Chapter Twelve
W ell, Jacob Hill had outdone himself.
Aiden folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head, assessing a chipped decal— The World is my Backyard!
—stuck to the back of a beat-to-shit RV idling in a Walmart parking lot.
They’d stopped on the outskirts of Vegas, per Jacob’s request, and found their manager standing in front of the ugly, beige motorhome like a proud parent.
“Congrats, you filthy degenerates. You got yourselves a tour bus,” Jacob bellowed.
“That’s a death trap,” Aiden said, assessing the RV over his sunglasses.
Georgia elbowed him in the ribs.
Shay muffled a high-pitched laugh with his palm.
Dylan sucked on his vape-pen, nodding appreciatively. “Dope.”
“Don’t be an ungrateful little shit, Moore.” Jacob slapped the side of the RV. “She runs just fine. Queen sized bed, pull-out couch, kitchenette, functioning shitter and shower, and she comes with a driver. ”
Shay doubled over. Laughter burst from him in big, hiccupping breaths. “A what? ”
The driver’s side door squeaked. Brown moccasins hit the asphalt, attached to an excessively tall woman with a pastel pink bob. She wore heart-shaped glasses, a floral button-down, and carried a—no fucking joke—beady-eyed white ferret on her shoulder.
“That’s Pru,” Jacob said, jutting his thumb at her. “I gave her an airsoft gun and the authority to shoot each and every one of you on my behalf.”
“An airsoft gun?” Georgia arched a brow.
Pru lifted her shirt, displaying the silver handle shoved into her high-waist corduroy shorts. “An airsoft gun,” she parroted, and smacked bubblegum between her teeth. She settled her gaze on Aiden and jutted her chin. “Es este el chico?”
“Por que? No, I’m not—I mean, yeah? What? What the fuck is… You’re?—”
“Puerto Rican, you clown.” She steered her gaze to Jacob. “That’s the one to watch, yeah?”
Jacob nodded.
Aiden tightened his arms across his chest. “Excuse me, but I’m a fucking adult. I don’t need a babysitter?—”
“You’re a fucking adult who overdosed six months ago. Don’t blame me for fillin’ her in on your life-threatening tendency to launch off the deep end at any given moment.”
Rage lit in his chest. He pursed his lips, staring through Pru, through their shitty new motorhome, through the blinding blue sky, and ignored Shay’s winded sound. Ignored how Shay whipped toward him. Ignored his furiously small, “What. . . ?” and the weighty silence that followed.
So, OxyContin? Bad shit. But it’d made Aiden feel absolutely nothing, and he’d spent a good six weeks trying to achieve the deepest nothing he could.
The day he’d gotten there, reached peak void, he’d blacked-out at a party and Georgia had dosed him with an opiate-reversal.
He’d woken up two days later in a hospital bed.
Camila had slapped him, hard, and sobbed, and kissed his cheeks, and slapped him again.
Georgia had cried over him. Dylan, too. And he hadn’t touched opiates since.
“You weren’t around, Bennett,” Jacob said, venomously. “Anyway, doesn’t matter. Past lives, past choices, past hospital bills. Pru, meet Knight’s Blood—Georgia Williams, Dylan Fisher, Aiden Moore, and Shay Bennett—Knight’s Blood, meet Prudence Domínguez. Oh, and Sherlock, her rat-cat.”
“Ferret,” Pru corrected, and rolled her eyes. “It’s a pleasure.”
Aiden gave a curt nod. “Well, I’m getting coffee.
” He walked away, escaping the unspoken burden he’d placed on Knight’s Blood.
He kept his face tilted toward the dirty asphalt.
Chewed on his lip. Wandered aisles until embarrassment stopped curdling in his stomach and grabbed a pre-bottled Frappuccino from a refrigerator at self-checkout.
Six months ago, post-overdose, he’d ditched a band-mandated ninety-day wellness program—cute celebrity coding for rehab —four days after the first group session.
Georgia had stomped and yelled, and Dylan had said something stupidly supportive like we just want what’s best for you, man , and Thomas, freshly acquired after vocal auditions, hadn’t paid any attention.
Aiden couldn’t blame them for being hyper-fucking-fixated on him, but it’d been long enough, hadn’t it?
He’d paid his dues. Proved he had zero interest in anything opioid-adjacent.
Kept his shit together on stage, played killer sets, showed up on time for rehearsals.
He hadn’t climbed the self-pity staircase (Step One, admit you’re powerless.
