38. Quinn
38
QUINN
I tap in the code, the new hotel room door quietly opens. Room 518. Fifth floor, far from my usual second-floor haunt. I might have mentioned to the front desk girl that if she told anyone my room number I may have mentioned I'm not above leaving a bad review onYelp, but whatever works.
I drop my overnight bag on the generic floral bedspread and sink into the stiff armchair by the window. The view outside shows nothing but gray sky and an empty parking lot. Perfect match for my mood.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time. I silence it without looking. Could be any of them - or all of them. Right now, I don't want to know.
"This is what you get for being stupid," I mutter to myself, kicking off my boots. "Thinking you could actually make it in this industry. That you belonged here. That they may all actually care about you."
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since breakfast. I grab the room service menu from the desk and flip through it half-heartedly. The club sandwich seems safe enough.
When it arrives, the server wheels in a covered tray with forced cheerfulness. "Enjoy your meal, miss!"
I lift the silver dome and the smell of warm turkey and bacon hits me like a wall. My stomach lurches.
"Oh god." I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at my reflection. "Get it together, Quinn." But the mere thought of going back to that sandwich makes me queasy again.
None of the guys mentioned having a stomach virus, or eating anymore gas station sushi for that matter.
"Oh fuck." It hits me like a ton of bricks.
I sink to the cold bathroom tile, my mind racing. When was my last period? Between the touring and the drama, I'd completely lost track. December? No, before that. November?
"Oh my god." My hands shake as I pull up my period tracking app. The little calendar mocks me with its neat rows of empty squares stretching back weeks.
I grab my phone and open DoorDash, fingers trembling so badly I have to retype "pregnancy test" three times. The closest drugstore is only ten minutes away. I add a pack of ginger ale and saltines to settle my stomach, then hit order.
Twenty excruciating minutes later, my phone pings. I peek through the peephole before opening the door, terrified I'll see one of the guys instead of my dasher.
The package is mercifully discrete in its brown paper bag.
"Thank God for life's small miracles." I mutter to myself.
I tear it open, hands clumsy with urgency, and read the instructions twice. Three minutes. I can do this.
I pace the bathroom floor, counting tiles to keep from watching the stick on the counter. One Mississippi, two Mississippi... The timer on my phone feels like it's moving in slow motion.
When it finally chimes, I nearly jump out of my skin. I force myself to take a deep breath before looking down.
Two pink lines stare back at me, clear as day.
"Oh no, no, no..." I grab the box, reading the instructions again. Maybe I did it wrong. But there's no mistaking that plus sign.
I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor, the positive test still clutched in my shaking hand. The nausea returns full force, but this time it has nothing to do with morning sickness.
I clutch the test in my trembling hands, still staring at those damning pink lines until they blur. The bathroom tile is cold under me, but I can't bring myself to move.
"You stupid, stupid girl." My voice echoes off the bathroom walls. "What were you thinking?"
What am I going to do? And more importantly - whose is it?
My phone buzzes again - Lyle's name flashing on the screen. I silence it, adding it to the growing list of missed calls and texts from all four of them. The thought of facing any of them right now makes me physically ill. Or maybe that's just the morning sickness.
"Okay, think." I press my palms against my temples. "Think, think, think."
The tour has four shows left. Two weeks of pretending everything's fine and Jarron didn't rip out my fucking heart all while I battle barfing in front of audiences every night. The tabloids will have a field day. 'Just South of Mason's Opening Act: Raging Alcoholic? Or Maybe Pregnant with Mystery Band Member's Baby!'
I can see the headlines now. Their carefully cultivated bad-boy image would crumble into something much darker. Record sales would plummet. Tours would be canceled. All because I couldn't keep my feelings - or my legs - in check.
"I can't do this to them." The words come out in a choked whisper. "As much as Jarron is a dick, I can't. They've worked too hard."
My hand drifts to my still-flat stomach. Somewhere in there is a tiny piece of... someone. Beau's quiet strength? Lyle's infectious laugh? Austen's creative spark? Jarron's hidden vulnerability?
The thought sends fresh tears streaming down my face. I don't even know who the father is. What kind of person does that make me? Not any better than any of the groupies they've brought back over the years.
"I have to go." The decision crystallizes, sharp and clear through the chaos in my head. "I have to leave before anyone finds out."
I push myself up off the floor, legs shaky but determination growing stronger with each step. I can disappear. Go somewhere they'll never find me. Protect their careers, their futures.
My hands shake as I dial Tommy's number. Three rings later, his gruff voice answers.
"This better be good, kid. It's late."
"I quit." The words come out in a rush. "I can't do this anymore."
A long pause follows. "You what now?"
"I'm done. With the tour, with the label, all of it." I pace the hotel room, one hand pressed against my churning stomach.
"Listen Quinn, you have four shows left… If this is about the guys?—"
"It's not." The lie tastes bitter. "I just... I need to go home."
"What home Quinn? You're rattle trap apartment in Nashville? You walk away now, you're breaching contract. No payment, no royalties, nothing."
I sink onto the bed. "I understand."
"You're throwing away everything you've worked for." His voice softens. "Sleep on it, okay? We can talk?—"
"No." I cut him off. "I've made up my mind."
"Fine, your call, kid. But don't come crying to me when you realize what a mistake this is."
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone until the screen dims, then goes black. My savings account has exactly $127.43 in it. Enough to get half way in an uber, considering I have no car, and then I'll have to get Abby to pick me up. I grab my duffel bag and shove the pregnancy test inside, wrapped in toilet paper. Evidence of what might be my biggest mistake, hidden away like the dirty secret it is, that it shouldn't be. My hands pause on the sequined dress from my first performance. The fabric sparkles under the hotel lights, mocking me with memories of better days. I take it out, and leave it on the hotel floor.
I survey the room, secretly hoping to find some answers. The club sandwich sits untouched on the room service tray, a final reminder of how everything changed in just a few hours.
Fresh tears streak down my cheeks as my fingers trace over the worn leather of my guitar case, remembering how Beau's eyes lit up the first time he heard me play. How Lyle's infectious laugh filled the tour bus during late-night jam sessions. The way Austen would harmonize perfectly with me, even on songs we'd never practiced. And Jarron...
"God, even when you're being an ass, I still..." I choke back a sob.
My phone lights up again - another missed call from Austen. His contact photo shows him mid-laugh and mid head shake, eyes crinkled at the corners. The sight makes my chest ache.
"I'm doing this for you," I whisper to the screen. "For all of you."
I pick up my guitar case, the weight familiar and grounding. Inside are the songs we wrote together, late at night when the world felt soft and anything seemed possible. Songs about love and loss and finding your place. Now they'll stay unfinished, just like all of us.
"You'd try to fix this," I murmur, thinking of Lyle's steady wisdom. "You'd all say we could figure it out together. But this isn't something that can be fixed with a group hug and a bottle of whiskey."
The pregnancy test burns a hole in my bag, a ticking time bomb that could destroy everything they've built. Their careers, their friendships, their brotherhood - I won't be the one to tear it all apart.
My hand drifts to my stomach again. "I'm sorry, little one. But sometimes loving someone means walking away."
I shoulder my bags and take one last look around the room. Memories flood back - shared laughter, stolen kisses, quiet moments of connection. My heart feels like it's being squeezed in a vice.
"Goodbye," I whisper to the empty room, to the four men who changed my life, to the dreams I'm leaving behind. Then I turn and walk out the door before I can change my mind.