Chapter Fourteen
A iden rested his back against the window, seated on the table between the two booth-benches in the RV, picking at strings on his acoustic guitar.
It was a classic starter Fender, covered in stickers from festivals, skate-shops, and comic conventions.
He’d put it on his Christmas list eleven years ago, half his lifetime ago, and found it wrapped in a festive bow at midnight on Christmas Eve.
Abuelita had paid for lessons. Camila had threatened to destroy his amplifier once he’d saved enough for his first electric guitar, and his mother had blamed music and peer pressure, linking his bound chest and short hair to guttural screamo and power-metal.
They fought, as all families did. Cried at each other, howling and yipping like animals from different continents, trying desperately to understand each other, to warn each other, to withstand each other, until finally, on a normal, rainy Tuesday, Blanca called him mijo.
The memory lived in his elbows—how quietly and casually she’d claimed him. He remembered lying in her lap, her hand combing through his hair, droplets streaking the window, Camila singing in the kitchen, and the feeling, bright and new, sinking into his chest: Love is indomitable.
Shay sat on one side of the booth, hunched over a spiral-bound notebook, drumming a mechanical pencil on Aiden’s socked foot. “Anyone check iTunes today?”
“Glory is sitting at. . .” Dylan trailed off, scrolling through his phone. “Number sixteen on the Alt-Rock chart. Not too bad.”
“Alt-Rock?” Aiden wrinkled his nose. “We’re, like, solidly Heavy Metal.”
“Some people call us Pop Punk,” Shay corrected. He tapped the pencil against the flat bill on Aiden’s snapback. “Can’t blame ‘em.”
Aiden rolled his eyes and kicked the notebook off the table.
Shay glared at him, exhausted.
They’d left Los Angeles six hours ago, embarking on the long-distance leg of Knight’s Blood's first national tour. Aiden held his rosary in his mouth, nibbling on the chunky garnet cross, and strummed his guitar.
Strange, he thought, to be at the beginning of something extraordinary.
“What about Never Say Die?” Georgia asked, sitting on the other side of the booth.
She glanced at Aiden, Shay, then leaned off the bench to look at Dylan, lounging on the couch with Sherlock in his lap.
“For the new album? What if we call it Never Say Die? It’ll vibe with the lyrics.
We’ve got songs about necromancy, Nazg?l, rising from the ashes, forbidden romance, malevolent fire-eyeballs. . . It could work, yeah?”
“I like it,” Pru said from the driver’s seat.
Shay tipped his head, nodding thoughtfully. “Has a nice ring to it. We can match the single to the album title.” He ran his finger along the sole of Aiden’s foot. “What do you think, dipshit?”
Aiden squirmed and flattened his foot against the table. “ Don’t tickle me,” he spat. Shay smirked, reaching for his foot again. Aiden kicked his hand, and said, “Yeah, I like it, too. It’s a good segue— stop it .”
“Great!” Georgia grabbed the notebook off the floor and scribbled NEVER SAY DIE above a list of new songs, some scratched out, some underlined.
“We’ve got lyrics, we’ve got. . . some music.
A title. After we finish this, we’ve got a new fuckin’ album, guys.
” She smacked Aiden playfully on the shin. “Our first full-length album!”
Dylan held Sherlock above his head. Little white paws dangled from the ferret’s slouchy body. “Hear that, Sherlock? We’re the real deal now.”
“Almost,” Shay said, matter-of-factly.
Aiden pushed at Shay’s cheek with his sour toes, and said, “Close enough.”
Shay grabbed his foot, thumb sinking into his arch.
Aiden yelped. He toppled into the booth next to Georgia, kicking mercilessly. His heel clipped Shay’s jaw, and a raspy groan followed. His guitar made a distorted noise as it smacked the table.
Shay laughed—one, surprised hah —and rubbed his face. “Ouch. . . That hurt, dick.”
“You asked for it,” Georgia said.
“Yeah, dick ,” Aiden sneered. He wrinkled his nose, shifting until his legs were draped over Georgia’s lap.
They spent the next ten hours writing music, munching on gas station snacks, and napping in the bedroom.
Pru drank an obscene amount of energy drinks—like, obscene —and Dylan, bless him, rolled two joints with strawberry-flavored paper.
They smoked, laughed, fell into each other whenever the RV hit a bump in the road, sang along to the new lyrics Shay had written, tossed kettle chips into each other’s mouths, and fought over the last slice of truck-stop pizza .
Aiden tried to nap after Dylan vacated the bedroom, curling beneath an array of blankets and pillows.
He ignored the fold-out door opening moments after he’d claimed the bed.
Pretended not to notice Shay crawling in next to him.
Dismissed breath on his nape and fingers sneaking over his hip.
