Epilogue
Ace
One Year Later
A s I sit in this cramped little room, a backstage pass weighing heavy around my neck, the memories come crashing down on me, relentless and sharp. It’s been years since I’ve thought about those days—when we were just the fucking opening act for one of the biggest bands in the world. That gig was the turning point. It didn’t just change the game; it catapulted us from obscurity to the top. And now, as I get ready to watch Scarlet’s band, I feel it deep in my gut—they’re on the brink of that same kind of explosion. They’re not just good—they’re fucking incredible. There’s no question in my mind that they’re about to take over, just like we did.
But sitting across from me… This fucking guy. The lead singer’s boyfriend, who’s been glued to his damn phone the entire time he’s been here. Not a single ounce of interest in what’s happening around him, no excitement in his eyes. It’s like he doesn’t even grasp how huge tonight is for his girl. It pisses me off—how clueless some people can be when they’re right on the verge of something that could change their whole fucking life.
Each of the band members were only given one backstage pass for the night. Tomorrow, Nate will be Scar’s plus one, and the night after, it’ll be Theo. What she doesn’t know, though, is that the guys are already sitting out there in the stadium, dressed in their ridiculous disguises, ready to lose their shit cheering her on from the crowd.
As I sit here, waiting for someone to take us to the wings of the stage so we can catch the show from the side, my eyes wander to the massive bouquet of flowers I brought with me. A smirk tugs at my lips, and I shake my head. I remember a time when I thought guys who bought flowers were either completely fucked up or just plain pussy-whipped. But damn, if that isn’t me now. And you know what? I don’t give a shit. Not one bit.
I’d do anything for Scar. If that means this tattooed, rough-around-the-edges asshole is walking around with a bouquet of flowers for his girl, then so fucking be it. She’s worth every second of it. Hell, anyone who’s got a problem with it can catch a fist to the face. That’s where I’m at now. She’s mine, and I’ll do whatever it takes to show her that—every damn day.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out, already knowing who it is.
Nate: How is she?
I quickly type back my answer, my thumbs moving fast.
Ace: Good. She was fucking pumped. They're gone now, so the show should kick off soon.
I can practically picture them now, sitting there like a couple of dickheads, waiting for the show to start. Nate with his black wig, doing his best to look incognito, and Theo, of course, rocking that ridiculous seventies pornostache, like he’s about to start the next big trend. The guy’s a fucking trip. He doesn’t care about the weird stares or whispers—hell, he thrives on it. Always has. That’s just Theo.
The door swings open, and this young guy strolls in, looking like he’s just walked into the holy grail of backstage moments. He’s got one earbud in, clipboard clutched in his hand like he’s managing the damn Grammys. The second he spots me, his face lights up like I’m Santa Claus about to drop off his Christmas gift.
“I’m here to take you out to the wings so you can watch the show. But first, can I snag a photo with you, Mr. Roberts?” He’s already heading my way before I’ve even got a chance to respond, phone out, ready for his moment of glory.
The douche sitting across from me finally lifts his head from his phone, his brows pulling together as he tries to figure out who the hell I am.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, standing up from the couch.
“I’m a huge fan of your band,” the young guy says, tilting his head toward me for the selfie. He snaps the photo, quickly tucking his phone back into his pocket with a grin. “Thanks, man,” he adds, then motions for us to follow him. “Alright, this way.”
I fall in step behind him, the bored douchebag reluctantly following along. I know damn well I could find my way to the stage on my own, but tonight isn’t about me—it’s Scarlet’s night. It’s her show, and I’m here to support her.
As we make our way through the narrow corridors, crew members spot me. Some shout my name, others give quick fist bumps or nods.
“So, you’re in a band?” the douchebag finally pipes up, walking next to me.
I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah. Something like that.” My tone is flat, dismissive. I’m not in the mood for a conversation with this guy. Earlier, when Scarlet left and I was bored, I tried to make small talk—he ignored me, glued to his phone. Now that he thinks I’m someone important, he suddenly wants to talk. Fuck that. I channel my inner Xander, giving him nothing. Let him take his fake interest and shove it. I’m not here to boost his ego.
He doesn’t stop with the questions, probing relentlessly about who the hell I am, but I shut him down with short, disinterested responses. By the time we make it to the stage and the clipboard guy leaves us in the wings, I’m already losing my patience.
“Listen, asshole,” I snap, my voice low but cutting. “I’m here to watch my girl and enjoy the show, not answer twenty fucking questions. So, back the fuck off.”
He blinks, clearly thrown off, but I don’t give him the chance to reply. My focus is already back on the stage, waiting for the only person who matters to step into the spotlight.
And then I see her—drumsticks in hand, sitting behind the kit—everything else fades away. The idiot beside me. The background noise. It's just her and this moment, the one she’ll remember for the rest of her fucking life, just like the four of us do.
As Scarlet sets up behind the drums, she looks towards me in the wings, her eyes locking onto mine. I catch a brief flicker of nerves, but it’s gone in an instant. She takes a steadying breath, and when I give her a nod, I see the small, reassuring smile on her lips.
That look. It says everything. She’s about to give it her all, and I know she will. I’ve seen her step in and crush it before.
As the lights dim and the guitarist counts them in, I watch Scarlet take one last deep breath, steadying herself. I know she’s got this. She’s played in front of eighty thousand people before. This smaller venue should be a fucking breeze.
Grab Book 3 in the Broken Oasis Series – Seven Lost Summers