Chapter 16
sixteen
CASS
The crowd at the front of the stage is a churning, sweaty mass of energy.
Just the way I like it.
Especially today.
This is my safe space. The one place where the fear of being a fraud recedes and the chaos is mine to control.
The place where no guy can touch me. And as I attack my guitar with brutal precision, bending a note on the high E until it screams, it’s a welcome distraction from the raw, jagged mess inside my chest.
Because even here, I can’t escape the reality.
He’s not here.
You wore his jersey.
You kissed him in front of everyone.
You made him look good, made him one of the guys, and where the fuck is he?
You thought it might have been real?
Ha! You fucking idiot!
The thought is a serrated blade dragging through my brain. I shove it down with another furious chord progression, the distortion blooming through my amp—the good part, the warm breakup that makes the notes sing—even as my band shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat.
I lean into the microphone, snarling the last verse, and the crowd responds with raised fists and guttural screams. They love this. They love the performance, the spectacle of the angry punk girl with the torn fishnets and the fuck-you attitude.
But they don’t love me.
Nobody does.
Even though I’m pushing the tempo beyond our usual, the guys are keeping up.
Joel’s bassline thrums through my ribs, steady and relentless.
Milo’s drumming is a machine, driving us forward with a precision that should be comforting.
And for a few bars, despite the rage in my stomach, everything clicks into place.
I stomp my boot on the monitor wedge, leaning into the feedback.
I’m in control. I’m a god. This is where I belong.
My eyes sweep the crowd for what feels like the hundredth time, searching for a flash of chestnut curls, for the telltale bulk of a 6’4” frame that can’t hide even when it tries. Nothing. And this time, it’s not the Kellerman Retreat, because to retreat means you need to show up first.
He got what he needed from me and moved on.
The pattern holds, doesn’t it?
I transition into the bridge, my left hand hammering out a rapid-fire riff that’s all sharp edges and aggression.
The strings dig deeper into my fingertips, and I welcome the sting.
Physical pain is clean. It’s simple. It doesn’t lie about what it is or pretend to be something more.
It doesn’t judge me and find me wanting.
A guy in the second row is filming me on his phone, the screen’s blue glow illuminating his face.
I want to smash it out of his hands, but instead I bare my teeth at him as I hit the final, sustaining chord.
Leaning into the feedback, bending the note until it’s a primal scream that fills the entire bar.
This is it. The perfect, chaotic crescendo.
The moment where the whole room should erupt.
And then my amp revolts.
The beautiful roar collapses into a piercing, ugly squeal of uncontrolled feedback, a shrieking wail that tears through the bar.
I yank my hand off the strings, but it doesn’t stop.
The feedback loops on itself, climbing higher and higher, a public humiliation broadcast to every single person in this room.
No. No, no, no—
A few people in the crowd wince, their faces scrunching up. Someone near the bar actually covers their ears, turning away. The guy who was filming lowers his phone, his expression shifting from excitement to something that looks uncomfortably close to pity.
I whip around, my hands shaking as I fumble for the volume knob on my amp, my fingers slipping on the metal ridges. I twist it hard, killing the signal, and the squeal dies with an abrupt, graceless thud that somehow feels worse than the noise itself.
The moment is shattered.
The magic gone.
Across the stage, my eyes meet Joel’s.
He shakes his head, his jaw tight, his expression a final verdict.
Amateurish.
The word the professor used echoes in my skull, now confirmed by my own gear’s betrayal. And as I force myself to turn back to the crowd, I realize the energy in the room has shifted. A few people clap, the sound scattered and obligatory, already dying before it can build.
The set is over.
I head for the edge of the stage, but Joel intercepts me, kicking the leg of a cymbal stand with enough force to send it wobbling, the sharp metallic clang cutting through the bar’s post-set noise. People nearby glance over, then quickly look away.
“You said you’d fix it three weeks ago,” Joel hisses, his voice low and venomous, his face inches from mine. His dark eyes are hard, unforgiving. “You looked me in the eye and said ‘I’m on it, Joel.’ So why is it still humming like a busted refrigerator?”
He yanks a power cord from the wall with violent emphasis, the plug ripping free and dangling uselessly in his hand.
“The Troc called,” he continues. “They listened to our live tape. They called us a garage band. Like we’re three kids who can’t tune our own gear.
” He throws the cord down, and it hits the floor with a pathetic slap.
“That amp is killing us. It’s killing our shot at anything real and you won’t do anything about it. ”
The words land like physical blows, each striking the nerve the professor hit.
“Joel—” Milo’s voice, low and warning, cuts through from behind his drum kit.
But Joel ignores him, his focus laser-locked on me. “It was the Troc, for fuck’s sake,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost sad, and somehow that’s worse. “It was a real shot at something bigger than dive bars. You’ve got all the talent in the world, Cass, but deep down… Fuck, I don’t know.”
