Chapter 38
Eric
Days bleed into one another once the bus is rolling again, and shows pass in a haze. Memphis hits us with monsoon rain and humidity so thick it drenches you before you’ve taken two steps.
Dante hooks up my new headset, and after a few days of testing, I’m ready to run it live.
Not having something to grip feels strange at first, and my empty hands throw me off balance.
I catch myself reaching for a phantom mic mid-song, fingers curling around nothing like my body hasn’t caught up to the change.
But the freedom is unreal. I can roam the stage without tether, and close the gap to the band—and the fans—with no fear of fumbling or flinging it into the crowd.
Honestly, you do it once three and a half years ago and these assholes never let it die.
And yeah, I’ve pulled the Britney stance more than once: legs planted wide, pointing like I own the room. Almost dropped an “It’s Eric, bitch,” but pulled back at the last second. Missed opportunity, honestly.
I’ve tried to scrub the hateful comments from my brain. Plural, because of course there are more. Fresh ones pile on like they’re taking shifts, and they don't take a day off. Dmitri keeps pushing back, insisting we can stop. He wants to protect me from the ignorance still flooding in.
But who am I if I can’t give him a life outside the shadows? If I stay tucked away, letting fear dictate how much of us the world gets, then I’m still running. I’m so fucking tired of running.
It turns us into nothing, and we can’t be nothing when we’ve always been everything.
So, I persist.
My clue in Memphis came during the slowest song of the set that night. Heartfelt lyrics poured from my lips as I stood mere feet from Dmitri. “Wish I could be everything you wanted. Oh, I wish I could be everything you wanted, every little thing you wanted, all the time, every time.”
His dark eyes burned into mine, the emotion simmering there so raw it forged an unmistakable crack in my voice on the last line.
Social media speculation exploded after that one. Suddenly we’re topping trending lists, with hashtags like #FallingAbsent, #Absentminded, and #FallingForFallingAbsent climbing fast.
Dmitri and I are rising in searches too, but it's not always positive.
The high I was riding after that first dropped drumstick sours, and my obsessive brain won't let it go.
The band tries to shield me from the negativity they find, but I see it.
Over and over, the words loop in my head, branding themselves deep and eroding my confidence piece by piece.
Bob from Milwaukee, Shana from Virginia Beach—nobodies, strangers, and yet their opinions dominate my thoughts.
They’re nobody to me, so why do I care?
Years of self-assurance, of comfort in my own skin, are wiped away by comments I can’t stop reading. Now I’m defeated, insecure, and hollowed out.
It shouldn’t matter.
Lexington came next, Dmitri and I walking in shoulder to shoulder, arms brushing, hands bumping with that easy, unspoken claim. When I tried to step away toward my position, he caught my wrist and turned me to face him. His smirk was cocky and unapologetic as he reached up to adjust my headset.
His hands moved to my cheeks then, thumbs brushing slow across my skin with his face inches from mine. The tension coiled thick enough to choke on. I hadn’t realized I was licking my lips until we saw the pictures the next morning.
My smile in that shot was enormous. It was unguarded and happy. But now? All I see is the comment below it.
Think he licks his lips like that after sucking cock?
The laughing reactions and crude jokes stack up beneath it like a homophobic trail of breadcrumbs, dragging me right back to this miserable place I thought I’d left behind. The progress I’d clawed for disappears under the weight of them, stolen by strangers who don’t know me and never will.
It shouldn’t matter.
Tonight’s show is in Nashville. It’s the second-biggest venue of the tour, topped only by our next stop in Atlanta. Dmitri bumps my shoulder as we get ready to set up. The touch usually grounds me, but tonight, I fight not to recoil.
“Hey,” he whispers, and I hate the doubt threading through his voice. “You okay?”
I run through our plan for the night in my head.
All I have to do is stand beside him and sing.
The one place my heart wants to be is right there by his side, where it’s always belonged, and yet it gallops inside my chest now, wild with the fear of what they’ll say.
How they’ll hurt me. How one look or comment could undo everything we’ve fought to claim.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the words coming out tighter than I mean them to. I don’t miss the way his shoulders slump by a fraction, or how the spark in his eyes dims in response to my guarded tone.
It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t fucking matter.
