40. The M Word
40
THE M WORD
FELIX
Versions of Forever By Matt Hansen
“W hat the fuck is on your face?” Bash points at me.
“What are you talking about?” I grumble.
“Hey, Gunner,” Bash laughs, ignoring my question as he calls over his shoulder. “You were right, Sasquatch is real.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t scare the audience,” Gunner chuckles.
“Fuck off,” I huff, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth before finishing off the rest of the water. I’m not sure how many days it’s been since I last shaved, but it’s not like I’m growing a forest here.
“He fucking killed it out there,” Dex’s voice cuts through the noise as he pushes his way between us. “So long as he keeps doing that, leave him the hell alone.” He holds his fist out to me, and I bump it without hesitation.
I did kill it out there—we all did. The rush of the crowd, the lights cutting through the haze of smoke, the deafening roar of voices singing our lyrics back at us—it’s the kind of high that doesn’t fade easily. Every night, we’ve been leaving it all on the stage, and tonight was no different.
“Besides, I kind of like that I’m the pretty one now,” Dex adds with a cheesy grin.
“VIP party in the craft tents,” Dusty interrupts. “Get your asses moving.”
“Since when do we do after parties?” Gunner calls after him.
“Since Paper Skies isn’t the only band people are coming to these festivals for anymore,” Dusty replies. His gaze flicks between the four of us before landing on me. His lip curls. “Felix, a shave maybe?”
“My face, my choice,” I shoot back, jutting my chin out defiantly, and Dex spits out his water, damn near spraying us all.
“Contrary to what you might believe, imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery,” Dusty retorts, stroking a hand down his own beard with exaggerated pride. “Fucking shave.”
“No.”
I toss my towel aside and reach for the short-sleeved black button-down I’d discarded during the show. The house music pumping through the amphitheater is a dull thrum in the background, mingling with the sound of fans funneling out and others pushing in for the next band. The energy is still electric, buzzing in the air like static.
“Fuck yeah,” Bash pumps his fist.
Dusty turns and walks away.
Bash’s grin is infectious, but I can’t quite bring myself to match it.
“’Bout time we got in on this shit. I haven’t been laid since Nashville,” Bash says, rubbing a towel over his damp, messy hair. I blink and glance away, the mention of Nashville hitting me like a sucker punch. My chest tightens, and I force the memory back into the mental vault where I’ve been trying to keep it locked.
“Unless you count your fist,” Gunner quips, his voice sharp and teasing. He smirks as Bash’s hand snaps out, smacking him on the shoulder.
“Ha-ha,” Bash deadpans, rolling his eyes. “Real original.”
“What makes you so sure you’re getting laid?” I ask, my tone flat as I glance sideways at him.
“Are you kidding?” Bash snorts, his grin wide and cocky. “I’ve heard the other bands talk. These parties are a buffet of pussy.”
I scoff, shaking my head, the sound echoing faintly in the narrow backstage tunnel as we start walking.
Bash lifts the collar of his t-shirt to his nose as we move, sniffing dramatically. “Wooo! I stink. I better hit the shower first.”
“Don’t even bother. No fangirl is coming near you anyway,” Gunner fires back, his grin wicked.
“Good thing I’ve got a wingman, then,” Bash counters, undeterred, throwing an arm around my neck.
“Jesus, you do stink,” I groan, shoving his arm off me.
“Felix will hook me up,” Bash says, grinning. “Now that Mag?—”
“ Don’t say the M word,” Dex cuts in sharply, his hand slicing through the air in a warning gesture. My back stiffens instinctively, and I clench my jaw to keep my expression neutral.
“Whatever,” Bash mutters, waving Dex off like he’s swatting a fly. His grin returns quickly, unshaken. “Felix is a girl magnet. He can reel them in and push them my way. Just like he did with Ivy and Dex.”
“Fuck. No,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intend.
“I take offense to that!” Dex interjects.
“You heard Dusty,” Gunner chimes in from behind us. “We’ve got to meet and greet and all that fun shit.”
I sigh, the sound long and drawn out as my shoulders sag slightly. This is happening whether I want it to or not. “For how long?”
A chorus of shrugs answers me, none of them offering anything close to reassurance.
The thought of socializing right now feels like a bad joke. My thoughts are a tangled mess, a storm I can’t seem to quiet, and there’s no outlet for it at an after-party. No guitar to pour it into, no melody to drown in.
Then the alternative creeps in—the idea of another night alone on my bus, staring at the ceiling and fighting the urge to pick up my phone. Fighting the urge to scroll through old texts or listen to voicemails I should’ve deleted.
The only thing keeping me afloat lately is staying busy. Velvet Drift’s rise in popularity has been a blessing and a curse—radio interviews, meet and greets, local TV spots. They’ve all kept me moving just fast enough to stay ahead of the ache. And now, apparently, a VIP after-party.
