Chapter 12
SAWYER
I wake cocooned in my sheets, and it takes a second to remember where I am—then the rumble of the engine is gone, replaced by the strange hush of a city not my own. The bus isn’t moving. We’re parked.
Midnight’s Edge.
We must’ve arrived after I finally crashed. The familiar ache between my legs from last night’s torture session with Jasper throbs as I roll over, groggy and hungry and just a little high on the chaos of it all.
There’s movement in the hall—doors shutting, someone laughing too loudly, the scent of burnt coffee and body-wash drifting through the narrow corridor. The guys are already up.
I get up from my bunk, grab some clothes, my toiletry bag, and head towards the bathroom.
I brush my teeth and add mascara to my tattooed eyeliner.
I strip out of my nightclothes and shimmy into the old mini skirt—ripped, faded, and more memories than fabric.
Bike shorts underneath, just in case I have to scale a fence for a shot.
Cropped baby tee, soft from a hundred washes, the print cracked but perfect.
Flannel tied around my waist, camera bag heavy at my hip. I yank my hair into two half-buns, leave the rest wild, then add some lip stain because—why the hell not? Add my favorite combat boots, and I’m ready to go.
I step out, heading for the doors and passing the guys at the bottom of the stairs on my way out.
Ash whistles low. “Okay, punk rock Barbie.”
Jasper grins, all wicked heat and hungry eyes. “Don’t tempt me to drag you right back inside, Wicked Thing.”
I flip him off, tug on my choker, and grab my camera. “Let’s go cause some chaos.”
We set out into the blue of the late-afternoon sun, the sound of roadies cursing and someone testing drums echoing across the venue grounds.
Jasper sticks close, hand on my lower back as if he thinks I might wander off or get lost in the chaos.
The rest of the band fan out behind us, looking like they own the place.
I’m still adjusting my camera strap when Jasper leans in, lips brushing my ear.
“Just so you know, this isn’t a onetime thing.
” He sees my confusion. “The carnival, Little Sin. They set one up at most of the stops—something about keeping the crowds happy. That means there’ll be rides and junk food every second day, pretty much all tour. ”
I blink. “You’re kidding? Like…every week?”
“Better get used to the cotton candy and screaming,” he says, his grin sharp. “I know I can’t wait for more screaming.” He adds, wiggling his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes, but honestly—neither can I.
Micah and Silas fall in behind us, each already eyeing the Ferris wheel across the lot. I snap a few shots—candid, quick—of the guys in their element, Jasper’s hand always somewhere on me.
The guys drift off toward the stage, arguing about set lists and who’s supposed to be where, their voices fading as they disappear behind a wall of amps and crew members.
Jasper gives my hand a final squeeze before slipping after Silas and Ash, leaving me blinking in the sun, camera bag bouncing against my hip.
I exhale, finally letting myself grin like an idiot. I’m not used to feeling this kind of…wanted.
That’s when my phone goes off, buzzing so hard, loud, insistent, dragging me back to earth.
I barely get the phone to my ear before Macee’s voice explodes through the line. “Sawyer Jean, if you don’t give me one good story, I’m driving down there with a bullhorn and embarrassing you in front of all those tattooed degenerates.”
I laugh. “Chill, I’m alive! And maybe a little corrupted.”
“Oh, honey, you went on tour with a bunch of rockstars. You’d better be corrupt. So—has Jasper thrown you over his shoulder yet, or were the pictures all over the internet just to tease me?”
“He’s…not exactly shy, Mace.”
A scandalized gasp. “Sawyer! I knew it! Did you get laid? Did you get railed on a tour bus bunk? Don’t lie to me—I’ll know.”
“Macee!” I hiss, glancing around. “There are people—”
“Girl. I know your secrets. Now spill. Is he filthy? Does he sing to you, or ruin your life in other ways?”
“He’s…both, honestly. Possessive as hell. Like, ‘growls at anyone who even looks at me’ levels.”
“Oh my God, yes, give me the details. Are you in love yet or just dicked down and dizzy?”
I groan, face burning. “Why am I friends with you again?”
“Because no one else would send you DoorDash after your dad’s fourth wedding. Also, I know where the bodies are buried.”
We both burst out laughing.
She sobers first. “Okay, but for real—Blake’s not still being an asshole, right? Because I swear I’ll have his tires slashed and his mom’s plants killed.”
I roll my eyes, but my voice is softer. “He’s…around. Still texting. Still mad I haven’t replied. But I don’t care. Not now.”
“Damn right you don’t. Jasper sounds like an upgrade. And if you need me, you know I’ll show up in five hours with a shovel and bail money.”
