35. Wilder
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
wilder
A fter the close call at Evangeline’s parents’ house, I wrestle back some control over my using. Once again, music saves my ass; in this case, the two-week runway to the release of Night Theory’s sophomore album, Fatalism .
The stakes have never been higher for me—for any of us—and miraculously, that sense of purpose quiets my demons. I find a sweet spot where my general anxiety is manageable and my mind stays more or less sharp. No more nodding off or spiraling into withdrawals.
My free time shrinks even more, but whatever I have is spent with Evangeline. Even if it means I’m crawling into her bed at three in the morning and waking her up four hours later with my tongue. No matter what, I see her every night and prioritize texting her consistently during the day. As the world around me whips into a surreal frenzy, she keeps me rooted.
She doesn’t bring up the drug test, and I sure as hell don’t. I barely have time to think, much less dwell on how deeply I hate who I’ve become.
Every day is rigidly scheduled and sometimes lasts twelve hours or more. Our manager, Mack Martinez, and publicist, Shelly Reeves, rule our lives via a shared calendar that links to alerts on our phones. The only consistency day to day are time blocks for rehearsing, chef-prepared meals, and forty-five minutes labeled private time . Eddie is convinced the latter is their way of managing us down to when we shit and shower.
As restrictive as our schedules are, aside from the occasional joke, none of us complain. It won’t last forever, and we’ve been preparing for this for months. Years, really. We’re also mature enough to understand our skills as musicians can only get us so far. Having grown up in the shadow of Breaking Giants, I’m especially aware that none of this would be happening without the dedication and tireless efforts of the people around us.
As Mack is fond of saying: “You make the cake, we serve it.”
There are countless live streams. Radio and podcast interviews. A performance on a local morning television show. Surprise pop-up concerts in parks that inadvertently close neighboring streets and earn us citations. Within days of sending advanced copies of Fatalism to industry professionals, Mack and Shelly are flooded with interview requests from all over the country and as far away as France and Japan.
One week from release, our final and most commercially viable single, “End Times,” drops. The accompanying music video—a trippy, apocalyptic mini-film—explodes the internet. When our soft-merch store launches the same day, it sells out within an hour. Preorders for a special edition vinyl sell out as well, and preorders for the standard vinyl go through the roof.
Three days before release, the most storied music magazine of all time does a feature on us predicting at least one Grammy nomination this fall.
The final Friday of April, Fatalism releases to the world.
In lieu of a standard launch party—which I vetoed months ago as it’s the stuff of my nightmares—Saturday night we perform a release concert at the only venue in Seattle that isn’t a stadium.
Eight thousand screaming fans greet us and carry us through the best set of our lives. And when I follow my bandmates into the greenroom after the show and see Evangeline waiting for me?
I’ve never experienced a comparable joy.
In this moment, there’s no darkness at all. Only the welcome weight of her body when she jumps into my arms with a happy squeal. The impact of my shoulder with the doorframe as I clip it rushing back out of the room. The knowing laughter and whistles from the guys and our crew. The heat of Evangeline’s cheek as she presses it to mine, as she squeezes me tighter.
“You were amazing,” she whispers against my ear.
“That was nothing compared to what I’m about to do to you,” I murmur back.
In the smallest of the three dressing rooms, the door locked behind us, we’re a storm of moving hands and sucking kisses and gasping groans. She undoes my belt, yanks my zipper down, and tugs my pants and underwear off my hips. I pull up her skirt and rip down her tights, then cup the wet heat between her legs. She wraps her hands around my dick and pumps me as I kiss my way from one side of her neck to the other.
“Wilder,” she moans. “I need you.”
“Such a slut for me,” I rumble into her soft throat.
She squeezes my dick. I bite her neck in retaliation and grin when arousal soaks my hand. Sinking two fingers inside her, I pump them slowly. My thumb makes equally slow circles around her clit.
