Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“After the. . . ? No, I just felt empty.” Me, without you , he thought. What a fucking mess .
Shay went still for too long, searching his face. He set his knuckles against Aiden’s cheek, then his forehead. “We’ll cut rehearsal short. Head back to the hotel, eat something, get some rest?—”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll be fine.” He lifted his shirt again, peering at blush-colored scratches.
Pain remained, steadily aching in each raised track, but no new marks surfaced.
Whatever Laura had done, she’d finished.
He imagined someone grabbing him. Clawing, hitting, flailing.
Trying to get away. “I saw Georgia with her throat torn open,” he murmured, and smeared a red droplet gathered in the center of the deepest scrape.
He blew out a breath and dropped his shirt, drying his hands on his jeans.
“I need a shower, like, a scalding shower.”
Shay sighed, like always. “Please, let me take you back to the hotel.”
“If I leave now, Georgia’ll drag me to urgent care. I mean, can you imagine? Hey, doc, yeah, just some mild stomach pain. Ignore the random definitely-not-demonic scratches. Oh, and the holes in my neck? Totally normal sex thing.” He shouldered through the door.
“Look, you’re not wrong, but?—”
“But nothing. If I almost faint again, catch me.” The rakes across his belly stretched and stung, but he kept walking and pulled out his phone. Shay took his empty hand—squeezed twice.
Aiden Moore: any word from your *interesting friend
That Bitch Ass Psychic: Tomorrow. Meet me in the lobby at 11 a.m.
Aiden Moore: sound check is at 4. we’ll be done before then?
That Bitch Ass Psychic: Probably. You’re buying coffee.
Aiden Moore: fine
Muffled voices filled the suite on the other side of the bathroom door.
“You think he’s okay?”
“He’ll be all right.”
“Just needs rest.”
“Pretty sure I have a heating pad in the RV. Maybe that’ll help?”
Aiden peeled the transfer paper off a band-aid and placed it over the closed gash on his neck.
He stacked two more, hiding a starburst of broken blood vessels and four pinhole punctures.
He’d soaped his body in the shower. The red trails along his stomach had faded, leaving red peaks where fingernails had shoveled into his skin.
He rubbed lotion over freshly shaved flesh and moisturized his face.
Closed his eyes and slid a syringe into the top of his thigh, breathing through the familiar pinch, push, retract of his weekly testosterone dose.
He shoved the used needle into a red medical case on the counter.
Unwrapped another band-aid and slapped it onto his hip, trapping a red bead.
How many times had he stood in a bathroom, washing away blood, bandaging wounds? He glanced at his reflection—pitted eyes, battered body, bitten neck—and looked away before someone else appeared.
Knuckles gently rapped the door. “Aiden? You doin’ okay?” Pru asked .
He stepped into his joggers, pulled a shirt over his head, and opened the door. “Hot shower helped.”
“I know it’s not the same, but my plumbing’s screwed up, too. Doc thinks it’s endometriosis.” She shook a bottle of extra strength Ibuprofen. “Couple of these and a shot of Patron. You’ll be golden.”
Aiden cracked a smile and tossed two pills into his mouth. “Thanks, Pru.”
“De nada. We’re about to call Jacob,” she said, tipping her head toward the main room, fixed with matching queen beds, curtained windows, and a vintage desk.
Aiden eased onto the bed next to Dylan and propped his back against the headboard.
Shay spun in the wheeled desk chair, doom-scrolling on his phone, and Georgia opened her laptop, clicking around until Jacob’s meaty, stubbled face appeared.
He squinted behind his reading glasses, dressed in a terrible Hawaiian shirt.
“Hey,” Jacob barked. He glanced around the screen. “Where are you? Where is—oh, there. How’s everything goin’? I touched base with the hotel manager. They’re crediting Shay for two nights, rights? I’ll scream if they don’t, I swear to God. They’ll never hear the end of it.”
Georgia placed the laptop on the desk, angled toward the crowded room, and smashed her finger on the volume key. “Yeah, that’s the best they could do, I guess. There’s a bunch of reporters wandering around outside, and they’ve got the courtyard roped off. We’re okay, though. Just freaked.”
“Good, good. Glad to hear you’re okay. Now.
. .” Jacob shoved his phone at the screen, open to a picture of Aiden and Shay pressed together on a dancefloor.
The Instagram caption read: Knight’s Blood sighting!
! Holy shit, do we ship it? 2.1k likes. 139 comments .
“What the fuck am I looking at? I know that’s not Aiden Moore and Shay Bennett, because if that is Aiden Moore and Shay Bennett, I’ll have to get on a plane, fly to Louisiana, and throw you both through a window.
Tell me this is photoshop. I swear on Jim Morrison’s grave?—”
“They’re dating,” Georgia said, matter-of-factly.
Shay gathered a breath, as if he intended to speak, and sighed instead.
Aiden turned his gaze to the ceiling. “It’s not a big deal,” he bit out, and picked nervously at his nailbeds. “We were dancing at a club, oh well.”
“Oh well?” Jacob hooted. He waved his finger and leaned closer. Every single one of his teeth filled the screen. “ Oh well?! Prudence, shoot them. Right now. I’m not messin’ around. Shoot them!”
Pru—that backstabbing bitch—pawed excitedly through her unnecessarily large purse.
Shay whipped his head back as if he’d been struck, mouth rounded in a confused ‘o’.