Powerless? Yeah, no, Aiden would rather choke), but everyone had made gross, shameful mistakes—an irreversible moment, a deliberate fuck-up—and Aiden had spent months convincing Georgia, Dylan, Camila, and Jacob that overdosing had been his big, undoable oops .
That was before Shay, though.
Ritual sacrifice redefined oops .
He paid and left, sipping his sugary almost-coffee, and slowed to a stop, leaning against the empty side of the RV, listening.
“No one fucking told me. You didn’t tell me, Georgia. He almost died and no one?—”
“Oh, don’t even, Shay,” Georgia hissed. “You were off cuttin’ new tracks with Chain while we took care of him, all right?
Yeah, he hit a low. Real low. But don’t act like we owed you anything after you left us high and dry.
If Aiden wanted you to know, he would’ve told you, all right?
He got himself together and that’s what matters. ”
Dylan cleared his throat. “Sort of together. Like, marginally together. We’re not afraid he’s gonna die anymore, at least.”
Aiden swallowed around a jagged lump.
“You could’ve called me. Could’ve sent a text—something, anything.
This isn’t some. . . some. . . random asshole we knew in high school.
This is Aiden, okay? I would’ve dropped everything, I would’ve, I—I would’ve been there.
” She stomped out a cigarette. “What happened? Like, what did he actually do? ” he asked, breathless.
Jacob sighed. Dylan did, too.
“Took enough oxy to kill a horse,” Georgia mumbled.
“Chased it with a fifth of Grey Goose. Coma for two days, ditched rehab, promised he’d chill out.
We thought he might’ve hit a rut last week.
He got wasted again—like, wasted wasted—wasn’t sleeping, started gettin’ angry.
You know how he is, but he bounced back. Always does.”
“Jesus,” Shay whispered.
Aiden sniffled. Pawed at his nose and pushed his sunglasses into place, shielding his eyes.
They could talk about his vulnerabilities.
Wallow in the wreckage his accidental-suicide-attempt had left behind.
But he didn’t have the energy to cry about it, to beg for forgiveness, to look at Shay and lie.
I was just partying, like he hadn’t been searching for an escape hatch.
No big deal , like he didn’t remember his muscles seizing and twitching.
Shit happens , like he hadn’t swallowed his own vomit to make sure the drugs stayed in his system.
I’m fine, like he didn’t wish he could go back, turn his overdose into a ritual, and return with black eyes.
He walked around the back of the RV and flashed a toothy grin.
“Still alive, guys,” he said, faking laughter, and climbed into the dented motorhome. “Are we going or not?”
Shay itched his chin. “Let’s just go, c’mon.”
Jacob clapped. “Enjoy the bus, play icebreaker games, bond as a semi-legitimate rockband, do whatever the hell you want, but write some new goddamn songs. New music, new album—new album, radio retention. Understood?”
“Easy, Jake. We’ll get you some music soon,” Georgia said.
“Soon as in now ,” Jacob snapped. “Pru, shoot ‘em if they get crazy.”
Pru popped her chewing gum. “Got it, boss.”
Dylan cooed at the ferret. “Can I hold him. . . ?” And made another baby noise as Pru handed over the slinky weasel. “Oh, you’re totally our mascot—hey, guys, Sherlock’s the band mascot!”
The living space inside the RV wasn’t terrible.
A sunken brown couch stretched behind the driver’s seat, followed by a booth-table beneath a curtained window.
The dollhouse kitchenette housed a shallow sink and a narrow refrigerator.
Aiden peeked into the bathroom on his way to the bedroom, separated by a fold-out door with a loose lock, where an unpackaged set of white sheets sat atop a ratty mattress.
He immediately tore open the packaging and pulled the bottom sheet into place .
Behind him, the folding door shut.
“Can we talk?” Shay asked.
Aiden kicked off his boots and crawled onto the bed. “Nope.”
The motorhome rumbled to life, lurching as Pru hit the gas.
Light came through the retro windows and warmed his back.
Aiden turned his face toward the passing desert.
Ignored the bed dipping under Shay’s weight and the residual embarrassment churning in his gut.
Music played from the stereo, and Georgia and Dylan talked with Pru in the front cabin.
He was well acquainted with their hushed voices and low whispers, the sad sighs and explanations.
He draped his jacket over himself like a blanket, hiding his face under the collar.
“Aiden, c’mon.” Shay flopped on his back and blew out an irritated breath. “So, you OD’d.”
