Chapter Seven
“Still can’t believe Thomas ditched us for Canadian cooch,” Georgia said. She prodded Aiden in the ribs. “Didn’t he kick it with you after the show? Like, did you guys stay at the bar or. . . ? ”
“He came over and passed out in the hallway. When I woke up, he was gone,” Aiden said.
Dylan laughed. “In the hallway? ”
The scene flashed violently. Shay digging through Thomas’s limp body.
Teeth in Thomas’s heart. Blood shining black in the moonlight.
Aiden choked down the truth. “Yeah, poor guy couldn’t keep it together,” he said, and cleared the unwanted emotion from his voice.
“How we feelin’? First night back on stage with Shay, press release on Friday, Vegas on Saturday. ”
“Feelin’ like this is either the best decision we’ll ever make or the worst,” Georgia said.
“I mean, honestly, this whole thing feels weird . Playing together again. . . It’s like going back in time, man.
I don’t know. All the family cookouts, movie marathons in the garage after band practice, pickin’ me up from school before I got my own ride,” she said, drumming her palms on the steering wheel.
She glanced at Aiden over her sunglasses.
“You remember. All that shit makes it hard to hate him.”
“Makes it easier, actually,” Aiden muttered.
Dylan gave a halfhearted whoop. “Could be awesome, could be baby shit. Either way, we’re doin’ it. How’re you feelin’, bud? Last I checked you punched people in the face for defending our new—old?—old-new front-man.”
Aiden sucked at the joint. “I’m feelin’ like this is our shot. If we blow it, we’re done, and I think Shay’s the key to not blowing it. He’s a gigantic asshole, but he signed the contract, gave a half-assed apology.” Lived. “He’s here, and he needs us as much as we need him.”
“He’s a means to an end,” Georgia said, nodding.
“Exactly,” Aiden said.
They parked in the designated garage for the Holiday Inn Express.
Aiden clocked Shay’s car immediately, backed into a corner space with a parking ticket dangling from the rearview mirror.
Georgia hadn’t offered to carpool, and Shay hadn’t asked, and personally, Aiden appreciated the pettiness.
Regardless of Aiden’s ritualistic fuck-up and Shay’s mad fucking skills, he still needed to earn his place with Georgia and Dylan.
Band pettiness didn’t extend to Jacob’s willingness to save even one single penny, though.
So, of course, he’d booked one hotel room for four people.
Aiden walked into their double-bed suite, greeted by Shay, shirtless and shoeless, rifling through his hard-shell suitcase.
He brushed past Dylan and dropped his backpack on the bed Shay hadn’t already claimed.
Dylan, bless his godforsaken I’m Switzerland stance on life, set his things next to Shay’s suitcase, allowing Georgia and Aiden to share the other bed.
Aiden snuck another glance at Shay, cataloguing his freshly dyed brunette hair and the silver bar punched through his eyebrow.
“Have you guys eaten?” Shay asked. He tugged a Trivium t-shirt over his head.
“Not yet,” Dylan said.
Shay nodded. “Well, Jacob left vouchers at check-in. House of Blues offered to feed us, I guess.”
“Damn, headliner treatment, huh?” Georgia applied another coat of matte red lipstick. “I’m down. Think they’ll throw in a margarita?”
“They better,” Aiden said, laughing. He checked his phone.
A few fans had pinged his last selfie, asking about tour dates and set-list rumors, but he left them blank.
Jacob had given strict orders: No hinting at Shay’s return until one hour before showtime.
Shock factor sold future tickets, supposedly.
He clicked Shay’s Instagram. Nothing out of the ordinary besides a selfie featuring his new look, fangs included, and the caption— call me Lestat.
Aiden Moore: thought you weren’t a vampire, Lestat
Shay grabbed his phone off the nightstand. He pinned Aiden with an exhausted glare.
Shay Bennett: stfu
Georgia shoved her makeup bag, contact lens case, and a few garments into her duffle, and slung it over her shoulder. “We’ve got three hours ‘til sound check. Let’s drop stage clothes at the dressing room then we’ll eat, yeah?”
“Sounds like a plan. Anybody heard from Jake?” Dylan asked.
“He’s checking on the opener and booking travel from Vegas onward,” Georgia said.
“Onward. . . ?” Shay quirked his head, glancing between everyone. “We’re not flying to Vegas?”
Aiden snickered. “Pretty sure Jacob would chew off his own foot before he paid for a forty-minute flight to anywhere. We’re taking the van.”