“Alright, fuck it,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “There better be alcohol at this thing.”
Anything is better than enduring another night in my bed, where Maggie’s lingering scent whispers of what’s been lost.
* * *
The craft tents glow softly under the warm, golden embrace of ambient bistro lights strung overhead. The transformation is striking, but the vibe is still chaotic—a beer garden with loud-as-hell top 40 music blaring through the speakers.
We step inside, and it’s a blitz of handshakes, camera flashes, and sharpie markers scrawling across everything from shirts to bare skin. It’s a sensory overload, but I’ve learned to fake the smiles, pose for the pictures, and play the part. As soon as my role in the circus is over, I slip away to a high-top table in the back, propping my elbows on the sticky surface and letting myself sink into the shadows. The whiskey in my glass is my only company, and I let its slow burn chip away at the storm brewing inside of me.
The rest of the guys are still making the rounds, basking in the adoration. Gunner’s already latched onto some groupie, his arm draped over the back of her chair as he leans in close, saying something that makes her laugh too loud.
“Hey.” Bash’s voice cuts through the thumping bass. I find him standing next to my table with a tall brunette at his side. Her perfume wafts over—something floral and sharp—and she’s got that eager, wide-eyed look I’ve seen a thousand times before.
“This is Tiffany,” Bash announces, gesturing toward her like he’s presenting a prize. “She wanted to meet the Velvet Drift frontman.”
Tiffany clasps her hands together in mock prayer and looks up at Bash with exaggerated gratitude. “Thank you so much,” she says, flashing a wide, toothy grin.
“You’re giving up my hiding spot now?” I ask, and he shrugs, but I can sense a little bit of unease coming from him.
She slides into the seat across from me. “What are you doing, hiding in the corner?” she asks, her tone teasing.
I lift my glass in a half-hearted toast. “Ah, that’s the question of the night,” I say before taking another sip, letting the whiskey coat my tongue.
She tilts her head, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s determined to solve. “After that performance, I’d think you’d want to celebrate.”
“Hell yeah,” Bash says. I wish I could share his enthusiasm.
I give her a small laugh, more out of politeness than amusement. Celebrate—that’s a foreign concept these days. The whiskey does a better job of soothing me than any congratulations ever could.
“You have an old-school sound,” she continues, her voice gaining a little more confidence. “It reminds me of something like Off Script, maybe a little Fable.”
I nearly choke on my drink at her words, and Maggie fucking Morgan’s voice echoes in my head, sharp as glass and just as cutting. I grimace, shaking it off and forcing a small, tight smile.
“You seem to know your music,” I say, the sarcasm coming out unbidden.
“Well, I actually have a podcast,” she says.
“Have I heard of it?” I already know I won’t recognize it.
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “It’s called‘Crossed Wires.’” She looks at me expectantly, but I shake my head.
“Sorry,” I admit.
“It’s okay,” she says, unbothered, her smile unshaken. “It’s only just started picking up traction. But I love music, and I love interviewing artists.”
“Just picking up traction?” Bash chimes in. “Crossed Wires has like a million listens.”
“I do alright,” she says, trying to be coy and failing.
“Oh?” I ask, faintly curious despite my better judgment. “So, you’re here to get in with Paper Skies?”
“Hopefully,” she says with a nod, her tone earnest. “But I know better than to pass up an opportunity. I won’t overlook up-and-comers.”
“That’s very noble,” I say flatly, taking another swig of whiskey. My hand shoots up to signal the server for a refill.
“You know, Paper Skies started out just like you, but the problem is, when they got big, their sound changed,” she says, leaning forward slightly, her voice cutting through the music. “It’s like they’re trying too hard to appeal to a wider audience. I don’t think that’s the way to go.”
“You don’t, huh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She gives an embarrassed laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. A faint blush creeps up her cheeks, visible even in the dim light. “I’m not trying to be critical,” she says quickly, launching into a hyper-specific example of one of their earlier EPs versus their latest album. Her enthusiasm barely registers with me as my mind starts to wander.
“So, would you be interested?” she asks eventually, leaning on her folded arms to recapture my attention.
“What, in an interview?” I ask, though the thought of answering questions about music right now feels as appealing as reopening a freshly healed wound.
She nods eagerly, chewing her bottom lip slightly, oblivious to the storm brewing behind my eyes. “Yeah, I think it’d be great. I’d love to hear more about your process—your inspirations as a band—all the juicy stuff.”
I set my empty glass down harder than I intended. “Why me?”
“Not just you, but the guys too. Like I said before, I like up-and-coming bands,” she says with a faint grin. “I like to say I knew them before they got too big.”
What she means to say is that she likes to get all the juicy stuff before the band gets too big and has their guard up, but I’m not playing this game. The me-before-Maggie might’ve been ecstatic at this opportunity, but tonight, all I feel is a leaden resignation sitting heavy in my chest. This was the kind of exposure—free press—that could help catapult Velvet Drift forward. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. My heart isn’t in it. My heart, in fact, is still somewhere else entirely… somewhere in that mess with Maggie.
