9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Willow
By the end of the week, I am ready to stab someone with my pen.
Damon, mainly. The man has a gift for getting under my skin and settling in for good. Every time he leans back in that expensive studio chair, folds his arms, and tells me the song doesn’t bleed enough, I want to throw my notebook at his perfectly styled head.
Fuck him. I bled when I wrote it. I bled when I dragged the words from places I try not to touch.
Six days of that shit is enough to send anyone insane. Six days trapped in a recording studio with four men, not enough sleep, and a manager who thinks emotional torture is a valid creative process.
By Saturday night, my patience is gone, my brain is static, and my heart feels like it has been used as an ashtray.
Two hours ago, I had no intention of leaving my apartment because I have a deep respect for my cozy pajamas.
Then Jax started.
Jax: Come out.
Jax: You need alcohol, loud music.
I ignored him, but he didn’t take the hint and sent another.
Jax: Willow Hart, I know you are fucking reading these.
Jax: Do not make me come over there.
Jax: Actually, make me. I need the exercise.
The voice messages arrived next because apparently text messages didn’t give him enough room to be a pain in my ass.
“Willow,” he said. “You have spent six days locked in a studio with Damon’s bullshit, Phoenix’s face, and enough misery to make a funeral director uncomfortable. You are coming out with us. You are having one drink. You are going to let the music do its thing.”
I stared at my phone for ten full seconds.
Not long after that, another voice message came in.
“And before you say no,” he said in the next message, “remember I have no shame and a very loud voice. I will stand outside your building and announce to the entire fucking street that Willow Hart is refusing joy, alcohol, and basic human interaction. Do not test me, Willow.”
Apparently, after all these years of friendship, he knows exactly how to wear me down.
Which is why I’m standing outside a private nightclub in boots I nearly didn’t bother to put on, wondering why I still answer his calls.
I grab my phone and text him.
Willow: I’m here.
I tuck it into my pocket and move forward. The guy at the rope glances at me and recognition flickers on his face before I even say Jax’s name. He unhooks the rope, giving me a polite nod as the black door behind him opens, spilling music and blue light onto the footpath.
Jax grins at me as though I have personally saved Christmas, rescued puppies, and agreed to fund his terrible life choices for the night.
“There she is.”
Jax slings an arm around my shoulders and kisses the top of my head.
“You look hot.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m adorable.”
“That’s debatable.”
His grin widens. “Come on. One drink. If you’re still in a mood after that, I’ll tuck you into bed and sing you a lullaby.”
“You sing worse than Cruz does.”
Jax stops walking. “That’s the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“It’s true.”
“No. Absolutely nobody sings worse than Cruz.”
I laugh, causing Jax to beam with satisfaction.
“There she is.” He nudges my shoulder. “You’ve spent all week looking as if you’re deciding which studio cable would be easiest to wrap around Damon’s neck.”
“The red one, obviously.”
“I love it when women have hobbies.” He flashes me another grin and steers me forward. “Alcohol first, homicide later. I’m trying to keep this night classy.”
That gets another laugh out of me.
By the time we reach the bar, heat rolls over me immediately. Blue and gold lights sweep across the crowded dance floor, catching on sequins, watches, and bodies moving together in the haze.
The VIP booths sit on a raised level, overlooking the crowd, separated from the dance floor by a few steps. Low light spills over leather couches and crystal bottles, beautiful people tucked back there, pretending they aren’t watching everybody else.
The whole place is dark, expensive, and dangerous enough to make common sense seem deeply overrated.
Girls in tiny dresses dance with strangers whose names they likely won’t remember tomorrow. Men in tailored shirts lean in too close.
Jax orders our drinks before I can argue.
“You know me too well,” I tell him as he hands me my vodka lemonade.
He knocks back a shot of whiskey, before he grins. “One of my many gifts.”
I take a sip, the citrus sharp on my tongue, but the warmth spreading through my body has nothing to do with the alcohol. That took place prior to my text to Jax.
The pill is starting to settle into my bloodstream, slowly dulling the ache that has been weighing on my shoulders all week.
The noise in my head quiets. Not completely, but enough that I can finally unclench my jaw.
For the first time in days, I don’t feel as though I’m being skinned alive by my own thoughts.
Maybe tonight I can simply exist.
My gaze drifts toward the elevated VIP booths.
Jett sits in one of the leather booths, a drink in his hand. Beside him, Phoenix nurses a bottle of whiskey with one long leg stretched out and his black shirt open at the throat.