But it does.
Four grueling hours later, we’ve set up and gone through stage testing, played an hour and a half’s playlist, broken down our equipment, repacked the bus, showered, changed clothes, scarfed burgers for dinner, and called an Uber big enough for five.
“Remind me again why we’re going out when it’s pushing midnight?” I ask, staring out the window as the streetlights and neon signs of the city whiz by in a colorful blur.
Dmitri slides his arm over my shoulder and pulls me against him, leaning in to drop a kiss on my temple. “Because Daddy Dante said so.”
“Stop calling me that,” Dante grumbles as Theo turns to give us a thumbs up.
Dmitri’s deep laugh rumbles right next to my ear before he leans over and grazes my earlobe with his teeth. “We’ll just make an appearance, baby. Maybe we can sneak away early and get some time to ourselves.”
“Could we skip the first part and head right into the second?” I ask.
“I'm afraid we're committed now.”
“Yeah, I'm gonna need to be committed after this,” I mutter with a sigh as Club Midnight comes into view.
It's nondescript with a brick exterior, and if it weren't for the lights strobing from inside the high windows and the dull thud of music, there'd be no signs of it being anything more than another towering office space.
A line wraps the building, full of people dressed in scandalous scraps and flamboyant flair.
Glitter and leather flashes under the lights, while others are covered in scraps of blazing neon fabric that nearly glows.
It makes my ripped jeans and AC/DC shirt feel out of place.
I glance at Dmitri’s jeans and black polo, then down at myself, and the mismatch feels like a private joke we’re sharing.
“Something tells me we missed the memo about dress code,” I say as we climb out of the van.
“Next time we go clubbing, we’ll find you a pair of leather pants,” he teases.
I flash him a nervous grin as he falls in step beside me. “Next time? Awfully bold of you to assume I’ll want to do this again.”
“Valid,” he says with a chuckle. “Maybe we’ll save the leather pants for home, then.”
I swat his arm and he laughs louder, the sound cutting through the humid night.
As Dante leads us around the building, recognition sparks along the line.
My name is called from different spots, and heads turn as phones whip up.
Flashes ripple through the dark like sudden lightning, freezing us in place for a second.
I shove my hands into my pockets on reflex.
A wave of self-disappointment crashes over me for choosing to hide them instead of reaching out to hold onto Dmitri.
That’s what I really want—fingers threaded through his, unashamed, right here where the world can see.
But fear still sneaks in for these small fights, even when I’m trying so hard to win the bigger war.
In stark contrast to my closed-off exterior, Dmitri’s face brightens up with a beaming smile, and he waves at the crowd as we walk by. It’s no surprise people have always gravitated toward him. He’s kind and happy, able to talk and laugh with anyone who looks in his direction.
Unlike me, trapped in my own miserable thoughts.
A side door swings open, and a couple of bouncers usher us in before any fans can close the distance.
“This is so fucking weird,” I mutter to Dmitri, nerves firing like electricity under my skin.
But as soon as he glances down at me with those steady dark eyes and that reassuring smile, the frantic beat in my chest slows.
We’re led to a small room lined with lockers and told to store our phones.
The locks use temporary codes we set ourselves, and the bouncers promise no one else has access.
My anxiety spikes anyway, because it feels like another lifeline being stripped away.
It's just us, exposed in a space that already feels too bright and too loud.
The doors to the club swing open, and the music hits like a wall. Heavy bass thumps so deep it syncs with my heartbeat and vibrates through my ribs. Inside it’s dim, but strobing lights cut across every surface, painting skin and leather and glitter in flashes of color.
Dante arranged VIP access, which means a smaller crowd and the promise of less attention.
It’s not lost on me, especially after the unwanted spotlight when we arrived.
The general floor sits a level below, and as we approach the tall metal railing, I peer over.
The vast sea of people jumps and dances in perfect chaotic sync, bodies bouncing like popcorn in a hot skillet.
They're random yet somehow together, alive under the pulsing lights.
Dmitri’s hand settles on my back and I lean into it, craning my head to look up at him. “C’mon, let’s grab a drink,” he says.
I nod and let him lead the way. Tai and Theo cut straight toward the dance floor, leaving Dante to trail behind them like a lost puppy, shoulders hunched against whatever tension still lingers between him and Theo.
