Chapter 8
SAWYER
I wake up wrapped in my thin blanket, curled in the small bunk like it might somehow protect me from my own damn thoughts.
What the hell even happened last night?
My body was a goddamn traitor, craving something I had no business wanting.
And the worst part?
Everything he said…was true. Every word. Like he cracked open my ribs and saw straight into the parts I try to hide—even from myself.
I exhale and stare at the ceiling of the bunk. It’s too early for this level of self-reflection, but it’s not like I slept much. Not with Jasper in my head. Still in my lungs.
Voices spill in from outside the bus. A soft knock taps against the metal just outside my bunk.
I slide the curtain back, expecting maybe Jace being chaotic, but it’s Micah.
Standing there with a cup of steaming coffee and a breakfast sandwich.
He doesn’t say much—offers a small smile and a slight nod.
“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says, holding the cup out, “so I went safe. Hot. Sweet. Caffeine.” A beat. “I can try again if it’s terrible.”
I blink, then take it. “Thanks.”
“Yeah.” His gaze flicks over my face like he’s checking for cracks.
“Saw you weren’t at the lounge. Figured…
less people, more food.” The corner of his mouth lifts.
“And I didn’t let Jace touch it, so it’s actually edible.
Eat before Ash smells it and tax-collects your bacon.
And if you want a buffer today, grab me.
I’m good at filling the space with silence. ”
“Silence?”
He nods. “The comfortable kind.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks, Micah.”
“Anytime.” He hesitates, then adds, softer, “If you need an exit from… anyone, just say ‘strings.’ I’ll pull you.” A tiny smile. “Perks of being the quiet one. No one notices the rescue.”
I set the food and coffee on the little ledge inside my bunk and climb out, brushing sleep and last night’s confusion off my shoulders.
The moment I step into the narrow aisle, the guys glance over.
“Morning,” Silas mutters.
“You alive?” Jace adds, grinning.
Jasper doesn’t say a word. He’s sitting on the small bench, long legs spread, his gaze locked on mine with a knowing smirk that nearly sends me right back into my bunk.
I rip my eyes away and head straight for the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, I’m out of the world’s tiniest shower, clean, slightly calmer, and dressed for another scorching day in a black mesh long-sleeved shirt layered over a strappy, hot-pink bralette.
Paired with some high-waisted black cargo shorts with silver zippers and side straps, and a pair of high-top black Converse.
The second my shoes hit the pavement, the sun punches me square in the chest. It’s already a dry, desert-like heat that makes my black mesh shirt cling to my skin, and the waistband of my shorts feels too tight.
I eat the last bite of my breakfast sandwich, adjust my camera bag across my shoulder, tuck my phone into my back pocket before taking a breath and walking forward.
They’re all standing in a loose group in the venue’s shade, like they’ve been waiting.
Ash turns first. His eyes sweep over me once, twice, and he lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Sawyer. You trying to kill us this early in the day?”
Jace’s laughs. “You’ve got her flustered now, man. Look at that blush.”
I keep walking, pretending my heart isn’t kicking at my ribs.
Jasper’s mid-conversation with Silas, hands moving as he talks.
Silas nods in my direction, and Jasper turns.
For a half-second, there’s confusion in his eyes, like he hadn’t realized I had come out yet.
His eyes rake down my body, taking in my outfit choice for the day.
The moment his gaze lands on the sliver of pink lace peeking through the mesh shirt, the confusion vanishes.
Possession. That’s what replaces it.
His jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable. One brow arches, and that faint smirk—no, that claim—curls at the corner of his mouth like he already knows he’s going to get under my skin.
Ash whistles again, leaning toward Jace. “See that look? Pretty sure she just committed murder. Dude’s not even breathing.”
Jasper doesn’t respond to them. Doesn’t even glance away. He’s just staring like he’s daring someone—anyone—to look at me again. And God help me, I want somebody to test that look while I’m running in the opposite direction…or straight to him. I haven’t decided yet.
He breaks away from the group, every step straight toward me like gravity doesn’t work the same for him. The others fade into the background noise. His eyes are all over me before he even says a word.
“That’s what you chose to wear today?”
It’s not a question. Not really. More like a sinful observation.
He leans in just enough to lower his voice, his breath brushing my ear.
“You know how much skin is showing, right?” His gaze drops again to the bralette under my see-through shirt.
“You wearing that for me or do I get lucky every time?”
