24. Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Vince
The roar of the crowd still echoes in my ears as I towel sweat from my face backstage. Nashville’s sold-out Bridgestone Arena has always been good to us, but tonight’s energy was on another level entirely. My fingers ache pleasantly from two hours of pushing every riff to its limit, my body humming with post-show adrenaline that has nowhere to go.
Five days into the tour, and I still haven’t adjusted to the strange emptiness that follows each performance. Before Jasmine, before Quinn, this was when the night truly began—the after-parties, the women, the blur of faces and hotel rooms that melded one city into the next.
Now, I find myself counting the hours until I can FaceTime them, watching the minutes tick down to Quinn’s nightly call or text. Like last night’s: ‘Jasmine was a doll. She grabbed for your photo again today. Hope the tour is going well. I miss you madly.’
“Killer show, man,” Luke says, clapping me on the shoulder as he passes. “You were on fire tonight.”
I nod, distracted. During the final encore, something caught my eye near the front row—a flash of blonde hair. A face that triggered something in my memory. But when I looked again between guitar riffs, whoever it was had disappeared, swallowed by the crowd.
“You coming to the bar?” Sam asks, already changed into fresh clothes. “Nate found some fancy whiskey he wants us to try.”
“In a bit,” I tell him, reaching for my phone. “Going to call home first.”
The word slips out naturally now. ‘Home’. Not my house. Not Quinn’s apartment. Home.
Sam gives me a knowing smile. “Tell Quinn we said hi.”
After a quick shower, I’m heading through the now-empty backstage area when a familiar voice stops me cold.
“Savage! No fucking way!”
I turn to find Davis Matthews grinning at me, arms outstretched like we’re long-lost brothers. His lanky frame is draped in the same kind of designer clothes he always wore, his sandy hair artfully tousled in a way that probably took an hour to achieve.
“Davis,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
He laughs, pulling me into a back-slapping embrace that reeks of expensive cologne and whiskey. “Playing with Pixie’s opening act now. I caught your show from the wings. Still shredding, I see.”
Davis and I used to tear up the road together when Pixie Cane’s tour crossed paths with ours. He was Pixie’s lead guitarist until rumors of their toxic relationship and his public meltdown got him kicked out of her pop band. The last time I saw him was that night in Austin—the one Cass so helpfully reminded everyone about at dinner the other night.
“Yeah, it was a good crowd,” I say, already calculating my escape route.
“Good crowd means good hunting,” he says with a wink, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “There’s an after-party at this club downtown. The VIP section is already reserved. Just like the old days—remember Austin?”
I remember that night in Austin all too well. I remember waking up in a hotel room with no idea how I got there, a woman whose name I couldn’t recall gathering her clothes in angry silence, and Davis laughing about how we’d narrowly avoided arrest for public indecency, among other charges. I still don’t know exactly what went down that night.
“Can’t, man, not now,” I say, holding up my phone. “Got to make a call.”
Davis’s eyebrows shoot up. “A call? Since when does Vince Savage choose a phone call over premium pussy?”
The crude term lands like a slap, jarring against the person I’m trying to be. “Since I had a kid,” I tell him, pulling up a photo of Jasmine on my phone. “My daughter.”
Davis blinks at the image, genuine confusion crossing his face before it settles back into his practiced smirk. “No shit? Well, bring the phone. Make your call, then join the party. Plenty of girls asking about you already.”
“I’m with someone now,” I say, tucking the phone away. “It’s serious.”
He laughs like I’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “Right. Vince Savage settled down. And I’m joining a monastery.”
I turn my phone toward him again.“Her name’s Jasmine,” I explain. “She’s seven months old.”
He barely glances at the screen. “Cute.” He throws an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, man. One drink. For old times’ sake.”
I should say no. Everything in me knows I should say no. But five days of responsible behavior, of missing Quinn and Jasmine, of trying to ignore the doubts in my head—the part of me that wonders if I still crave the chaos—weakens my resolve just enough.
“One drink,” I concede. “Then I’m out.”
The club is exactly what I expected—too loud, too crowded, too eager to please the VIPs being ushered to the velvet-roped section at the back. I check my watch as a waitress sets a tumbler of amber liquid in front of me. Still twenty minutes until Quinn’s usual call time. One drink, then I’m gone.
“So who’s the baby mama?” Davis asks, signaling for another round before I’ve even touched mine. “Someone we know?”
“Just a girl from a show,” I say, not wanting to share Jasmine’s story with him. “It’s complicated.”
“Isn’t it always?” He laughs, scanning the crowd with predatory eyes. “Check out the stacked blonde at the bar. Reminds me of that pair of sisters in Nashville. Oh, the racks on them. You remember?”
I don’t, actually, which probably speaks volumes about the person I used to be. I take a small sip of my drink, watching as Davis flags down the busty blonde and her friend, inviting them to join us with exaggerated charm.
“Ladies, this is Vince Savage,” he introduces me, his hand already finding its way to the small of the blonde’s back. “Lead guitarist for the Wild Band. You might have heard of him.”