“So, what do you say, rockstar?” she smiles, and her choice of words runs through me like ice.
I clink my glass against hers, the sound sharp and final. “Appreciate the offer,” I say, downing the rest of the whiskey in one go. The burn is sharper this time, but I welcome it. I set the empty glass down with a clunk. “But I’ll have to pass.”
“What?” Bash stands up and I glance at him, outrage all over his face, and I narrow my eyes at him. Of all people he should know what I’m going through right now.
I turn back to Tiffany, trying my hardest to keep my composure. “And don’t call me rockstar.”
Tiffany’s brow furrows, hinting at both confusion and disappointment. “You’re seriously turning me down? Why?” She crosses her arms, an edge of frustration creeping into her tone. She isn’t used to being brushed off—either for her supposed charms or the professional opportunity she’s dangling in front of me.
I shrug, letting out a dry laugh that’s void of any real humor. The truth feels too heavy to say out loud. Instead, I lean into the kind of deflection I’ve perfected over the past couple of days. “Not really in the mood for interviews these days,” I say, trying not to sound as bitter as I feel.
“But this could be good for you,” she presses, her enthusiasm dimming but not extinguished. “You’ve got a sound. A rawness that people can connect with. Hell, I connected with it. I wouldn’t be sitting here otherwise. I only bug artists I think people need to hear.”
“Dude, this could be good for the band,” Bash argues, and I ignore him.
Her lips press into a thin line. “If you’re not into the podcast, that’s fine,” she says finally, her voice losing its spark. “But you’re kidding yourself if you really think hiding in corners and dodging chances like this is gonna work long-term. You’re good, but good isn’t enough to get noticed these days. You have to play the game.”
I don’t have the energy—or the desire—to care. “Thanks for the feedback,” I mutter over my shoulder as I turn toward the exit, Bash hot on my heels.
“Hey!” she calls after me, and I glance back reluctantly. This time, her expression is softer, less defensive. “I didn’t mean to push,” she says earnestly. “I am serious about the interview, though, if you ever change your mind. No games, just music.”
She pushes the business card to the edge of the table and Bash snatches it up, giving her an apologetic smile that grates on my nerves. Like he needs to apologize for my behavior.
I nod, not trusting myself to say anything else, and push through the crowd, the muffled sounds of the after-party fading behind me as I step into the cool, quiet night.
“Felix, what the fuck?” Bash catches up to me.
“Don’t start with me.” I shake my head with a glare that causes him to step back, holding his hands up. My expression softens because it’s not Bash’s fault, and I know this.
“Look, I just need…” I don’t know what the fuck I need.
Bash exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. “You just need what? To keep drinking yourself into oblivion? To keep walking away from opportunities that are actually going to help the band?” His words come out harsher than I think he intends, but they hit their mark regardless.
“Bash,” I growl, low and warning. He’s teetering dangerously close to a line I don’t want him crossing. “Not now.”
“Not now?” he snaps, stepping in front of me and forcing me to stop in my tracks. His eyes are sharper than I’ve ever seen, an unfiltered mix of worry and anger. “When, then, Felix? When? You’ve been doing this—whatever the hell this is—for days. Maggie left and it was shit but you’re letting this eat you alive.”
“Don’t,” I say, my voice low but shaky. Maggie’s name is like a match, threatening to ignite everything I’ve been barely keeping together. “I get out there and perform every fucking night and we kill it, so if I don’t want to do a damn interview then just accept that.”
Bash throws his hands up and I walk around him toward my bus.
* * *
I shrug out of my clothes and crawl across my bed to the pillows. Rolling onto my back, I fix my gaze on the ceiling, surrendering to the whiskey buzz even as I wrestle against it.
At last, the alcohol takes command, urging me to give in to the temptation I battle with every passing hour and reach over to the side table drawer where I keep my phone, switching it on. The screen comes to life and there it is, the message I couldn’t bring myself to read.
Maggie: I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you.
I stare at the message while rubbing my thumb over the smooth surface of the phone. Part of me wants to tell her not to message me again and the other part wants to tell her that I’ve been thinking of her too—that every time I’m on stage I look to the empty spot where she should be, that I miss her cocky as fuck attitude, her smile, and the little sigh she used to make when she woke up in my bed and stretched like a cat.
I start to tap out a text.
Me: I miss you
I delete it.
Me: Stop texting me
I delete it.
Me: …
My heart feels like an open wound, unable to mend as long as I live and breathe for these fleeting messages. I’m a fucking mess. I clutch the phone in my hand and lay my arm across my forehead.
I look up at the ceiling, feeling my heart pound in my chest angrily, and then throw the phone across the room.