Chapter 3
Chapter three
Trey
OWN MY MIND – M?neskin
The bass hits me square in the chest before I even make it through the club doors. It’s not just music—it’s a pulse, slamming into my ribs, vibrating through my skin, rattling my bones.
Neon strobes slice through the dark in violent bursts—acid green, blood red, searing blue—painting the room like a fever dream.
The air tastes like tequila and perfume, sour beer and sweat.
Smoke coils up from someone’s jacket, mixing with the fog machines until the whole dance floor looks like a battlefield of bodies grinding together.
It’s chaos. Pure, beautiful chaos.
Exactly what I need.
Chace and Sam flank me like we’re knights back from some fucked-up crusade. Okay, maybe not that epic—but when you’re in a band, people look at you like you’re carved out of myth.
Or maybe that’s just the leather jacket, ripped jeans, and ink doing the heavy lifting.
Chace is all golden hair and sharp grins, his black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up like he’s ready to play drums or strip poker, depending on who asks first. Sam’s a wall of muscle in a fitted tee, his bald head catching the light like polished stone.
Both have that easy confidence I’ve never been able to fake—like the world could burn, and they’d just order another round.
Me? I’m pulling at my collar, heat crawling under my tattoos, restlessness burning up my skin.
My boots stick to the floor, and my pulse won’t slow down.
I tell myself I’m here to unwind—God knows I could use it—but one flash of red-light cuts across the crowd, and all I can see is her.
A stranger who I’d met a few months back.
We head straight for our booth—a velvet semi-circle tucked behind smoked glass. From here, we can see everything, but no one gets close unless we want them to. A table in front of us glitters with ice buckets, bottles sweating under the strobes.
Sam grabs the Grey Goose like its oxygen. “I need this more than therapy,” he mutters, pouring.
Chace tips his chin toward the dance floor, eyes scanning the crowd like a hunter choosing prey. His hair glows gold under the lights, his grin pure sin. Bastard knows exactly how good he looks.
I sink into the velvet, drink in hand.
“Trey,” Chace says, “you wanted to come out, my guy. Lose the woeful expression.”
“Fuck, is it that obvious?” I mutter, taking a sip.
It doesn’t take long for the girls to appear.
It never does. Chace snaps his fingers and suddenly it’s raining perfume, glitter, and lip gloss.
A brunette in a silver dress slides onto his lap.
Another girl drapes herself over Sam’s shoulders like a cat claiming territory.
A blonde in sequins lands squarely on my thighs, her perfume sharp enough to burn the back of my throat.
Her nails trace the ink on my arm, teasing up toward my neck.
Usually, this is where my cock wakes up—ready for some poor-life decisions and hotel-room athleticism. But tonight?
Nothing.
My drink stalls halfway to my mouth. My stomach twists.
Chace notices. “What?”
I frown, dead serious. “Holy shit.”
“What?”
“My cock’s haunted.”
The blonde freezes. Sam almost spits vodka across the table. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“My cock. It’s haunted.” I gesture at my jeans like I’m holding a press conference for the dearly departed. “Get up a sec, sweetheart.” She slides off, giggling nervously. I slip my hand inside, testing. Everything’s technically fine. Piercings intact. Structure sound.
But the energy?
Dead.
Not even respectfully dead—tragically, operatically dead. Like it’s clutching pearls in the afterlife and won’t return my calls.
“Maybe your jeans are too tight?” Sam offers.
“These aren’t even my tight-tight jeans,” I grumble.
“Haunted?” Chace wheezes, tears forming.
“Haunted,” I confirm, deadly serious. “Ever since that night at the church. Since I got blessed.”
Sam coughs hard. “Your cock’s not haunted, bro—it’s just broken.”
“Nope. Just checked. Functionality’s fine. You wanna see?”
Chace loses it. His laugh shakes the whole booth. “Bro, no one wants a sequel to The Exorcist: Below the Belt.”
“I’m telling you,” I say, pointing like I’m cross-examining, “something’s wrong. It’s been months. Me. Trey Baker. Untouched. Even this absolute angel here isn’t doing anything for me. Maybe she blessed me too hard. Fuck, what has she done to me?”
“Blessed too hard?” Chace doubles over, tears in his eyes. “Scar tissue, man. Or maybe you’re finally catching feelings.”
“Feelings?” I snort. “She blessed me so hard my cock’s got a halo.”
“Have you been… you know… jerking it recently?”
“Of course, bro.”
“Then it’s not broken…”
“That’s what I’m saying… it’s haunted. I need her to blow on it or something.”
Sam snorts into his drink. “Yeah, Baker, sounds like church girl really did a number on you.”
“I need to get it fixed.” I start pacing, energy buzzing in my veins. “I need to go back, get my cock blessed, reverse the curse or something.”
Chace’s phone is out before I finish the sentence.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“Booking a flight,” he says, thumbs flying, voice shaking with laughter. “Portland, right? Church girl can get on her knees and bless you again.”
I stop cold. The noise of the club fades to static. My mouth opens before my brain catches up. “Actually…” my voice drops. “I got on my knees for her.”
