Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Zia
The silence in the green room was absolute, but inside my head, the echo of Alfie’s voice was still bouncing off the walls. Closer. Harder. Good girl.
I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling tiles, my breath hitching in ragged, shallow gasps. The friction of my jeans against my skin felt like sandpaper on a sunburn. I was a mess. A sticky, trembling, biological disaster.
And the worst part? I wanted him to open the door.
My brain, the analytical processor that viewed the world in frequencies and schematics, was screaming Danger! Run! But my body was singing a completely different tune. It was humming in a low, dangerous resonant frequency that vibrated right through my bones.
Talk me through it.
I had asked him. I had initiated everything. And he had delivered with a precision that devastated me.
Minutes ago, I’d been terrified of the heat haze rising in my blood. Now? Now I felt like I’d just stepped off a cliff and realized gravity was working exactly as intended.
The snowball was rolling. It wasn't a pebble anymore; it was an avalanche, gaining mass and velocity with every second I lay here inhaling the ghost of burnt sugar and blackberries that leaked under the door.
"Zia?"
Cal’s voice. Not through the door, but from further down the hall. Muffled. Mild. "Coast is clear. The boys have secured the perimeter. We’re loading out."
I sat up. My head swam. The synesthesia flushed my vision with washes of frantic neon pink and blurry charcoal static.
"Coming," I croaked. My voice sounded wrecked. Wet.
I scrambled up, using the wall for support. I looked at the door handle. Just metal. Just a mechanism. But Alfie hadn't turned it. He had sat on the other side, hard enough to sound like he was dying, and he hadn't breached the seal.
I unlocked the deadbolt. Clack.
I opened the door.
The hallway was empty.
Well, physically empty. Energetically, it felt like a bomb had gone off. The scent of Alpha distress, heavy, scorched sugar, sharp ozone, dark molasses, hung in the air so thick I could almost taste it on my tongue.
At the far end of the corridor, at the T-junction, stood Euan.
He had his back to me. His arms were crossed, his spine rigid as a steel girder. He was blocking the view from the main venue, acting as a human shield.
Next to him, Kit leaned against the wall. He was looking at the floor, counting tiles, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Alfie was gone.
I took a step. My boots felt heavy.
Euan turned his head slightly. He didn't look at me fully, he kept his eyes averted, focusing on a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall.
"Visual on Subject," he murmured into his comms. "Moving to extraction point."
"Copy," Kit said, pushing off the wall. He didn't look at me either. "Walking point. Ten paces ahead. Clear lane."
They were escorting me. Without looking at me. Without touching me.
I followed them. It felt surreal. Usually, walking through a venue during load-out meant dodging roadies, stepping over cables, and keeping my head down to avoid eye contact. Tonight, the hallway partitions parted like the Red Sea.
"Gas leak," I heard a venue security guard mutter into his radio as we passed. "Yeah, big one. Smell's horrific. Stay clear of the green room."
I almost laughed. It would have sounded hysterical. Gas leak. Cal. Of course.
We burst out of the venue doors into the alley. The cool, damp English air hit my face, but it did nothing to cool the fever radiating from my skin.
The bus sat idling, a black monolith in the drizzle.
"Use the side door," Kit said, staring intently at the tire rim of the trailer. "Straight to the back. Euan’s got the scrubbers running on max."
I walked past them. As I neared the bus steps, I caught a flash of pink in the periphery.
Alfie was standing by the bay doors of the bus, smoking a cigarette with a shaking hand.
He was staring at the sky, refusing to look in my direction.
He looked devastated. Wrecked. Beautiful.
It was the first time I'd ever seen him smoke.
It wasn't a habit I was fond of, but I couldn't begrudge him some relief after what I'd just put him through.
"Thank you," I whispered as I passed him.
He flinched. He didn't turn. He just took a drag that made the cherry of his cigarette flare bright orange, the exact color of his voice when he sang low.
"Always, fox," he murmured to the clouds.
I fled onto the bus.
The back lounge was a wind tunnel.
Euan wasn't joking. The air filtration was roaring, cycling the air so fast it ruffled the papers taped to the walls. It smelled of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just sterile, scrubbed oxygen.
I collapsed into my bunk and clawed the heavy curtain shut before I curled into a ball on the duvet.
I was safe. I was contained.
And I was absolutely, furiously burning.