Shay nodded slowly. “All of us?” he asked. Aiden smothered another laugh. Georgia and Dylan shared a glance before steering back toward Shay. “As in all of us in the van? Together?”
“No, we’re strapping you to the roof,” Georgia said, and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, asshole. All of us. Come on, I’m starving.”
A table-marker labeled Knight’s Blood sat in the middle of a circular booth in the busy House of Blues restaurant.
Aiden skimmed a laminated menu, enduring an awkward stint of silence.
When the server stopped by, he mimicked Georgia’s order—house margarita with extra salt—and busied himself with bland salsa and purple tortilla chips.
“Figured you’d ask for a pitcher,” Georgia said under her breath.
Aiden bristled. “What, why?”
“You’ve tried to pickle your liver for the past week.”
“C’mon, I’m fine. I’ve been fine.”
“Total train wreck,” Dylan said, face tilted toward his menu. “Georgia’s right. What’s been up with you, man?”
“Can we not do this? Nothing’s up. I’m fine ,” Aiden snapped.
“Apparently not,” Shay mumbled. “Got somethin’ on your mind?”
Aiden glanced at him, dunked another chip in the shitty salsa and bit.
Shay knew exactly what’d been on his mind.
Minus a few details—that kiss on the cliff, specifically.
“None of your business,” he slurred, filling his mouth with two more chips.
“I went a little hard for a couple days, all right? I get it, I hear you. Can we leave it alone?”
“We all get messy, but you get white girl messy. Let’s save that shit for festival gigs, yeah?” Georgia said, casting her gaze around the table. “We can party on off nights, but we keep it classy for the big shows. Deal?”
“Deal,” Shay said. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his folded hands, scanning Aiden’s face. “Think you can manage?”
Aiden snorted. “I played a killer set at Staples. I’ll do the same for the rest of the tour.”
Dylan heaved a sigh. “Whatever you say.”
It’s not like he’d set out to be a mess.
Usually, he wasn’t. But he couldn’t blame Georgia and Dylan for being cautious.
The post-Shay-betrayal months hadn’t been pretty.
Too much booze, too many unfamiliar beds, forgotten nights, and hospital stays.
He wasn’t exactly proud of how he’d acted, but he knew, just like they did, that shit could’ve been worse.
And shit got worse. Ritual sacrifice worse , Shay coming back from the dead worse , Aiden committing, witnessing, instigating an atrocity worse .
Georgia and Dylan knew the surface level bullshit, but they didn’t know—could never know—what Aiden Moore was actually capable of.
A server dropped their food at the table.
The bandmates huddled close, ignoring cameras and curious fans.
Aiden chased his burger and fries with sips from his margarita and shielded his eyes with black sunglasses once they left.
Rumors fluttered from occupied tables. Shay Bennett.
Chain Reaction. Yeah, he used to be in—No, I know.
You don’t think. . . ? Oh my god, I bet.
. . He followed Dylan through a door outside the restaurant and exhaled once they were backstage, scooting past stage crew and sound techs.
Shay fell into stride beside him, staring straight ahead, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Nothing from Thomas?” Shay asked, innocently enough.
Aiden’s heart skipped, anxiety surging in his chest. “No, nothing. Stop worrying.”
“A little hard not to worry, Aiden.”
“Shay,” he warned.
He leaned closer, voice lowering as they slowed behind Georgia and Dylan. “Is Camila still running the botanica? Like, is she still doin’ the bruja thing, because?—”
“You’re kidding, right?” Aiden rolled his eyes.
“She might be able to help.”
“My sister has no part in this. Literally, zero . We are not involving her,” Aiden snapped. “Do you hear me? We’ll handle this on our own. ”
“Right, because we’ve been handling everything perfectly, right?” Shay hissed, lips grazing Aiden’s ear. Aiden shoved him away, but Shay jolted into his space again. Their shoulders knocked. “What happens when I get hungry again, huh? What do we do?—”
Aiden spun around, hands flat on Shay’s chest, and crowded him against the wall, shushing him.
“We are not doing this right now. One, I don’t care if you call a rabbi or a motherfuckin’ shaman, but stay the hell away from my sister, two, get yourself together, keep your mouth shut, and get us through this show. Do you hear me?”
Shay snapped his teeth at Aiden’s nose.
“Do you hear me, Shay?” Aiden snarled, flinching away from his fangs.
“Yes, I hear you. Do you hear me? ”
“Yes. We’ll find someone— not Camila—who can help us figure out your dietary issues. But first we have a show to play, so let’s go.”