26. Austen
26
AUSTEN
I stumble back onto the tour bus after a late-night smoke, expecting everyone to be asleep. Instead, I find Quinn curled up in the small dinette, scribbling in a worn notebook under the dim overhead light. Her hair's pulled up in a messy bun, and she's wearing one of Beau's oversized flannels.
"Can't sleep?" I ask, sliding into the booth across from her.
She startles, quickly moving to close the notebook. "Jesus christ, you scared me."
"Sorry." I run my hands through my hair, noticing how her pen's left smudges on the side of her hand. "Writing something new?"
"Maybe." She taps her pen against the page, eyeing me with hesitation. "Just... working through some stuff."
"Can I see?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "I mean, if you want to share."
Quinn studies me for a moment, probably trying to figure out if I'm setting her up for another dig. Fair enough - I haven't exactly been welcoming.
"Promise not to be an ass about it?"
"Scout's honor." I hold up three fingers, which makes her snort.
"You were never a Boy Scout."
"True. But I promise anyway."
She slides the notebook across the table. The pages are filled with her neat handwriting, crossed out lines and arrows redirecting verses. I start reading, and damn - the lyrics hit hard. It's about leaving everything behind, chasing dreams that might never come true, but doing it anyway.
"This is..." I clear my throat. "This is really good, Quinn."
"You don't have to-"
"No, I mean it." I tap the second verse. "This part especially - about watching the sunset in your rearview mirror while your hometown disappears? That's fucking poetry."
I shift in my seat, fingers drumming against her notebook. "Actually... I've been working on something too." My throat tightens as soon as the words leave my mouth.
Quinn's eyes light up. "Really? Can I hear it?"
"It's probably shit." I run my hands through my hair, a nervous habit I've never managed to kick. "Just some random thoughts I've been piecing together."
"Let me be the judge of that." She closes her notebook and leans forward. "The sound room's empty right now. We could go try it out."
"At this hour?"
"Why not? Unless you're chicken." Her lips curve into a challenging smile. "Come on, Austen. I showed you mine."
"Fine." I stand up, grabbing my guitar case from the storage compartment. "But if you laugh-"
"I won't laugh." She's already heading for the bus door, grabbing her jacket. "Unless it's about trucks or beer."
"It's not about trucks or beer." I follow her into the cold night air. "Give me some credit."
We cross the parking lot to the venue's side entrance. Quinn produces a key card from her pocket.
"How'd you get that?"
"Made friends with the sound guy." She shrugs. "Being nice to people occasionally pays off."
The empty hallways echo with our footsteps as we make our way to the sound room. It's weird being here without the usual bustle of techs and managers.
Quinn flips on the lights and drops into one of the rolling chairs. "Alright, Haynes. Show me what you've got."
I pull out my guitar, trying to ignore how my hands are shaking slightly. Never thought I'd be nervous playing for one person when I perform for thousands regularly.
I take a deep breath, fingers finding their place on the frets. The sound room's silence weighs heavy, making every small movement seem loud.
"It's called 'December Static'," I say, avoiding Quinn's eyes. "Just... don't expect our usual upbeat stuff."
My fingers start picking out the melody, soft and melancholic. The first verse comes out quieter than I intended:
"String lights in empty windows
Echo down these hollow halls
Another year of pretending
That someone might call..."
Quinn leans forward in her chair, and I force myself to keep going. The chorus builds, my voice growing stronger:
"Static on the radio
Playing songs we used to know
Empty chair at the table
Tell myself I'm able
To spend one more Christmas alone..."
The bridge pours out raw and honest, everything I've never admitted to anyone about how much I hate going home to an empty house after shows, about watching Jarron surrounded by fake friends and wondering if that's better than having none at all.
When the last note fades, I keep staring at my guitar, afraid to look up. The silence stretches until Quinn clears her throat.
"Holy shit, Austen."
"That bad, huh?"
"Are you kidding?" She rolls her chair closer. "That was... I didn't know you could write like that."
"Yeah, well." I finally meet her eyes. "Don't tell Jarron. He'd never let me live down writing a sad Christmas song."
Quinn's fingers brush against mine as she takes the guitar, setting it carefully aside. "You know, I get it. The loneliness." Her voice is soft, understanding. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm crazy for choosing this life."
"Yeah?" I lean back in my chair, letting out a long breath. "Ever miss having a real home? Not just hotel rooms and tour buses?"
"God, yes. Even in my little shitbox apartment." She spins slowly in her chair. "Especially now, with all the Christmas decorations everywhere. Makes me think about those Hallmark movies where everyone's got their perfect little lives in their perfect little towns."
"With their perfect little Christmas trees." I close my eyes, picturing it. "And someone to come home to who actually gives a damn about your day, not just how many records you sold."
"Instead of groupies who can't even remember your name the next morning?"
"Ouch." I crack a smile. "Direct hit, Dupree."
"Sorry." She doesn't sound sorry at all. "But seriously, Austen. Why do you do that to yourself?"
"Because it's easier than admitting I'm fucking terrified of being alone." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "At least they pretend to care for a night."
Quinn rolls her chair closer, her knee bumping against mine. "You're not alone right now."
My heart thuds against my ribs as she leans in. Her lips brush against mine, soft and hesitant at first, then with more certainty. I freeze for a moment, caught between wanting to pull her closer and remembering she's with Beau.
But before I can decide what to do, she's already pulling back, her eyes wide with something like panic.
"I shouldn't have-" she starts.
"Quinn-"
She's already standing, grabbing her jacket.
"Please don't go." My voice comes out raw, barely above a whisper. I catch her wrist as she turns to leave, my thumb brushing over her pulse point. "Quinn."
She freezes but doesn't turn around. "This is a mistake."
"Maybe." I stand slowly, giving her space to pull away if she wants to. She doesn't. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't feel this."
"Feel what?" Her voice cracks. "You barely tolerated me a week ago."
"That's not true." I step closer, close enough to catch the faint vanilla scent of her shampoo. "I was an ass because it was easier than admitting how much you got under my skin."
This time when I kiss her, it's deliberate. No hesitation, no surprise. Just the soft press of my lips against hers, tasting the coffee she must have had earlier. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat, her hands fisting in my shirt.
I deepen the kiss, backing her against the sound board. Buttons click and slide under her weight, but neither of us care. Her fingers thread through my hair as I trail kisses down her neck.
"We shouldn't," she breathes, even as she pulls me closer.
"Tell me to stop." I rest my forehead against hers, both of us breathing hard. "Tell me you don't want this."
Instead of answering, she kisses me again, and I'm lost.