Kept his eyes shut as Shay prodded him in the ribs.
Aiden jerked. “What?”
“I looked up that thing. Tukákame—did I say that right? Whatever. Camila thinks I’m a zombie from the underworld,” Shay whispered.
“You’re not.”
“What if I am?”
“You’re. Not .”
“Okay, but?—”
“We talked about this. My sister is convinced I’m a brujo because she’s a bruja. Surprise, I’m not. Which means you’re definitely not a Mexican ghoul.”
Shay heaved a sigh, sending hot breath over Aiden’s neck. “The ritual you used?—”
“Hodgepodge. I pieced it together.”
“Aiden, you did something?—”
“Oh, thank you. I had no idea, Shay. What a relief, having you here to remind me.”
“So, what? We still don’t have a goddamn clue?”
Aiden flopped until they were nose to nose.
His chest twinged. Close , his heart said, and reached.
So, so close. “Look, I asked the devil—Lucifer, good ‘ol Black Phillip, my main man Satan—for a favor. Whatever happened after that, whatever went wrong mid-transaction, that was. . .” He paused to chew on the inside of his cheek. “Kelly said that was you , okay? Not me. I didn’t bring you back.”
“Oh, we trust the psychic now? Good to know,” Shay said, biting the words at him. “So, what? You think I’m a demon? C’mon. I’m obviously not a demon.”
“Obviously not,” Aiden said. He pushed his finger between Shay’s lips and prodded a fang.
Shay snapped at his hand. “I’m not, like…” He exhaled hard. “I’m not powerful .”
“You broke open a ribcage.”
“So?” Shay asked, childishly.
“You lifted me off the ground?—”
“You’re built like an alley cat. I could’ve done that before.”
Aiden kicked him. “ Anyway . Demonic possession is a thing?—”
“I’m not possessed—I’m changed. I’m changing .”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Aiden said, softer than he’d meant to. “I don’t know what you are, okay? I don’t know what to call you. Did you send flowers?”
Shay nuzzled the pillow, lit by brake-lights beaming through the window. “Yeah, I did.”
“Feel better?”
His mouth curved into a disgusted frown. “No. Do you?”
“Just glad I’m not the one in a body bag,” Aiden said. “Can I get some sleep now?”
“I sincerely don’t know how you sleep, but go for it,” Shay said.
Aiden closed his eyes. He stayed quiet for a moment, lulled by the rumbling engine. “Why’d you kiss me?” he asked, hushed and accidental, on the cusp of dreaming.
“Same reason you did,” Shay said.
“To distract me?”
“We should stop lying to each other,” he said, and dragged his finger down the slope of Aiden’s nose.
Aiden swallowed. “Wasn’t a lie.”
“Wasn’t the truth either. ”
“Since when has the truth mattered?”
“Always mattered.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Shay.” Aiden opened his eyes.
His nostrils flared. Fear and fury and relentless hope knotted in his chest. For so, so long he’d wanted this—this moment, this revelation, this confession—but now that he had it, right there, right in front of him, he couldn’t understand why or how . “I kicked you off a cliff, remember?”
“And I almost tore your throat out,” Shay whispered, dusting his lips across Aiden’s mouth. “I’ve always been easy for you, Aiden Moore. Stop acting like you didn’t know it.”
Aiden froze. The heaviness winding in his stomach worsened, and his throat cinched. Of course, Shay Bennett, wanted by everyone, adored by everyone, chased by everyone, would challenge Aiden’s bruised and vicious heart. Fucking typical .
“Now who’s lying?” Aiden asked, and promptly rolled over.
Shay sighed and mirrored his movement, rolling onto his side.
He shuffled backward until their shoulders touched.
Quiet enveloped the bedroom, disrupted by the barely-there echo of electronica thumping through the speakers in the front cabin.
Aiden found himself listening with his body—tracking every breath Shay took, the rise and fall of his shoulders, the mindful bend in his ankles as he shifted his hips against the sheets.
He didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he did.
Thankfully, he didn’t dream.
The shuttle Jacob had arranged whisked Knight’s Blood to the Red Rocks Amphitheater an hour before soundcheck, leaving Pru and Sherlock to sleep off the sixteen-hour drive.
Aiden stood outside the green room and puffed on a cigarette, watching the sunset bleed on massive, rust-colored stone.
Rocks rose like square wings on either side of the arena, fissured with deep, horizontal cracks.
He leaned against the natural stone behind the stage and crossed his ankles.
“Thought you quit those.” Georgia melted from the backstage doorway and leaned against the wall beside him.
“Social smoking isn’t smoking ,” Aiden said.
She flapped her matte-black lips. “Can’t call it social when you’re by yourself, fool.”