My suppressants were in my bag. I reached for the bottle, my hand shaking so hard the pills rattled like maracas. I popped the cap. I dry-swallowed two upgrades.
Then I waited.
Usually, the chemical chill hit within twenty minutes. It was a distinct sensation, like a compressor clamping down on a wild signal, squashing the peaks, narrowing the dynamic range until everything was flat and grey.
Ten minutes passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
The heat didn't drop. If anything, it got sharper. The grey fog of the medication tried to roll in, but the memory of Alfie’s voice. I’d find where you’re wet for me. It punched right through it like a transient spike.
My body had rejected the mute button. It wanted the volume all the way up.
I groaned, rolling onto my back, staring at the bottom of the bunk above me. My skin felt too tight for my body. Every movement of the bus sent a friction shiver through my nerves.
I needed an output. I needed to ground the signal before I short-circuited.
I grabbed my phone. The screen seemed too bright.
Emergency. Again.
Callie’s typing bubbles appeared instantly.
Did you finally let one of them kill you in the fun way?
It’s happening. The snowball thing.
My suppressants aren't working.
Define "not working." Like, you're a little warm? Or you're about to start building a nest out of their dirty laundry?
I hesitated. Typing it made it real.
Alfie talked me to orgasm through a door.
The bubbles disappeared. Then reappeared. Then stopped. Then reappeared.
I need you to be very specific. Through a door? Like... shouting?
No. Murmuring. He sat in the hallway. I sat in the green room. He narrated what he would do to me if I let him in.
Cal.
Callie, I came so hard I think I strained an ab muscle.
JESUS H. CHRIST.
Okay. Okay. Breathing. I am breathing for both of us.
Wait. He didn't come in?
No.
You were crying out?
Yes.
And he smelled you?
He smelled everything. He said he wanted to get drunk on it.
And he still didn't open the door?
No. He said, "Copy your no like gospel."
I stared at the words on the screen. Copy your no like gospel.
Zia. Listen to me.
That man is a unicorn. A jagged, punk-rock, glitter-covered unicorn.
If your meds aren't working, it's because your brain has finally decided it's safe to crash. You've been holding the wall up for years. You just found three guys who will hold it up for you without asking for a ticket to the show.
It feels dangerous. If I let go now, I don't know if I can stop.
So don't stop.
The words glared at me. Don't stop.
I can't just... go out there. They're terrified of contaminating me. Euan is literally scrubbing the air.
They're terrified because they think you don't want it. They think they're the pollution.
You have to tell them they're the cure.
That breaks the contract. "Do-Nothing Protocol."
Correct me if I'm wrong but doesn't the protocol say "Do-Nothing UNLESS invited."
Send the invite, babe.
Ask them for help. Not for space. Not for meds. Ask them to help you through the heat.
That's... a lot.
Is it? You already let Alfie into your head. You let Kit bandage you up while you got high on his voice. You let Euan build you a bubble.
Maybe you'll like it. Actually, scratch that. You WILL like it. You're already reacting to their voices through wood and drywall. Imagine what happens when there's skin involved.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Skin involved.
I imagined Kit’s broad, tattooed hands holding me down instead of holding a bandage. I imagined Euan’s surgical focus applied to my pleasure instead of a mixing board. I imagined Alfie, no door between us, his mouth where he said it would be.
A cramp seized my lower belly, sharp and hot. I curled around my phone.
What if they say no?
LMAO
Zia. They wrote a consent anthem about not chasing you. They are literally obsessed. If you open that door and say "help," they will worship the ground you walk on.
Do it. Be the Producer. Manage the session.
Manage the session.
I lowered the phone.
I lay in the dark, listening to the hum of the bus engine and the aggressive whoosh of Euan’s air scrubbers.
They were out there. Probably sitting in the front lounge, miserable, cramping, vibrating with the effort of staying away. They were suffering because they thought that’s what kept me safe.
They think they’re the noise.
I closed my eyes and visualized the signal chain.
Input: My heat.
Processor: Their control.
Output: Safety.
It wasn't broken. It was just routed wrong.
I sat up. The movement made my head spin, but clarity was cutting through the fever.
I reached into my back pocket. I felt the edge of the Exit Card. It was still there. Always there. I could pull the ripcord anytime.
But for the first time, the card felt cold. Lifeless.