I smile, warmth in my chest. “Love you, menace.”
“Love you, slut. Now go make poor decisions and call me after.”
***
I’m angling for a shot of the crowd when a group of guys breaks away from the beer tent, circling too close. One blocks my path, beer sloshing over his hand.
“Hey, little thing, got any pictures of yourself on that camera?”
Another one whistles, leering. “Bet she’s got better things to shoot. Why don’t you let us show you a good time?”
I take a breath, ready to fight my way out, but before I can answer, his hand grabs my wrist.
“Hey, sweetheart,” the guy slurs, his grip tightening when I try to pull back. “Where are you running off to? Stay and have a drink.” His buddies snicker behind him like hyenas circling roadkill.
“I’m not interested,” I snap, jerking my arm, but his fingers just clamp down harder.
“C’mon, don’t be like that,” he drawls, leaning closer, the stench of beer on his breath making me want to gag. “Girls like you don’t walk around dressed like that unless you want attention.” His free hand lifts—heading for my hip.
That’s when a voice slices through the chaos. Low. Cold. Deadly.
“She’s with me, asshole.”
Riot is suddenly there—towering, sharp edges and wild energy, eyes locked on the drunk guy like he’s already decided how to bury him.
The guy doesn’t let go of my wrist. Not yet. He just smirks and sizes Riot up, trying to look tough. “Yeah? Didn’t see your name on her. Maybe she’s just looking for someone better.”
Riot’s jaw ticks. “Try touching her again. See what happens.”
The guy grins, trying to puff out his chest. “Oh yeah? Or what?”
Riot’s smile is slow, vicious—like a wolf that’s already decided where to sink its teeth. “Or I’ll show you what happens when you don’t listen.”
The guy makes the mistake of brushing his hand down my arm, like he’s calling Riot’s bluff.
Bad move.
Riot’s fist snaps out in a blur, cracking across the guy’s jaw with a sound that makes the crowd around us go silent for half a second. The guy stumbles back, beer flying, blood already seeping into his split lip.
“Next time, keep your hands—and your mouth—to yourself.”
Holy fuck.
The other guys back off fast, dragging their friend with them, cursing and promising revenge they’re never going to deliver.
Riot shakes out his hand, flexing his knuckles. “Sorry you had to see that. Some people need to be reminded where the line is.”
I’m still stunned, heart racing, adrenaline burning in my veins. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
He gives me a look—half wild, half soft. “Anytime. Nobody touches you unless you say so. Got it?”
His hand settles at my lower back, possessive without squeezing, and my body does that traitorous lean it shouldn’t.
The worst part is how my mind splits clean down the middle: half of me reaching for Jasper’s gravity, the other catching on Riot’s heat.
Jasper feels like inevitability—like the moment before lightning strikes.
Riot feels like ignition—spark on tinder, fast and reckless.
I tell myself I can choose, but the truth is both pulls are real, and both terrify me for different reasons.
“Let’s get you somewhere safer. Stick close, Hellcat. I don’t wanna have to hit anyone else, but I will.”
For the first time, I see Riot as more than just a cocky drummer.
There’s something darker there—something that makes me wonder what would happen if Jasper ever saw him like this.
I brush past Riot, pretending I’m not still buzzing from the way he stepped in—like I haven’t seen worse at home, like I couldn’t have handled it myself.
But watching him crack that guy right in the jaw was… distracting. Way too distracting.
He glances over at me—hat backwards, hair a mess, arms bare and inked, a fresh scrape on his knuckle.
He should look like trouble. Instead, he looks like temptation with a pulse—wild, cocky, all that charge aimed right at me.
My brain whispers Jasper, my body answers Riot, and I hate how true both feel.
I try to shake it off, but my mind keeps circling back: Riot in a sleeveless tee, muscles tight, cap backwards, and eyes blazing, grin sharp as knives. He looked like he belonged in the middle of a fight, born for chaos. And I liked it. God, I liked it more than I should have.
Jasper’s brand of danger lives in the quiet words he puts against my throat. Riot’s lives in his fists and his laugh and the way he blocks the world with his body. Different weapons. Same effect.
He catches me looking, and his mouth tilts up. “See something you like, Hellcat.”
I scoff, but my cheeks betray me. “Please. I was making sure you didn’t break your hand, drama queen.”
He wiggles his fingers, still flexing from the punch. “All good. But if you wanna kiss it better, I wouldn’t say no.”
“Keep dreaming, Riot.”
He leans in close, drops his voice. “I do.”