“I love your angry little growls,” I say as I nip her earlobe. “Frustrated kitten, aren’t you? You want something thicker? Harder? Faster?”
She growls louder. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t fuck me right now.”
Chuckling darkly, I pull my fingers from her body. Before she can protest, I spin her around and bend her over an empty catering table. The tights bunched above her boots have the happy consequence of keeping her legs together. Her perfect ass lifts, providing a mouthwatering view of her dripping pink center.
She wiggles teasingly—the resulting crack of my hand on one pale cheek is shockingly loud.
For a long second, she freezes. Then she moans and thrusts her ass back in the air. “Again.”
“Fuck,” I hiss, watching the shape of my hand form in red on her pale skin. “No more foreplay for you. Arms up. Grab the table.”
She immediately seizes the edge above her head. I spank her other cheek. She yelps, then writhes. “Wilder. Please .”
I line myself up and press the head of my cock inside her. The angle and her bound legs make it an almost impossibly tight fit. By the time I’m a few inches inside, we’re both panting.
Bending over her, I growl, “Give me your mouth.”
She twists her head to meet my kiss, our tongues tangling, our breaths interspersed with moans and whispers of, “I love you.”
I start rolling my hips, my rhythm controlled and agonizingly slow. Every inch of me her body accepts feels like both victory and surrender. As with every time I’m inside her, I imagine more of my soul sliding into her possession. When our bodies are finally flush, powerful shivers rack my spine. I fight to stay still, ignoring the hammering voice of my need. Take. Possess. Defile. Mark.
I focus instead on Evangeline. She’s perfectly still, her breaths shallow, her eyes tightly closed. Her teeth press deeply into her bottom lip, her fingers bleached with tension where they grip the table.
I press a shaky kiss to her temple. “Do you want me to pull out? Make you come first?”
She shakes her head. I almost smile at her stubbornness.
“Just… talk to me,” she whispers.
Warmth spirals in my chest. Angling my mouth to her ear, I whisper, “You’re doing so good, taking me so deep. I’m unbelievably proud of you. I love you so, so much. Being inside you is the closest to peace I’ve ever known. Just breathe. That’s it. Take all the time you need. Tell me when you’re ready.”
She gasps. “I’m ready.”
My body shakes with soundless laughter. She trembles, her pussy contracting so hard I choke on a groan. “I’m not moving until you relax more, baby. Otherwise it’s going to hurt.”
“Wilder.”
I lift my head. Her silver eye blinks. Sees through me. Unmakes me. Her perfect pink lips move, the words registering a second later.
“I want it to hurt.”
Fire whips up my spine. Darkness eclipses my mind—not my Shadow, though. This darkness is sparkling. Full of light. Of her .
I run my tongue over my teeth. “Tap my thigh if—” I lose the ability to speak as she pulls herself forward and pushes back hard. Intense pleasure obliterates my hold on reason.
Her arms tense to repeat the movement, but before she can, I seize her hips and take over. I don’t hold back. Can’t. I thrust into her mercilessly. The table rocks. Grunts and gasps float atop the vicious slaps of our bodies. My gaze stays fixed on my glistening shaft as I pull out, on the singular pleasure of watching myself disappear back inside her.
All that truly matters are these moments of oneness with her.
Evangeline shatters with a breathy moan, pussy fluttering around my cock. Not enough. With a growl of determination, I change the angle of my hips so I’m driving downward. I know I’ve found the most sensitive spot inside her when she mewls in protest, fingernails scrambling on the table.
Through gritted teeth, I tell her, “If it’s too much, you know how to make me stop. But if you don’t tap out, you’re coming again.”
She curses me.
I grin as I spank her. “Now tell me the truth.”
She sobs. “I l-love y-you.”
“That’s my girl.”
Hyper focused on her body’s cues, I carry her up the next peak. This time, her body seizes around my cock like she wants to break it off and keep it. This time, she screams my name as warmth gushes over my groin and drips down my thighs.
This time, I jump with her.
