Chapter 6
OF ALL THE GIRLS IN LA
JESSE
Dangerous by Sleep Token
Fuck. Oh god, I fucked up.
The taste of her is still on my mouth. Peppermint and sunshine, and the way she kissed me like she’d been waiting for it without knowing what she was waiting for.
My hands curl into fists against my knees.
Five years I’ve kept my distance. Five years of sitting across rooms from her and swallowing every impulse to close the gap.
And in thirty seconds behind a mask, I undid all of it because I wasn’t strong enough to walk away when she was standing right in front of me.
My pulse hammers in my throat as I force myself to keep moving.
I turn the corner and slam directly into Stella, who grabs my arm with surprising strength.
“What the fuck was that?” She hisses, tugging me toward an alcove where Tommy and Luke are huddled near a side door. Tommy’s jaw tightens with unmistakable disapproval. Dylan stands nearby, phone pressed to his ear, free hand gesturing impatiently.
I can’t focus on their reactions, my head spinning too fast to process the words. I count the floor tiles as I walk: one, two, three, four.
“Where the fuck were you?” Luke demands. “We’ve been waiting for ten minutes.”
I don’t respond. Can’t respond. The words seem stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
Dylan ends his call and shoves his phone into his pocket. His eyes narrow when he spots me, flickering toward my chest where I notice the paint smudges visible beneath the partially unzipped jacket.
“What the hell happened to you? We have a protocol for a reason,” he hisses. “Security’s cleared the back alley, but we need to move.” He uses his Dad voice.
Fuck, I’m in trouble.
I nod mutely, still unable to form coherent words. My breathing comes in short, rapid bursts.
“Let’s move.” His voice sounds distant, like he’s speaking through water. He mutters under his breath, “It’s like herding toddlers.”
The exit becomes a chaotic scramble. None of our usual coordination, just a rushed dash through the narrow service corridor.
Tommy stalks ahead, shoving the exit door open with unnecessary force, muttering under his breath about “sticking to the goddamn plan.” We burst into the alley where a nondescript SUV waits with the engine running.
We pile in. Dylan in the front passenger seat, the rest of us crammed in back. One of Stonewall’s security guys, Mike, sits behind the wheel, stoic and silent as always.
The air inside is thick with adrenaline and stage sweat, the AC barely cutting through the summer heat.
“What the hell were you doing?” Stella hisses beside me. “I saw you with some girl backstage.”
I shoot her a warning look, silently pleading for her discretion, but it’s already too late.
Dylan twists around to face us, brow furrowed. “Wait? What happened?”
“Our fearless leader was making out with some random chick backstage,” Tommy cuts in, his voice sharp with disapproval. “While I was waiting by the exit like a good boy.”
“What, are you looking for a cookie?” Stella asks.
“I’ll settle for your cookie, Sugar Tits.” Tommy winks but then turns back to me with a glare.
Luke’s eyes flick between us, his expression carefully neutral. “Not exactly aligned with our anonymity protocol,” he observes. “Quite reckless, actually.”
Dylan’s face hardens. “What. The. Actual. Fuck.” He enunciates each word. “The whole point of this Silent Revenant thing was anonymity, remember? Or did you just decide to torch everything we’ve built?” He drops his head into his hands.
“The way I see it,” Tommy says, leaning forward, eyes flashing with irritation, “if he gets to break protocol for some groupie, why are the rest of us still playing by these rules?”
I tip my head back slightly and inhale a slow, measured breath. With deliberate movements, I reach up and pull the mask from my face. I level my eyes on Tommy, my voice coming out low and steady. “She isn’t ‘some groupie’. It was Joey.”
Dylan whips his head around. “What the fuck was she doing at a show?”
“So you got her name before you shoved your tongue down her throat. How evolved,” Tommy scoffs.
I drop my voice lower. “Maybe if you stopped seeing every woman at our shows as a potential hookup and started treating them like actual human beings, you might experience a real connection for once. It’s called respect, something you clearly need to work on, both for women and yourself.”
I lean in further. Stella puts her hand on my arm. “I don’t want to have to remind you just how replaceable drummers are in this town. There are a hundred guys in LA who can keep time behind a kit, and none of them would be stupid enough to insult my girl.”
Your girl? Dylan mouths and I ignore him, leaning back into my seat.
Tommy’s eyes widen as he swallows hard, clearly calculating whether to push back and evidently deciding against it. He slumps back against his seat, a sullen set to his jaw as he stares fixedly out the window.
Stella lets out a low whistle beside me. “That was surgical.” She gives a half-smile that doesn’t quite mask her surprise. “Should we hold a memorial service for Tommy’s ego, or just scatter the ashes?”
“Let’s all calm down,” Luke says quietly, his eyes flicking between Tommy and me.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. My hands shake slightly in my lap, like foreign appendages I can’t quite control. I start counting my fingers silently: one, two, three, four, reverse, trying to slow the racing thoughts.
“Did you invite her?” Dylan demands.
“No! God, no,” I say, the denial bursting out. My knee bounces against the car door. “I had no idea she’d be there.”
“Then how the fuck did she end up backstage?” Dylan presses.
“Look, she kissed me,” I say defensively, but I know it’s a weak excuse.
Dylan’s expression shifts from irritation to something more knowing. “You’ve never been able to keep your head straight when it comes to her.” He turns back around. “Did she know it was you?”
The car turns onto Sunset, the traffic slowing to a crawl. I catch Dylan watching me in the rearview.
“No.”
“Oh God, I don’t want to think about her kissing random masked men backstage at sketchy venues,” Dylan whines. “Maggie, yeah, but Joey?”
Yeah, I didn’t want to think about that either.
“What happens if she shows up at the next one?” Dylan asks.
I shrug, trying for nonchalance because I honestly didn’t know how I felt about it. “It’s a free country. She’s just like any other fan who buys a ticket.”
Dylan snorts. “Right. Because you’ve proven to have such incredible willpower.”
“Shut up.” I turn my head to stare out the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. My breath fogs the window in irregular patterns that match my heartbeat. Eight, nine, ten breaths.
“Man, of all the girls in LA…” Dylan says, his voice softening.
“I know,” I groan, dropping my head into my hands, fingers digging into my scalp until pain radiates across my skull. “I’m so fucked.”