Chapter 1
One
EASTON
One Week Earlier
Harley’s humming again.
Not a real song, just this quiet, off-key sound as she twists her hair into something she calls “festival waves.” It was some trend she saw on TikTok, and she wanted desperately to impress Kennedy.
Funny to think that the same girl she used to complain about in her letters is now her best friend. They spend hours on the phone each week and easily share about a hundred texts an hour. Daily.
I hate that she feels the need to impress her. Harley isn’t into makeup and fancy hairdos. She’s a baggy shirt and sweatpants kind of woman, and I love her that way. I love when her hair is a bundled-up mess on the top of her head, and her face is clear of makeup.
But here we are, in the heart of Miami, getting ready for some music festival Kennedy and her new hot, rich boyfriend invited us to. I hate music festivals, but being a supportive boyfriend to Harley is more important than my likes and dislikes.
The hotel room is too cold, my back aches from the hard mattress, and my neck has a lump from pillows that are too soft. It was cheap and dirty. We could have stayed in the Ritz if Harley wanted, but she didn’t. She hated using my parents’ money and insisted on staying somewhere affordable instead.
The mirror on the dresser is too small, the lighting in our room is too dim, but the air smells like her vanilla perfume, which made it kind of okay.
And for some reason, I couldn’t stop watching her.
She’s in cutoff shorts and a white top that ties in the back, barefoot on the grimy carpet, and even though I put shoes in front of her, she won’t put them on.
Her makeup is scattered across the bed like she’s building an altar to Sephora.
She’s glowing, but there’s a tiny crease between her brows every time she glances in the mirror.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me, swiping gloss across her mouth.
“Maybe I like what I see,” I answer, leaning against the doorframe.
She tries to hide her smile, fails, and shakes her head. “You hate festivals.”
“Not true,” I say, stepping closer, wrapping my arms around her from behind. “I hate crowds. I hate overpriced drinks. I hate drunk guys who think they can put their hands on you. But I don’t hate festivals.”
She leans back against me, just for a second, and I feel her exhale, slow and shaky. I know something’s wrong. With Harley, it’s almost always tied to how she sees herself. The fight with anorexia has been a shadow she’s never fully shaken.
“You, okay?” I murmur into her dark hair.
“Yeah.” The words are soft, but her voice wavers like a string pulled too tight. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”
I don’t push. Harley doesn’t like being cornered, and I’ve learned she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
Instead, I kiss the top of her head and let her go. “Are you ready?”
She nods, still not meeting my eyes, and slips her phone into the tiny bag slung over her shoulder.
By the time we make it to the lobby of the hotel, she’s back to buzzing and is now talking about how Kennedy was already at the festival with “Miami Guy.”
“What’s his name again?” I ask, opening the front door of the hotel for her.
She laughs. “You’ve asked three times.”
“I keep hoping it’ll change.”
“Ethan,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And he’s harmless. Just … a little flashy.”
Flashy was code for asshole. I don’t say it out loud, but my jaw tightens anyway. Kennedy deserves better, and now I have to put up with an asshole for the whole day.
When we hit the entrance of the hotel, Harley slips her hand into mine like she’s done it a thousand times, mostly because she has, and tugs me toward the Uber.
“Promise me you’ll try to have fun.”
I glance down at her, at her blue and green eyes. They shine up at me, her glossed lips curling into the smallest smile. The one that always brings me to my fucking knees, and she knows it.
“For you? I’ll try.”
The Uber smells like sweat, and the coconut air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
The soft material of the rear seats of the Toyota Rav 4 feels dirty.
Miami heat seeps through windows, and the AC fights a losing battle as we crawl toward the festival grounds.
The driver doesn’t speak a lot of English; he muttered a hello when he climbed in, and when I tried to continue the conversation, he muttered a soft, “No habla ingles.”
I knew enough Spanish to understand that.
Harley’s been glued to her phone the whole drive, thumbs flying over the screen as a little smile tugs at her mouth. I glance down and catch a flash of the texts: Kennedy sending selfies, asking if we’re close.
“Did you show her your hair?” I ask, dragging my gaze out the window as another billboard for tequila blurs past.
“Of course! She loves it,” Harley says, turning the phone toward me. It’s a photo of Kennedy in some tiny metallic top, hair slicked into a perfect high ponytail, posing with two wristbands and a VIP badge. “She says Ethan’s friends rented out a lounge. Like … a private lounge, East.”
I grunt. “Of course they did.”
