gareth’s giant head.
And then I tell him everything .
About the supermarket. About the meet-and-greet and how much I wanted to cut it early to talk to her.
How I couldn’t shake the image, even after we left the venue.
How I didn’t know her, don’t know her, but still can’t stop thinking about her.
About how I spent two hours searching through every version of “Allie W-something” I could think of. All of it out in the open.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there nodding like he’s trying his hardest to understand.
Then he leans back against the chair, letting out a slow breath. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you like her, then?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t like her. I don’t even know her. It’s just—” I pause, trying to find the right words. “It’s the way it happened. Everything just… stuck to my brain like a leech.”
He nods. “And now you feel responsible.”
I shrug. “I just think there was more I should have done.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You calling it over the mic? That was doing something about it. Most people wouldn’t have even done that, man.”
I stay silent. Not truly knowing what to say. Should that be enough? Maybe. But it still doesn’t feel right.
“Are you going to message her?”
“She’s got kids. Probably a husband or a boyfriend or something,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t wanna be that guy.”
“They might not even be hers. Don’t run off assumptions, yeah. You know what that makes you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t even say it.”
He lets out a light laugh. “I’m just sayin’, man. There’s no harm in you checking on her. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. You don’t need to feel guilty.”
I nod slowly. Maybe he’s right. There’s really not much I could have done, but it still doesn’t settle in my chest enough to make it feel any better.
It still doesn’t answer any of the questions constantly hammering through my mind about why I can’t just drop this.
But at least I know it won’t feel like this forever.