I swallow, but my smile kicks in to cover the nervous heat crawling up my throat. “It’s 90 degrees. And like I said yesterday—it’s an outside venue.”
He nods once. “Fair. But don’t be surprised if someone gets hurt for looking at you.”
The warning in his tone sends a chill skating over my skin, even as the sun burns down on us. Then he steps back and walks toward the others—casual as hell, like he didn’t just plant another seed in my bloodstream.
“We’ve got a free day,” he tosses over his shoulder. “No obligations. Just watch the bands, ride the amusement rides, hang out, do whatever.”
I pull my phone out to stop my thoughts from tripping over each other and text Macee.
Sawyer: “I think I might have a problem.”
Macee: “Does it wear black and look like sin?”
Sawyer: “…that’s exactly it.”
I’m still staring at my screen when his voice cuts through the hum in my head.
“Sawyer.”
I jerk my head up, and he’s looking at me—waiting for me. I catch up, camera bag bouncing against my hip, heart hammering way too fast for how slowly I’m walking.
I think… maybe I really do have a problem…and perhaps I don’t want it to go away.
***
The air is sticky with sweat, sun, and bass. I trail behind the guys, staying just close enough not to get lost in the crowd, just far enough that I’m not in the middle of their conversation with another band.
Silas laughs at something one of the other musicians says. Ash is already sipping from a plastic cup of something suspicious. Jace and Micah are chatting about food stalls. Jasper’s back is to me, but I still feel like someone has pulled a string between us, taut and waiting for the snap.
I shift to the side, checking the lighting from a few angles in case I want to shoot the crowd later. I turn to shoot the sun coming up over the venue—and that’s when I see someone step into my peripheral vision.
“Damn, Little Miss Murder Scene,” a smooth voice says, low and amused. “You always dress like heartbreak?”
I turn, already bracing for some dumb comment, but then I see him.
Riot.
Tall, tattooed, messy blonde hair shoved under a backwards hat—grinning like last night wasn’t completely unhinged. His smile is cocky, his eyes lit with something wild, and the worst part?
He’s hotter than I remember.
Way hotter.
And my traitorous brain picks now to notice. Great.
“Sorry about last night,” he says, hands tucked casually into his pockets. “Didn’t realize I was stepping on claimed territory.”
My eyes narrow, heat licking up the back of my neck. “I’m not claimed.”
“No?” His brow arches, that grin sharpening just a little. “Then how about a few shots of me today? You could make me look pretty. Or…” he leans in slightly, voice dropping, “…we hang out later after my set. Go ride something stupid and laugh too loud. Have some fun. You remember that, right?”
The flutter in my stomach is immediate. Unwanted. Confusing. He’s flirting, and not subtle about it—but there’s a softness under it, something disarming. Playful. Not nearly as dangerous as Jasper, but still… unsteadying.
“I remember fun,” I say cautiously. “I just don’t remember trusting strangers with my life.
”He takes a step closer, close enough I catch the faint mix of sweat, cedar wood cologne, and just a trace of drumstick chalk clinging to his shirt.
I stiffen—muscle memory—but he doesn’t push it.
Instead, he reaches up, brushing gently along my cheekbone.
“There was an eyelash,” he says, holding it out between two fingers. “Make a wish.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
Riot doesn’t blink. “Dead serious.”
He holds the lash up like it’s sacred. “Could be the difference between a good day… and a legendary one.”
I eye him warily, the corners of my mouth twitching despite everything. “What if I wish for something reckless?”
He leans in. “Then I hope you’re ready to be reckless.”
The tension thickens. For a second, I forget the crowd around us, the noise, the camera still warm against my palm. It’s just his voice, his grin, and the way he’s watching me like he’s daring me to do something stupid with him.
“Fine,” I mutter, shutting my eyes and blowing the eyelash from his fingers. “Wish made.”
“What was it?”
“You’re not supposed to ask that.”
He grins like he already knows the answer.
But he doesn’t get to say anything else.
Jasper is there. Appearing silent and deadly. His presence hits like a pulse of heat, his arm brushing mine—barely, but enough to make my breath hitch. Riot’s eyes flick up instantly less amused.
“You’ve got something in her eye,” Jasper says. Flat. Accusatory.
Riot’s smirk returns, but it’s tighter now. “Handled it.”
“You’re still too close.”
“Sorry, man. I didn’t see the leash.” He spits out the last word as if it tastes bad.