Seconds or minutes later, I regain consciousness after the most insane orgasm of my life. I have no idea how I managed to stay standing. My hands are planted to either side of her body, my arms trembling with strain. I heave air into my lungs. Sweat drips from my brow onto her black T-shirt.
Evangeline makes a soft sound of contentment.
In that moment, when I’m peaceful and sated and drunk off love, I make a mistake.
The biggest mistake of my life.
I whisper, “Come with me.”
She yawns, then stiffens. “Oh God, we were so loud. Do you think people heard us?” She twists to look at me with wide eyes. “Can we sneak out a back door?”
She didn’t hear what I said.
“Fairy.”
She blinks. “Sorry, did you ask me something?”
I brush a strand of pale hair from her forehead. “Come with me. On tour.”
Her brows furrow. “Huh?”
I trace the Cupid’s bow of her upper lip. “Eight months, dozens of cities. It’ll be amazing. We can even add encores of our old songs and perform together again. Say you’ll come with me. Be with me.”
She stares at me blankly for a beat, then pushes up from the table. “Let me up . Pull out of me right now, Wilder. Now, now, now. ”
Her voice rises and sharpens with every word until she’s yelling and shoving me back roughly.
Still half-delirious from performing for two hours and falling apart in bliss, I stumble backward, wincing as my body slips from her heat.
Evangeline jumps off the table and yanks her tights up her legs. She only glances at me once, hissing, “Put your dick away.”
I fumble, pulling up my pants with numb fingers. Cold radiates down my body, wiping away my delusion. Revealing the wide-open darkness around me as I free-fall.
I try to say her name but nothing comes out.
She adjusts her miniskirt with jerky movements, muttering to herself. “History repeating itself. Unbelievable.” Straightening, she smooths back hairs that escaped her ponytail. Her hands shake. A crystalline tear drips off her chin.
I gasp. “Wait?—”
She whirls on me. I don’t know what’s worse, the fury on her face or the shattered look in her eyes.
“You’re asking me to go on tour with Night Theory,” she says in a freakishly calm voice. “To break Glow’s legally binding contract with Indigo and drop my dream—Lily’s dream—like it’s trash?”
I fist my hair and shake my head. “No. Absolutely not. Fuck. I wasn’t thinking, okay? It just came out. I swear!”
She scoffs. “That’s almost worse. It means you subconsciously believe my dreams aren’t as important as yours. That your needs and wants are superior. My feelings—my dreams—don’t even matter to you. They never have.”
“That’s not what I said,” I rasp, horrified. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything in my life. How—how could you even think that?”
Her lip quivers. For a second, I think she understands. Then her expression hardens. “I need to think. Don’t follow me and don’t come to my house.”
No, no, no.
Black cracks spread from my edges, racing toward the center of my being. My lungs squeeze. Words jumble in my head and tangle in my throat as she walks past me to the door. In my stomach, a demon screams.
The Shadow smiles.
“I’ll call you,” she says softly. “Just… give me a little bit of time.”
The door creaks twice. Open. Closed.
My legs give out and I slam to the floor.
White noise fills my head.
Static nothing.
I blink and Jax is grabbing my shoulders, his mouth moving.
I can’t hear him.
I blink and streetlights pass outside car windows. Colorful streaks across a void.
I blink again and I’m sitting listlessly on my bed with a bottle of pills lying near my hip. My body tingles. Terror ices my mind. How many did I take? Shivering violently, it takes me three tries to open the bottle. I dump the remaining pills onto the comforter and count them.
My gasp of relief slices the silence.
Only three. You only took three.
Like the drug in my bloodstream was waiting for acknowledgment, intense heat spikes inside me. My muscles melt. My mind quiets. I barely manage to lift my legs onto the bed and pull the comforter over me before losing the ability to move.
I float on a warm sea. Lapping waves flush away my darkness. Drown my Shadow. Drown me.
I’m nothing.
No one.
Emptiness. Silence. Peace.