“So, I OD’d,” Aiden mumbled, and refused to acknowledge the spider-light crawl of Shay’s eyes on his bomber jacket. “It was stupid, okay? I know, I get it. I’ve heard the speech already, like, twenty different times.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When was I supposed to tell you? Before I stabbed you, when you broke into my apartment, or last night? It’s not important. It happened, it’s done, I’m fine.”
“Are you? Because Georgia said?—”
“Georgia doesn’t know shit.”
“Look, Georgia and Dylan?—”
Aiden ripped the jacket away and flipped over. “Saw me, literally, lose my mind, okay? That was then, this is now. It’s not like I ran off to find oxy. I had a nervous fucking breakdown in my apartment. The end. Case closed.”
“A nervous breakdown?”
“Yes, Shay. Gross-crying, white girl wasted, puking in the shower, nervous breakdown. I’m not fucking proud of it, but I’d…
” He paused, swallowing hard. “Made the worst mistake of my life, and you were gone, and I wanted to tear my own skin off because of it. They saw the result, not the reason. Can we be done? I’m done. ”
Shay frowned. “Don’t rituals need, like, solid intent to work? Like, don’t you have to not regret it to?—”
“Yes, dumbass. That’s why you didn’t stay dead,” Aiden snapped . I needed you more. He turned onto his back and glared at the smooth, wood-paneled ceiling. “Anyway, I don’t fuck with opiates anymore, so everyone can chill. Happy?”
“Not really.” Shay grabbed his wrist, holding him. “You act like I suddenly stopped knowing you. You don’t like downers, you never have. So, why oxy?”
Aiden flexed his jaw. His focus narrowed to their shoulders, touching, and Shay’s hand, squeezing. “Tried something different.”
“Aiden.”
“What do you want?” he snarled, resting his cheek on the fresh sheet. “Last night, you told me you’d wished it’d been me in that bathroom?—”
Shay moved too quickly for him to process.
One moment, Shay was beside him, looking at him, nose to nose, then he had Aiden pinned, clutching both wrists, straddling Aiden’s hips.
Fingernails nipped his skin. Cigarette breath fanned his face.
Shay snapped his teeth, fangs bared. “I wished it would’ve been you, because I would’ve stopped .
Now, tell me the truth. For once, just tell me?—”
“What? That I lived after trying to die? Yeah, you’re not the only one who should’ve stayed dead.
I can’t seem to get that shit right for anyone.
” His chest knotted painfully. He tipped his face toward the window, inhaling an unsteady breath.
He’d told the truth, mostly. The unspoken was harder, though.
Complicated. He hadn’t wanted to die, but he hadn’t stopped himself either, and he’d spent too long trying to decode why . He’d lived. That’s what mattered.
Shay went limp. He rested his forehead on Aiden’s temple. Fingers unlatched, slipping over Aiden’s palms. His voice changed. Softened. Right then, they were younger. Fifteen. Sixteen. Scared of each other, obsessed with each other. “You’re okay, right? Now, I mean. You’re okay now?”
“Define okay.” Aiden curled his pointer finger thoughtlessly, feeling across Shay’s knuckles.
“Should I be worried?”
“No,” Aiden said, gently, like they were friends again. Like they were something else. “You’re the only one allowed to kill me, I guess.”
Shay nosed at his cheek, tipped his head, and kissed Aiden.
Oh , Aiden thought, then, like always, Shay .
He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he cracked them open again, wading through pleasant warmth, surprised but not.
Enraptured. Arrested. Completely fucked, honestly.
Shay had kissed him hard, but not hard enough.
A sure, firm press, close-mouthed and polite, stolen like a breath.
His parted lips hovered just out of reach, but their palms met, hands tightly clasped.
Slowly, he lowered his mouth to Aiden’s ear, and said, “I’m the only one allowed to kill you. Period.”
Aiden refused to nod. His face burned; body wrought with undefinable want.
Shay clipped his ear as he pulled away and climbed off the bed. He raked his hand through his hair, unlocked the fold-out door dividing the bedroom from the rest of the RV, and walked into the living area, catching himself on the table as the RV bounced through a pothole.
Aiden rolled onto his side, pulled his jacket over his head, and brought his knees to his chest, staring through the window at the desolate landscape.
He licked his lips. Chased remnants of stale smoke and beeswax balm.
Tried to slow his heartrate and failed miserably.
He closed his eyes, asked for sleep, and begged, silently, not to dream of him.
Of them, together. Of a future with Shay Bennett.
He did, though.
Aiden dreamed of kissing Shay on Sunday mornings. Arms wrapped around his waist in a spacious kitchen they never used. Slow sex in a shadowy shower. Teeth, sharp, buried in his throat.