At the bar, a handsome man saunters over to us, looking us over as though he’s trying to figure out who we are and why we’re up here. “Two Amaretto sours,” Dmitri orders as the bartender thumps the counter in confirmation.
“No whiskey tonight?” I tease.
He gags and shakes his head. “Nothing good ever happens when I drink whiskey.”
“The Kappa Sigma party was a result of whiskey,” I argue.
He waves his hand in front of him with a scoff. “Exactly.”
“And the night I had to pick you up from the Wild Rose.”
“You’re just proving my point,” he says with a quiet laugh, watching the crowd as they move and mingle.
I hum thoughtfully. “You talk about those nights like they were inherently negative, but I have a different perspective on that.”
“Oh?”
“Kappa Sigma made me admit that what I was feeling for you was more than friendship. I'd argue that's not a bad thing at all.”
His chin dips in a small, conceding nod, eyes softening as they find mine again. “I still think it’s bad because I hurt you. I lost my memories of too many of our firsts, and that night was the first domino in a long chain that kept us apart for those years.”
“Okay, fair enough. But the night I came to get you from the bar is what kick-started all of this. It’s what convinced me to finally open up to you. It's what brought us here.”
He reaches up, sweeping stray strands of hair off my forehead with gentle fingers that linger. “Okay, I'll give you that one. I wouldn’t change this for the world. You know that, don’t you?”
Vulnerability leaves me feeling cracked open as I look into his dark eyes, watching the club's lights catch and dance across them like scattered sparks. “You wouldn’t change a thing?”
“Well, I might change the part where I started crying.” A choked laugh bubbles out of me and he smiles wider, leaning in to whisper against my ear. “I love you, Eric. Always have.”
“Always will?”
Another blinding smile spreads across his face. “You know it, baby.”
My arms slide around his neck and pull him close until our lips meet in a slow, sweet kiss. I melt into him as his hands settle on my waist. It’s only lips—nothing scandalous—but the club fades to nothing and I forget what planet we’re even on.
The clink of glasses startles us both, and we twist toward the bartender as he sets our drinks down with a thud. He traps his bottom lip between his teeth, chewing for a beat before speaking. “So, the rumors are true, huh?”
Color drains from my face. I just kissed Dmitri, right here, out in the open, without a single thought for who might see. No hesitation, no caution, just pure want. It’s both liberating and mind-blowingly terrifying.
A quick scan of the VIP area shows no one is paying attention to us, but my heart is hammering so loud it drowns out the bass for a second.
Dmitri’s eyes lock onto the bartender and his face hardens instantly.
The usual softness vanishes, replaced by something sharp and protective.
He opens his mouth—likely to warn or threaten—but the man raises both hands fast, palms out.
“Listen, brother, I see a lot of shit up here and none of it leaves these walls. We sign stacks of NDAs and contracts, so don’t worry, okay? Secret’s safe with me.”
Dmitri’s gaze flips to mine, and I nod once, watching the tension bleed from his shoulders like he’s letting himself exhale. “Alright,” he says, though the suspicious edge in his stare doesn’t leave.
The man pushes our drinks forward, leaning on the bar with a relaxed grin. “Y’all make a fucking adorable couple, just so you know.”
“Trust me, we know,” Dmitri answers, voice still carrying that protective bite. The bartender tosses his head back in a loud, good-natured laugh, and the last knot in my stomach unravels. A small grin finally breaks across my face as we thank him and take our drinks.
We push through the crowd, and I notice the occasional nod or quick smile from people who recognize us.
It’s strange that we’re not invisible in this chaos, and that our faces carry meaning here.
I never thought I'd be concerned about tabloids or strangers with phones ready to steal moments.
When we formed the band, I never expected privacy to feel like something we have to fight for.
The dance floor is alive with bodies bouncing and swaying under the strobing lights, but I’m restless, tucked close to Dmitri in the shadows.
I lean into him, foot shaking and finger tapping restless beats against my glass.
He feels it—of course he does—and leans in until his lips are at my ear, voice raised over the thumping bass.
“Bottoms up, baby,” he says before chugging his drink in one long swallow. “Time for us to dance.”