Silence. Even the blonde looks confused. “Not like that, you absolute fucking degenerates,” I bark, throwing my hands up. “I mean—she’s good. She’s… pure. Innocent.”
Chace leans back, smirking.
Sam raises his glass. “So, when you jerk off, is it her face or the Virgin Mary you’re seeing?” I slam my palm on the table again. “If you must know, brother, I am thinking about your mom.”
That does it. Chace howls, Sam wheezes, the girls just stare.
“This is serious, man. I’m haunted. My cocks fucking haunted!”
Sam groans, shaking his head. “Your cock isn’t haunted, Baker. Your heart is. Why don’t you just go back and see her?”
My throat tightens. I drop into the seat, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots. “I can’t. Her father caught me. I don’t want to make it hard for her.”
Chace deadpans, voice flat. “Sounds like that is exactly what she needs to do for you.”
Sam loses it. Chace doubles over. The table rocks with laughter, vibrating with the bass and the ache in my chest. I sit there with a ghost of a grin. Because maybe Sam’s right. Maybe my heart is haunted. By a girl with red hair I met three months ago in Portland.
The SUV lurches as we hit a pothole, and my head smacks the leather seat. Sam howls with laughter. Chace mutters something about haunted cocks.
“Haunted like a spooky STI,” I sigh.
Sam wheezes. “I’m framing that headline when it hits TMZ.”
I sprawl across the backseat, arms stretched wide, grinning like an idiot because the city outside is a smear of neon and wet pavement. Vancouver never sleeps—it just glitters and hums, electric veins buzzing like I’ve got a nightclub trapped under my skin.
The two security guys up front are stone-still—black suits, earpieces, built like quarterback’s. They’re definitely regretting their career choices.
“You boys are too quiet,” I say, leaning between the seats, whiskey on my breath. “Tell me you believe me. Tell me you believe in my haunted cock.”
The driver’s mouth twitches. The other one coughs into his fist, fighting a laugh. Sam loses it. “They don’t want to picture your cock, man. Leave them out of your delusions.”
“Delusions?” I slap his shoulder hard enough to make him jolt. “You dragged me down into those Shanghai Tunnels, remember? You wanted ghosts. Now I am haunted. Ghost didn’t get my soul, didn’t get my brain—so what’s left? My cock. That’s what.”
Chace folds over in half, shoulders shaking so bad the SUV rocks with him. “Stop. Stop. I’m gonna puke.”
Even stone-face up front snorts before clamping his jaw shut. Sam points, triumphant. “Ha! Even he thinks your cursed cock’s hilarious!”
By the time we roll into Chace’s underground garage, I’m still ranting about exorcisms below the belt. Sam and Chace stumble out behind me, bent double with laughter, while the guards follow, babysitting drunk rockstars.
Upstairs, Chace fumbles with his keys until one of the guards gently takes over and opens the door, all professional patience.
Warm light spills out—open-plan, high ceilings, the skyline glittering through glass.
It smells like coffee, tacos, and antiseptic—a mix of comfort and recovery.
Logan’s sprawled on the couch, half under a blanket, breathing steady.
Mac is curled in an armchair nearby, blonde hair knotted on top of her head, eyes tired but soft.
The second we tumble in, loud and clumsy, her gaze sharpens.
I make a beeline for her, drop to a crouch in front of her chair, and grab her hands like I’m about to propose.
“Macadamia Nut,” I say solemnly, slurring but committed. “You gotta help me.” Behind me, Sam and Chace collapse on the couch, wheezing.
Mac blinks. “Help you with what?”
“My cock’s haunted.” Silence. Her mouth opens, then closes.
Logan cracks one eye open, voice low and raspy. “And how’s my girl supposed to help you with that?”
Sam loses it. Chace’s laughter is full-body, violent.
I whirl on them. “Don’t laugh! This is your fault! You dragged me into those tunnels, and now there’s a ghost attached to my junk!”
Logan exhales, the sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. Mac’s covering her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“I’m serious,” I say, throwing my arms up. “It’s been three months. Me—Trey Baker—hasn’t touched anyone. That’s not normal. Either I’m haunted or I got blessed too hard, but either way…” I drag my hands down my face. “I’m doomed.”
“Blessed too hard,” Chace wheezes. “That’s going on your tombstone.”
Sam nearly spits his drink. “Your cock’s not haunted, man. It’s broken.”
“Broken?” I flop back on the rug, staring at the ceiling like I’m bargaining with God. “Why her? Why Seraphina? She’s not even my type—too pure, too sweet. But she saw me. And now I can’t see anyone else.”
The room quiets, laughter fading into the hum of the city. My chest aches in the silence. Even drunk, even stupid, I mean every damn word. A throat clears. One of the security guys stands in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light. He’s been listening. Definitely listening.
His face twitches, fighting a grin. “Perimeter’s secure,” he says dryly. “And, uh… maybe try dipping it in holy water, Mr. Baker.” The apartment erupts. Chace collapses against Sam. Mac hides her face in her hands. Even Logan’s shaking with quiet laughter.
I groan, dragging an arm over my eyes. “Fantastic. Even the bodyguards think my cock’s a joke.” But beneath the noise, under the whiskey and chaos, I know it’s not about my cock at all. It’s about her.