My eyes burn hot with tears I refuse to let fall. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s landed a bullseye on my already fragile state. I open my mouth to respond—to tell him to fuck off, to defend myself, to say something—when a movement at the edge of my vision makes me freeze.
Ben.
He’s stepping forward from behind a pillar near the back of the bar, his massive 6’4” frame moving toward the stage with deliberate purpose. His curls are a mess, damp and sticking to his forehead, his face flushed and sheened with sweat like he ran here, and his green eyes are locked on me.
For a split second—a dangerous, traitorous second—a flash of pure attraction cuts through the rage.
Sharp. Immediate. Unwanted. The solid weight of him, the protective set of his broad shoulders, the way his jaw is clenched tight.
The fact that he’s moving toward me like he’s ready to step between me and Joel.
My body responds with a warmth that blooms low in my stomach, an ache I immediately, viscerally hate.
But I shove the feeling down, and rage wins out.
The professor’s condescension, the public humiliation of the feedback loop, Joel’s accusation—it all coalesces into a single, white-hot point of fury.
Something inside me snaps.
Suddenly, sadness and self-loathing catalyze into an angry, wild, desperate need to burn something down before it can hurt me first. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want rescue. I don’t want Ben Kellerman standing there looking at me like I’m something broken that needs fixing.
I need to destroy things before they can destroy me.
I launch to my feet, my voice a snarl. “Fuck you, Joel.”
Joel’s eyes widen, genuine shock flickering across his face.
“Fuck the Troc,” I continue, my voice rising, louder, harsher.
“And fuck this arrangement where I’m supposed to grovel and beg and fix everything while you stand there and criticize, never lifting a finger to organize a practice or book a gig or give me one fucking ounce of the benefit of the doubt. ”
I whirl on Ben, who’s frozen at the stage’s edge, his hand half-raised like he was about to call my name, his expression open and concerned and so goddamn earnest it makes me want to scream. Those green eyes are wide, vulnerable, looking at me like I matter and like the kiss mattered.
Liar.
“And fuck YOU too.”
The words are loud.
Public.
Vicious.
The bar isn’t silent—there’s still music from the jukebox, some classic rock ballad—but the people closest to us have stopped talking and turned to watch. I see it in my peripheral vision: heads turning, eyebrows raising, gossip starting, phones lifting.
Ben’s face goes pale, shock and hurt flooding his expression, his mouth opening soundlessly. His hand drops to his side, and for a moment, he just stands there, this enormous, powerful athlete rendered completely motionless by three words from a girl who barely reaches his shoulder.
Without another word, I turn my back on both of them.
I don’t look at Joel’s stunned expression or Milo’s wide eyes behind his kit or the scattered faces of the crowd that’s now definitely watching, recording, judging. I hop off the stage and shove through the last of the stragglers, my shoulder colliding with some guy in a PBU lacrosse polo.
“Hey, watch it—” he starts, his hand reaching out.
I don’t stop. I don’t even look at him.
No doubt, if I did, he’d find some reason to be disappointed.
I weave through the tables, my pulse hammering in my ears so loud it drowns out the jukebox, the conversations, everything. The bar’s sticky floor seems to grab at my boots with every step. I need out. I need air. I need to be anywhere but here.
I wrench the heavy bar door open, the cold night air hitting my face sharp and shocking.
The door slams shut behind me, cutting off the bar’s noise and leaving me standing alone.
My breath comes in short, ragged gasps and my hands are shaking from adrenaline, from rage, from the knowledge of what I just did.
You just burned it all down.
I start walking. Fast. My boots hit the pavement in a sharp rhythm, the sound echoing off the empty storefronts that line this stretch of North Campus.
It’s late enough that the street is mostly deserted, just a few scattered groups of students stumbling home from other bars, their laughter distant and meaningless.
I don’t know where I’m going.
Away. Just away.
Away from Joel’s disgust, from the public failure of my gear, from the professor’s condescension still ringing in my ears. Away from the sick certainty that I’m a fraud who doesn’t belong in the music program, who doesn’t belong on a stage, who doesn’t belong in this university at all.
Away from Ben Kellerman and the traitorous, stupid hope that maybe the kiss at the party had been real. That maybe for once, a guy had looked at me and seen past the performance to the person underneath and actually wanted that messy, broken thing.
The tears I’ve been holding back all week—through the professor’s critique, through the amp failure, through Joel’s accusation—finally break free, hot and stinging as they streak down my face. I swipe at them with the back of my hand, furious at myself for this weakness, but they keep coming.
The cold air burns my lungs. My band shirt is still damp with sweat, clinging to my skin, and now the chill is seeping through, making me shiver. I should have grabbed my jacket from backstage. I should have done plenty of things differently tonight.
I should have gotten a job instead of coming to this fucking university.
I should have fixed the amp weeks ago when Joel first asked.
I should have never let any of those guys get close.
I should have never worn Ben’s jersey.
I should have never kissed him.