The women giggle, clearly thrilled to be singled out. The brunette slides into the booth beside me, pressing her thigh against mine in a way that’s unmistakably intentional.
“I was at your show tonight,” she says, leaning close to be heard over the music. “You were incredible.”
“Thanks,” I reply, subtly shifting away. I pull out my phone, checking the time again. Fifteen minutes.
“Playing hard to get?” she asks, misinterpreting my disinterest as a game. “I like that.”
Across the table, Davis has the blonde practically in his lap, whispering something in her ear that makes her blush. The familiar scene—one I’ve participated in countless times—suddenly seems tawdry and hollow.
“Sorry,” I tell the brunette. “I’m actually seeing someone.”
Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch. “Doesn’t look like your friend is bothered by the attention.”
“My friend and I have different priorities.”
Davis catches my eye, giving me a look that clearly says ‘What the hell, man?’ before returning his attention back to the blonde.
“Ladies, why don’t you both go powder your nose? I want to talk to my buddy here.”
After the women leave together, Davis leans toward me. “You should take the blonde when I’m done—she’s into guitar players,” Davis smirks, his voice slurring slightly. “We could swap halfway through the night. Like the good old days in Colorado, remember?”
The total disrespect for the women and casual degradation in his tone makes my skin crawl. Is this how I used to sound? Is this who I used to be?
My phone buzzes with a text from Quinn: ‘Call whenever you’re ready. I just came home to pacify Luna after Jasmine went to bed.’
Attached is a photo of Jasmine in her crib, clutching her stuffed elephant, Quinn’s freckled hand visible at the edge of the frame.
Something inside me shifts, a clarity cutting through the haze of nostalgia and habit. I stand abruptly, startling the girls who just returned from the restroom.
“I need to go,” I announce, dropping cash on the table for my barely touched drink.
Davis looks up, genuine confusion on his face. “What? Man, we just got here.”
“I have a call to make.” I gesture to the women. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”
The brunette pouts. “You’re really leaving?”
“He’s gone soft—pussy whipped,” Davis stage-whispers, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of both of you. Just means more for me.”
I resist the urge to defend myself, to explain that it’s not duty but desire that pulls me away. Instead, I simply turn and push through the crowded club toward the exit, Davis’s laughter following me like a ghost from a past I’m desperately trying to outrun.
The cool night air hits my face as I step onto the sidewalk, bringing with it a sense of relief so profound it’s almost dizzying. I start toward the hotel, already imagining Quinn’s face on my screen, when I spot her—a blonde woman in a flowered skirt, exiting the club, then turning the corner half a block away.
Something about her silhouette, the way she moves, sends a chill down my spine. I turn and quicken my pace, an inexplicable urgency driving me to follow her, but by the time I reach the corner, she’s gone.
I stand there, heart racing, eyes scanning the sparse late-night foot traffic. It couldn’t be. What would she be doing here? Why would she be at our show? Why do I think it may have been Daisy—Jasmine’s mother just because we’re in Nashville?
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. Quinn, probably wondering why I haven’t called yet. I should answer. I should tell her what I saw—or what I think I saw. But the words stick in my throat.
What if it was Daisy? What if she’s back? What does she want?
And more terrifying still: What would it mean for the fragile happiness I’ve finally found?
I reach the tour buses, but instead of going in, I start to pace restlessly, unable to shake the image of that mysterious woman. I dial Quinn’s number, my heart racing as her face appears on the screen, her smile immediately calming the chaos in my mind.
“Hey, rockstar,” she greets me, her voice soft in the dimly lit bedroom. “Good show?”
“Great show,” I manage, forcing a smile. “How’s our girl?”
“She crawled today, Vince.” Quinn’s face lights up with excitement. “Actually crawled—she got halfway across the floor before collapsing into a heap.”
My heart sinks even as I try to match her enthusiasm. “She did? You got it on video, right?”
“Of course. I’ll send it after we hang up.” She shares her phone screen briefly, and the paused video shows Jasmine on her hands and knees. “Grace and I both screamed so loud we probably scared her, but she was so proud of herself.”
I swallow hard, the weight of what I’ve missed settling heavily in my chest. Jasmine’s first crawl. Another milestone I missed—but this one I could have been there for.
“You okay?” Quinn asks, peering closer at the screen. “You look... off.”
My throat tightens. I should tell her. About Davis, about the club, about the woman I think might be Daisy. But what if I’m wrong? What if it was just some random blonde, and I’m letting paranoia get the best of me?
“Just tired,” I lie. “Missing you both like crazy.”
Quinn’s expression softens. “Five more days. We’ll be here waiting.”
As we talk about her day, about Jasmine’s newest achievements, about nothing and everything, I try to push away the nagging doubt. But as I finally hang up, promising to call at the same time tomorrow, my mind replays that fleeting glimpse. The blonde hair. The flowered skirt. It suddenly hits me with sudden clarity—the flowers were white and yellow daisies.
It could have been Daisy. Jasmine’s mother. The woman who left our daughter on my doorstep with only a note and disappeared.
As I wearily board the silent bus to get ready for bed, one thought refuses to leave:
What if Daisy’s back? And what if she wants Jasmine?