Chapter 7
SAWYER
The door hisses open behind me, and for once, no one follows.
Night’s settled over the venue like a blanket that never quite warms. Stage lights still glow faintly in the distance, casting a low blue hue across the empty lot. The screams are gone. The music’s stopped. But my head is still thundering with the sound of him.
His words. His hands. That look. I can’t get him out of my head.
I tug my hoodie tighter, as if I can shrink myself small enough to quiet the chaos he left behind. I need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t smell like him.
My boots crunch over the gravel as I slip past the rows of buses and trailers. There’s a line of concrete barriers near the edge of the lot, guarding the drop-off to a small ditch. I head there, wrapping my arms around myself like a shield.
That’s when I see him.
A guy, maybe mid-twenties, already sitting on one barrier, head tilted to the sky like he’s stargazing. His arms are covered in ink, and he’s wearing a hat backwards. Drummer vibe. Familiar face—I think I saw him earlier today during soundcheck with one of the other bands.
He looks over and grins, his teeth catching the faint light. “Didn’t expect company out here.”
“I could say the same.” I stop a few feet away. “Needed a break from the chaos.”
He pats the spot next to him, easy and casual, like he already knows I’ll sit. “Then you found the right place. I’m Riot, by the way.”
I ease down beside him, keeping a respectful six inches of space between us—not that it matters. Riot has the kind of grin that doesn’t need proximity to flirt.
“Riot?” I ask, lifting a brow. “That’s your real name?”
He shrugs, resting his forearms on his knees, tattoos stretching over lean muscle. “Stage name. Real one’s Grayson, but no one calls me that unless I’m in trouble.”
“Sounds about right,” I mutter.
“I’ve seen you before,” he says, glancing sideways. “You’re with Her Last Confessional, right? Photographer?”
I nod. “First tour.”
“Damn. You shoot like someone who’s been doing this forever.”
I try not to smile, because I have, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence. We both look out at the stars. The lot’s gone mostly quiet, save for the hum of generators and a distant laugh from the crew tents.
“You okay?” Riot asks eventually. “You’ve got that ‘I’m about to cry or commit arson’ look.”
I snort. “That’s…not inaccurate.”
“Boyfriend drama?” He guesses.
I hesitate, then nod once. “Something like that.”
He lets out a long whistle, then looks over at me, a little softer now, his tone shifting. “You deserve better, you know. Any guy who lets you walk around here alone doesn’t know what he’s got.”
I glance down at my lap, unsure how to respond. Compliments have always hit me differently.
Riot notices, but he doesn’t push. “Okay,” he says, easy. “Reset. Hi. I’m Riot—government name Grayson Hale, tragically the middle child, allergic to authority and cheap cymbals.”
I snort. “Sawyer Morrigan. Trained in the ancient art of pretending I’m fine.”
He grins like I handed him a good chorus. “Nice to meet you, Sawyer Morrigan. Who put a camera in your hands first?”
“My grandpa,” I say before I can overthink it. “Disposable cameras at first. He said, ‘Shoot the stuff you think no one else sees.’ Turns out that’s most things.”
“Smart man.” Riot shifts, elbow to knee, interested rather than nosy. “What do you shoot when it’s just for you?”
“Quiet faces. Ugly light. Hands.” I shrug. “Edges of things. Proof that people are more than the loudest thing about them.”
He hums like he likes the answer. “Hands make sense. They tell on you.”
“You’re a drummer,” I counter. “Who did you copy when you were learning?”
He laughs. “We’re really doing this? Fine. Poorly—Travis Barker and Danny Carey. Secretly—my neighbor who practiced on a busted kit in his carport. Dude had a groove that made my chest ache.”
“Poorly is a requirement in the arts,” I say joking. “What’s your off-stage hobby? And if you say ‘working out,’ I’m walking into that ditch.”
***
For a while we just… exist. The blue wash of the lot softens the edges of everything, and the generator hum feels less like noise, more like a blanket.
He tells me his mom danced in the kitchen to Blondie when the rent cleared; I tell him I used to develop film in a bathroom with a towel stuffed under the door.
He shows me a tiny scar on his knuckle from a chipped rim; I point out the ink under my thumbnail I can’t scrub off.
It’s nothing big. It’s the kind of nothing that matters.
“Okay,” he says finally, toe tapping the barrier. “Important question. If you could shoot anything tomorrow that isn’t a band, what is it?”
“Old couples who still hold hands in crosswalks,” I say, no hesitation. “Old cathedrals and cemeteries. Or the moment before a storm hits a parking lot.”
He exhales, pleased. “There it is.”
“There what is?”