I didn't want to exit. I wanted to mix.
I stood up. My legs were shaky, like I’d been at sea for weeks. I grabbed my hoodie, well, Euan's hoodie, the one that smelled like roasted tea and brittle, and pulled it on over my t-shirt. It smelled faint now, scrubbed by the laundry, but the ghost of him was still in the fabric.
I got out of my bunk and ripped the tape off the floor. The sound was loud in the quiet bus. Riiiiiip. Then I balled it up and threw it in the trash.
The corridor was dark. The door to the front lounge was closed.
I walked toward it. I didn't sneak. I let my boots hit the floor. Thud. Thud.
I reached the lounge door. I could hear them inside. No voices. just breath. The squeak of leather. The clink of a mug.
I rested my hand on the handle.
My skin was burning. My scent was leaking, I knew it, spilling out of me in waves of neon citrus lightning.
I didn't knock.
I opened the door.
The air in the lounge was thick. Heavy. It hit me like a physical wall—a dense, swirling mix of blackberry, espresso, and tea. It was intoxicating. It made my knees knock together.
They were all there.
Alfie was on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, head down.
Kit was sprawled on the sofa, arm over his eyes.
Euan was sitting at the table, staring at a blank laptop screen.
Cal was in the corner, reading a book, though he hadn't turned a page in what looked like hours.
When the door opened, they all froze.
Alfie’s head snapped up. His eyes were red-rimmed, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked entirely black.
Euan turned slowly, like a turret.
Kit lowered his arm.
They stared at me. They looked at the open door. Then they looked at me again, waiting for the command to retreat, for the accusation, for the fear.
I stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. I let the hoodie slide off one shoulder.
"The protocol," I rasped. My voice was barely a whisper, but in the silence, it was a shout.
"Protocol is 'Do-Nothing'," Kit said, his voice rough. He started to sit up, hands raising to show palms. "We're holding, Z. We're not moving."
"Override," I said.
The word hung in the air.
Euan blinked. "Clarify override parameters."
I stepped into the room. One step. Two.
I looked at Alfie. I saw the way his nostrils flared, drinking in the scent of me, the scent I knew was flooding the room now that the door was open.
"My meds failed," I said. "The air scrubbers aren't working. I'm burning."
Alfie made a wounded noise in his throat. He started to scramble backward, away from me. "We'll go. We'll clear the bus. Cal—"
"No."
I dropped my go-bag on the floor.
"I don't want you to go," I said. "I want you to help."
Silence. Absolute, stunned silence.
"Help?" Alfie whispered. He looked like I’d just handed him a live grenade.
"I need..." I took a breath, trying to steady the tremor in my voice. "I need friction. I need weight. I need noise."
I looked at Kit. "I need you to be more than furniture."
I looked at Euan. "I need you to make the math and music combine."
I looked at Alfie. "I need your touch and voice."
Alfie pushed himself up to his knees. He moved like he was underwater. He held his hands out, trembling, showing me the Sharpie on his thumbs.
ASK.
"Are you asking, fox?" he choked out. "Are you asking us to breach?"
"I'm asking you to manage the session," I said. "I'm the input. You're the processing."
I walked over to the sofa. My legs gave out, and I sank down onto the cushions next to Kit.
He flinched, then froze as my heat radiated against his side.
"More than furniture," I reminded him.
Kit let out a shuddering breath. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, he turned his body toward me. Being this close to him was like sitting next to a furnace. A furnace that smelled like espresso and safety.
"I'm going to put my arm behind you, Z. Support only. No grip," he rumbled, his voice dropping into that narcotic medical register.
"Grip," I corrected closing my eyes as the heat washed clearer. "Grip is approved. 40% pressure."
"Copy. Grip. 40%."
His arm came around me. Heavy. Solid. He pulled me into his side, and the feeling of being held, actually held, broke the last of the dam.
I looked at Alfie and Euan. They were still frozen, staring at me nestled against Kit.
"Well?" I said, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "Are you going to help, or just watch?"
Alfie scrambled forward on his knees until he was at my feet. Euan stood up and moved to my other side.
"Status check," Alfie whispered, laying his cheek against my knee. "Real? This is real?"
"Real," I promised. "Snowball's rolling, Alfie. Catch it."
"Copy that," he breathed against my denim.
I closed my eyes and let the avalanche take me.