18. Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
Logan
The stage lights are blinding, the roar of the crowd deafening—but all I can think about is her .
Mac.
This is the fifth show since I left her standing on that porch, tears in her eyes, her arms wrapped around herself like she was holding herself together. And fuck, it killed me to walk away. Still, its better than last time, she’s messaging all the time, and I get a little thrill whenever I pick up our chat thread.
But at least she’s still here.
Every night when the adrenaline fades and the noise dies down, she’s the voice in my ear, the anchor keeping me sane. We talk until the sun creeps up, our words slurred with exhaustion, but neither of us wants to hang up.
It’s not enough—but it’s something.
Still, nothing compares to touching her, holding her, breathing her in.
I miss her so damn much I can hardly think straight.
Trey claps me on the back as we head toward the stage. “Crowds fucking wild tonight,” he says, flashing a grin.
I nod, cracking my knuckles, trying to shake the weight pressing on my chest. I should be pumped, hyped, ready to kill this set—but all I can think about is how wrong it feels to be here without her.
I take my place, gripping the mic stand. The first notes of the opening song crash through the speakers, and the crowd erupts. I let the energy surge through me, pushing away the ache, letting the music take over.
For a little while it works.
But halfway through the set, the weight in my chest is back, pressing heavier, crushing me. I step back from the mic, running a hand through my hair, breath still ragged from the last song.
The fans chant my name. Waiting. Watching.
I exhale hard, gripping the mic stand. My voice comes out rough, thick with emotion.
“There’s someone out there I had to leave behind.” The words catch in my throat, but I push through, “And she owns me—heart and soul.”
The crowd loses their mind’s, screams erupting, flashing lights flickering like stars across the stadium. I swallow, holding back the fucking hurricane inside me. “This one’s for her.”
The band kicks in, pouring everything into this song, but I barely hear them. I close my eyes picturing her—Mac, standing there on the driveway, staring at me like I was taking her whole world with me.
And fuck, maybe I did.
The lyrics pour out of me like a confession, every word raw and unfiltered. The crowd sings along, but I’m singing for one person only. As the song fades out, I step back, chest heaving, hands trembling. Trey and Chace are watching me, waiting, because they know something is up.
And yeah—something is.
As soon as this show is over, I’m calling Mac…and I’m asking her to come on tour with me.
Because I can’t do this without her.
Because I’m fucking done leaving her behind.
The second Mac picks up, I exhale, like I’ve been holding my breath.
“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice soft and a little sleepy.
Fuck. I close my eyes, my fingers pressing into my forehead. I can picture her perfectly—curled up in bed, her dark lashes fanning over olive skin, those lips I should have kissed a thousand times more before walking away.
“You in bed?” I ask, my voice coming out rough.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Where else would I be at…” a pause, probably checking her phone “One in the morning.”
I swallow. “With me.”
Silence.
Then, softer, “Logan…”
My grip tightens around the phone. “I can still smell you on my skin.” It’s the truth. My shirt still carries the faintest trace of her perfume, something warm and sweet, like vanilla and home. I hear her breath hitch, and it takes every bit of self-control I have not to lose my fucking mind.
“I keep rolling over, expecting you to be there.” she admits.
My chest aches. “I don’t want to be anywhere that doesn’t have you in it.”
I hear her shift, the rustling of sheets, and I swear I can see her—one bare shoulder peeking out, messy hair sprawled across the pillow.
“Say my name again,” I murmur.
She hesitates, but when she speaks, it’s breathless. “Logan.”
Jesus Christ .
I press my forehead against the wall, my entire body burning. “I can’t do this, angel.”
“Do what?”
“Be away from you.” My voice drops lower.
Hungrier.
Rougher .
“I miss you too fucking much.”
Her breath catches again, “You just left.”
“I know,” I admit, voice strained. “I didn’t want to ask when I was with you, but I had the thought then… you seemed to be in a good place and I didn’t want to hurt you… but … but I I already feel like I’ve been gone too long.”
She’s quiet a long moment, then, barely above a whisper, she says, “What do we do?”
And that’s it. That’s the breaking point.
“Come with me.” The words spill out, the ones I’ve wanted to ask since I left.
“Logan…”
I push forward. Desperate. “I need you, angel. I don’t want to wake up in another city without you. I don’t want to call hearing your voice through a fucking phone when I could have you in my arms.” She doesn’t say anything, and my heart pounds like a war drum in my chest.
“I know it’s selfish, and if you say the words I’ll drop from the band, I know it’s a lot to ask,” I continue, voice shaking. “I know you have your life there. But, fuck, angel, I don’t care if we’re in a cramped tour bus, or some shitty motel, or we’re at the Rosewood—I just want to be with you.
She inhales sharply.
“I’ll come.”
The world stops spinning.
I close my eyes, gripping the phone like a lifeline. “Say it again.”
A tiny breathless laugh. “I’m coming with you.”
A rough, relieved exhale leaves my lips, half-laugh, half-growl. “Thank fuck.”
And just like that.
I can breathe again.