“The way your voice changes when you talk about something you love.” He bumps my shoulder, gentle. “I wanted to hear that.”
Heat prickles my cheeks. “What do you want to hear right now?”
He pretends to consider. “Your laugh,” he says, then adds, lighter, “and your opinion on gas-station taquitos.”
“Felony,” I say, deadpan.
He groans. “Tragic.”
I’m still laughing when the air shifts.
The crunch of gravel cuts through the quiet like a warning. My stomach dips hard, instinct screaming even before I turn.
Riot’s grin falters. He shifts slightly, shoulders tensing.
“Well, well,” comes a voice I know too well. “What do we have here?”
Jasper steps out of the shadows, eyes burning straight through me. And behind him? Silas, Jace, Ash, and Micah.
All five of them. Like shadows materialized from hell.
Jasper’s eyes are locked on Riot like he’s trying to decide whether to break his jaw or just rip out his spine.
Riot stands slowly, hands up in mock surrender. “Didn’t realize she came with bodyguards.”
Jasper doesn’t blink. “She doesn’t.” His gaze flicks to me. “But she’s ours.”
Mine. The word lingers unspoken, but I feel it in the air between us.
Riot laughs dryly. “Chill, man. We were only talking.”
Jasper steps forward, not smiling. “You don’t want to know what I do when people ‘just talk’ to what’s mine.”
My breath catches. I can’t even say anything. The air feels heavy, too tight to breathe. I glance at Riot, who finally takes a step back, his grin dimming.
“Okay, okay.” Riot raises both hands and backs up. “Didn’t mean to start shit. I’ll leave her with her…fans.”
He glances my way and gives me a cocky wink before turning and walking off into the shadows.
I turn back to Jasper, jaw tight. “That wasn’t necessary.”
His eyes never leave me. “Don’t walk off alone again.”
“I’m not your problem.” I lift my chin. "And you don’t own me.”
He closes the air between us, his voice dropping low, leaving no room for argument. “I don’t own you, Sawyer,” he says, meaningfully. "But I will protect what I’m claiming.”
“Protect me from what?” I shoot back. “We were just talking.”
“I know. That’s the part I don’t like.”
“Well, what if I want to talk to him?” My pulse kicks. “Maybe I want to get to know him better.”
He holds my gaze. “You may not be mine yet, but I don’t share, Sawyer. I don’t want his voice in your head, his hands in your space, or his name anywhere near your mouth when I’m standing right here.”
The words hit like a match struck in the dark. My throat goes dry. I can’t even answer before he turns on his heel and walks off, leaving me burning.
Silas nods at me once before following Jasper, his expression unreadable. Jace smirks like he’s watching a soap opera. Micah gives me a quick, almost sympathetic glance before looking away. And Ash? Ash winks with a look that says, ’You’ve got no idea what you’ve just stepped into’.
And maybe I don’t.
Ash is silent as he falls into step beside me when I start toward the bus. His hands are casually inside the pockets of his ripped black jeans, a cigarette balanced between his lips. The faint glow at the tip flares when he inhales, cutting a tiny spark of orange through the night.
“You alright?” he finally asks, voice low but not prying.
“I’m fine.”
Ash glances at me sideways, one brow arched like he’s already calling me out. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I’m fine’ but my brain is screaming look.”
I exhale sharply through my nose. “It’s been a night.”
“Yeah,” he says with that lazy, unbothered tone of his. “Caught that. Riot’s a punk. Not dangerous—just terrible at reading the room.”
I shake my head, my eyes fixed on the pavement glinting under the streetlights. “It wasn’t like that.”
Ash shrugs, smoke curling from his lips. “Didn’t say it was. But you should’ve known Jasper was gonna lose his shit either way.”
I glance up at him, irritation curling in my stomach. “He doesn’t get to claim me like that. I’m not some—some possession.”
“No,” Ash agrees easily, flicking ashes to the ground. “You’re not. But someone should probably tell him that.”
We walk in silence for a beat before he adds, “For what it’s worth…he’s been on edge since he realized you left the bus. Couldn’t stop looking for you.”
I pause mid-step. “What?”
Ash smirks around his cigarette. “He’s not subtle, Sawyer. For a guy who’s made a career out of controlling a crowd, he’s terrible at hiding when he’s obsessed.”
The word obsessed lingers like static in the air.
I stare at the ground, my boot scuffing against gravel. “He doesn’t even know me.”
Ash bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “You sure about that?”
I don’t answer. Because the truth is—I’m not. He seems to see me better than anybody else.
We round the corner, and the tour buses come back into view, lined up like sleeping monsters under the parking lot lights. The engines hum faintly, the smell of fuel and warm asphalt settling in the night air.