70-Kit
I rip the earpiece from my head and bolt offstage.
The last notes of soundcheck still vibrate through the floorboards. I know I’m not supposed to search her out—the contract states it in bold, underlined, and legally threatening print. If anyone stops me, I’ll say it’s for a last-minute interview. That’s the rule.
None of that matters when I’ve felt her absence like missing limbs.
Paint drying stiff on my skin, I move through the backstage corridors. At the loading ramp, Cooper stands beside the familiar rusted white van, leaning casually against the door.
My heart kicks against my ribs in a painful thud.
“Oh, cool,” he says, straightening when he notices me. “Just the man I needed to see—"
“Zach.” I shake my head, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “I need to speak with her.”
He swallows; Adam’s apple bobbing as his black brows knit. My spine snaps straight.
“Um, I know it was kind of last minute, but I figured someone would’ve told you.” He shifts his weight like prey realising it wandered too close to a predator. “She’s gone.”
The air leaves my lungs in a single, brutal punch.
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Easygoing confidence drains from his face as I stare at him through the mask.
“I’m covering the last leg of the tour. Alone.” Cooper’s wide jaw works like he’s chewing up what more he has to say for the sake of professionalism. “Don’t worry, though, she left some really thorough notes…”
I turn on my heel and stride back inside, cloak snapping behind me. They fired her. This was her bloody fucking project, and they fired her.
Because of me.
It takes me precisely two minutes to find Trayvon, our tour manager, headset around his neck, clipboard in hand, barking orders at three people at once.
“Is it true?” I hiss. Grabbing him by the braces, I shove him against the wall. “Did they take her off the project?”
“Whoa, whoa,” he sputters, prying my hands off him. Red paint smears across his powder-blue shirt like a stab wound. “Calm down!”
“Answer me.”
“No one took her off anything. She chose to leave,” he snaps, straightening his shirt as I let go. “Damn, boy—get your shit together before I whoop you a new one.”
He reclips the loose brace to the front of his trousers, shooting me a glare that’s equal parts pity and warning before he walks away. Someone might as well have reached into my chest and ripped out my heart with their bare hands.
She left.
My legs fail me, and I’m sinking. I hit the floor, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. The mask presses uncomfortably against my face, trapping my choppy breath. Vibrating beneath me, the bass echoes from the stage through the floors. My thoughts spiral, reaching for anything to hold onto.
Like a breeze through a cracked window, a voice brushes the edge of my consciousness.
“Have hope and let her go.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard Endymion in days. Just as quickly as it comes, it fades, like water slipping through fingers.
Forcing air into my lungs, I swallow hard. Paint seeps into my eyes, stinging them. I tilt my head back against the wall and stare up at the ceiling, the industrial lights blurring into a smear of white.
She left because she needs to grow. Alone.
I’ve spent years hiding behind Judas, running from Kit to avoid the parts of myself that hurt too much to look at. Zach’s doing the opposite. She’s choosing to face herself.
And as much as it shatters me, I can’t fault her for it.
Gently, carefully, I hold on to my will. For once, for her, I can let go. Because loving someone means wanting them whole.
With or without you.