Aiden got to his feet, standing on the bed with his shoulders pushed toward his ears, and hopped to the floor, hollering, “I’m hurt, okay?
Don’t shoot me—Pru, do not shoot me!” He backed into the hallway, hands outstretched toward motherfucking Prudence Domínguez and the airsoft gun clasped in her steady hands.
“I’ll punch a girl! I’m so fucking serious right now, Pru.
If you shoot me— ow , Jesus Christ!” Wind whistled around the plastic ball.
He howled, falling against the wall as the pellet struck his leg, like being flicked with a rubber band at close range.
Dylan’s laughter sent him tumbling off the bed. Georgia cackled and wiped her teary eyes, pointing at Shay as he dove for the closet. Pru shot him twice in the back, earning a string of high-pitched curses.
Jacob laughed, full-bellied and awful, and applauded.
Sherlock hopped toward Aiden, inspecting him with a twitching nose. Aiden groaned, annoyed, and cradled the ferret under his chin. “You’re a dick,” he snapped at Pru, and got to his feet, setting Sherlock on the nearest bed. “You’re fired.”
Pru flipped him off. “You didn’t hire me; you don’t pay me.”
Shay fumbled to touch where he’d been shot, reaching blindly over his shoulder. “So, that was bullshit. What the hell, Jake?”
“Listen, dipshits, I’d bet my left testicle you kill each other long before the honeymoon.
If you two decide to glorify your misplaced affection while you’re on the road, I can’t stop you.
But you’re in a goddamn band, on a goddamn national tour, and it’s my goddamn job to make sure every major record label and music venue in America knows who you are.
You’re gothic, hot, single sex symbols,” he said, jabbing his finger at the screen.
“This is a new age we’re livin’ in. You wanna be public?
Fine, be public. But if you get caught with your dick out, you better be with that trashy, gutter-mouthed asshole right there.
I’m serious, Bennett. And you, Moore, pretty boy, if you get caught with your dick out, you better be with that backstabbing, GQ-wannabe sitting next to you.
Because if you two get with other people without making your indiscretion an orgy-level, pornographic couples’ escapade, your fanbase will turn on you like rabid dogs.
You’re not people , okay? You’re posters on someone’s bedroom wall.
You’re a fantasy. You ruin that fantasy? You lose fans, we lose money.”
“Damn, no sex tapes?” Aiden asked, teasing at a smile.
Shay blushed from his throat to his forehead.
Jacob, surprisingly, considered that. “Paid platform?”
Aiden laughed so hard his stomach hurt.
“We’re not doing that ,” Shay mumbled, and palmed Aiden’s face, pushing him backward. “Anyway, can we move on?”
“Fine, yes. Now, shut up and gird your loins,” Jacob snapped, adjusting his glasses. “Next stop is New York. We took over the SummerStage in Central Park, Chain Reaction’s old tour slot. Don’t panic, that’s still happening, but I need you to listen, okay? Listen very fucking carefully.”
Aiden hiccupped through lingering chuckles and narrowed his eyes, rubbing the sore spot on his calf. Shay exhaled, defeated, and Georgia sat straighter, squaring her shoulders. Dylan sipped his vape pen. They exchanged worried glances, collectively preparing for the worst.
Finally, Aiden said, “Out with it, c’mon!”
“Lewis O’Malley, lead singer for Illicit Affairs, blew his vocal cords. I got a call from a festival rep yesterday, and, well, long story short, you’re playing HellFest with Killswitch Engage, Disturbed, and In This Moment at Madison Square Garden,” Jacob said, calmly.
Silence held the suite in a chokehold. Aiden dug his fingers into the bed beneath him, feeling for the edges of a dream.
He was awake, though. So, so awake. His heart slammed, crowding into his throat until he opened his mouth and a bewildered what?
tumbled out. He grabbed Shay’s thigh, then his forearm, and turned to stare at their bandmates, seated on the opposite bed.
Dylan coughed, exhaling white vapor. “Holy shit, guys.”
Everything erupted. Georgia jumped on the bed, shrieking and laughing.
Aiden climbed over pillows and rumpled comforters, and swung his arms around her, sending them both to the floor.
Dylan whooped and whistled, and Shay laughed, hard and loud.
They yelled and grinned, hugged and tripped over each other, and Aiden thought, we did it, I did it, we’re doing it.
Georgia smacked her lips to his cheek. Jacob hollered through the speaker on the laptop, jabbering about extended rehearsals and a rush merchandise order, and said he’d be there for the show.
“I’ll send promo material to the band e-mail, all right? Update your social media accordingly,” Jacob said, projecting his voice over the ruckus in their suite. “No needles, no hospitals?—”
“Don’t get anyone pregnant,” everyone shouted, together and at different times, and dissolved into laughter.
They ordered room service, like proper rockstars.
Oyster shooters at midnight. Shoe-string fries, steamed seafood, and crispy alligator steak.
Sat in their pajamas, reminiscing about the beginning.
All those mid-day festival slots and dive bar gigs, ditched classes and warehouse raves.
Spending Easter with Dylan’s grandmother, and sneaking Georgia out of her house in the Redondo suburbs.
Camila crashing parties and dragging Aiden home, and Shay arriving at his window minutes later, hauling him into the wild again.
“To Knight’s Blood,” Georgia said, and lifted her beer. “I love you, assholes. Even you,” she said, and tipped her Guinness toward Shay. “To our fuckin’ future.”
They clinked their bottles and Aiden thought, I better live to see it.