Harley nudges me with her knee, smirking like she can read my thoughts. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You’re grunting.”
I turn my head, meeting her eyes, and she rolls hers, but then she leans her head against my shoulder like she always does, and I slip my hand to her thigh, squeezing once.
For a minute, it’s quiet. The city outside is loud and flashy, but inside the car, it’s just the hum of the AC, Harley’s perfume, and her hand searching for mine.
When we pull up to the gates, it hits us immediately—the spring heat and humidity, blaring noise, and hundreds of bodies. Music from the main stage is pounding even this far out, shaking the concrete like a never-ending earthquake, and the air smells like sunscreen, fried food, and spilled alcohol.
Harley’s already grinning, tugging me out of the car before I’ve even unbuckled.
She throws a thank-you over her shoulder to the driver, grabs my hand, and drags me toward the entrance like a kid dragging a parent into Disney World.
Yet, this is nothing like Disney World. I’d much rather be there; these festival vibes are a lot and coming at me all at once.
Kennedy finds us before we even scan our tickets.
“Harley!” she squeals, blonde ponytail bouncing as she launches herself into Harley’s arms. “You made it!” Kennedy steps back, eyeing Harley’s outfit like a stylist approving a client. “You look so cute.”
Harley blushes, and I bite back a comment. Kennedy doesn’t know about the anorexia. She doesn’t know that her scrutiny only makes it worse, and I can’t break Harley’s trust by telling Kennedy.
Then I see him—the boyfriend. Miami guy.
Ethan is leaning against the VIP entrance, designer sunglasses perched on his perfect face and Rolex flashing in the sun. His shirt probably cost more than my truck.
“Ethan,” Harley says, tugging me forward.
He shakes my hand, smile smooth as butter. “You must be Easton. Glad you guys came. I’ve got the wristbands; we’re headed into VIP.”
I glance at Harley, then at the sleek tented area beyond the gates, and force a polite nod. For my Little Bird, I’ll play nice, even though every bone in my body is telling me this is a bad idea.
The VIP lounge isn’t what I pictured.
It’s worse.
There’s a velvet rope and a bouncer with a QR scanner that confirms your wristband isn’t fake, almost like we’re walking into an exclusive nightclub.
Inside the tented area, couches line the edges with many low tables covered in half-empty bottles and melting ice buckets.
There’s a DJ close by, music pulsing so deep it rattles the floor under my sneakers.
Ethan flashes a smile, hands out the wristbands, and the bouncer waves us in without so much as checking IDs.
Kennedy’s eyes go wide. “God, this is insane,” she says, tugging Harley along. “We’ve got bottle service.”
She says it like it’s magic, like the word “service” means luxury.
I keep my hand on the small of Harley’s back as we move through the crowd, her shoulders brushing sequined strangers.
“Drinks?” Ethan asks, already flagging down a waitress with a tray of cocktails.
Kennedy squeals, grabbing a glass before she even sits down. Harley takes one too, a bright orange glass that smells like sugar and tequila.
I didn’t plan on drinking today; I wanted to be alert just in case.
I plant myself next to Harley and scan the room. VIP or not, it’s the same chaos: music too loud, people too loose, and too many hands reaching for too many things.
Ethan’s off again, clapping one of his “friends” on the back, laughing like they’ve known each other for years. He’s talking fast, drinking faster.
Harley and Kennedy are already on their feet, tugging each other toward the dance area just outside the lounge.
“Come dance with me, handsome,” Harley says, her voice bright, hopeful.
I shake my head, leaning back against the couch. “Not yet, baby.”
She smiles, leans down to press a soft kiss to my lips, and then she’s gone, hair flying as Kennedy drags her toward the mass of people swaying deliriously to the beat.
For a minute, I let myself relax. I watch my girl laughing and smiling. In this moment, she’s so alive , and maybe, just maybe, I start to think it’s wrong of me to be so uptight about being here.
Then I see it.
One of the guy’s Ethan was just talking to, with slick hair, a pastel shirt, and loafers, slinks over to where the girls left their drinks. He quickly glances around the area before leaning over Kennedy’s abandoned drink.
I see the quick movement of his hand slipping from inside his pocket, over the drink, and then back again.
A pill drops with a flick of his fingers, dissolving into the glass.
I freeze for half a second, wondering if I imagined it. Maybe I was looking for it, I have a tendency to do that. But, as I blink twice and see him still there, I realize this is actually happening right before my fucking eyes.