As if he senses my gaze, his eyes lift. Dark hazel eyes meet mine across the room and something invisible tenses between us.
He simply observes me, as though he can sense every spot where my pulse has begun to misbehave. Heat pools low in my stomach. For one stupid second, my body forgets every reason why I’m angry with him.
I avert my eyes. If Phoenix Stone is a warning label then I have spent years pretending I can’t read.
“Did Cruz not come?” I ask Jax.
Jax bursts out laughing. “Oh, he came.”
“Where is he?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Brunette. Tiny dress. Twenty minutes ago.”
I laugh into my drink. “Poor girl.”
We lean against the bar, staring at the crowded dance floor as the music shifts into something heavier and dirtier.
Jax takes another drink, his grin fading into something sharper. “You should scare Phoenix more often.”
I glance over. “What?”
Jax grins. “The party. Memphis.”
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face bored because I am not giving Phoenix Stone the dignity of ruining my vodka.
Jax’s smile only widens. “You should’ve seen him afterward.”
The laughter in his voice draws my attention.
“What do you mean?” I ask, because I didn’t bother to stay after what I said to Phoenix. I was too pissed off at his arrogant little performance to stand around and witness an encore.
“He sat at the bar by himself and got completely wasted. Women kept coming over and he told each of them to fuck off.”
“Phoenix?” The name escapes my mouth before I can stop it, sharp with disbelief.
“Shocking, I know.” Jax laughs into his drink.
“You’re lying.” I stare at him.
“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “No bullshit. No flirting or ego-tripping. Just whiskey and the kind of face that made the bartender pour before he even asked.”
That shouldn’t affect me the way it does.
“Even Jett was impressed,” Jax adds, taking another swallow of whiskey. “And that asshole gets excited about absolutely nothing unless it’s a clean bassline or when someone finally shuts the fuck up.”
I huff a laugh despite myself.
Jax’s grin turns wicked. “Best part? Phoenix was fucking miserable.”
Something twists beneath my ribs and I hate it. I hate that Phoenix has this much control over me.
“And just so you know,” Jax says, lowering his glass, “he’s been watching you since we walked in.”
Automatically, my eyes want to turn. I stop myself. Not tonight. I’m so tired of searching rooms for Phoenix Stone. Tired of building entire love stories from scraps he throws at me without even realizing.
I finish my drink. “So what? I don’t care.”
Jax gives me a smirk that says every man in this band knows I am full of shit and has been politely pretending otherwise for years.
“That’s the spirit,” he says anyway.
Another song starts, loud enough to shake the floor and dirty enough to make half the room forget they have standards.
The bass pounds through my chest, and for the first time all week, I experience something other than exhaustion.
“I love this song.”
Jax follows my gaze to the dance floor.
His grin softens. “Then go dance.”
“You sure?” I gaze at him.
He snorts. “Sweetheart, I spent two bloody hours bullying you into coming here. If you don’t go let your hair down and make at least one questionable decision, I’m demanding a refund.”
Jax points his glass toward the dance floor. “Go. Be young and hot.”
I leave him at the bar and make my way down to the dance floor.
By the time I reach it, the bass has crawled into my bones and made a home there. Blue light skims the crowd, catching bare shoulders, sweat-slick skin, and flashes of gold jewelry. Bodies move beneath it in slow waves, with mouths close to ears and hands tangled in hair.
The whole dance floor pulses with that dangerous energy that only comes after midnight, when people stop pretending they’re good at making sensible decisions and start chasing whatever makes them feel alive.
The air itself is heavy, thick with music and bad ideas. And God, I love it. For once, I don’t just stand at the edge, watching everyone else live while I write songs about it later.
I step into the middle of it—into the heat, the noise, and the beautiful mess of bodies and lights that seem to pulse in time with the music.
I close my eyes and let the bass carry me. My hips find the rhythm, swaying slowly as the beat rolls low through my body. My hair brushes my bare shoulders as I move and I smile to myself because I forgot I was young. I forgot I had a body, not just a broken heart inside it.
Bodies shift around me, dancing and brushing past one another beneath the blue lights. Sweat glistens on skin. A couple kisses shamelessly beside me. Hands slide around waists. Mouths hover near ears.
Nobody is pretending. Nobody is acting. Everybody here is chasing a feeling. A sensation. And I want to experience something, too.
I lift my hands into my hair, gathering the heavy waves from my neck as I move to the music. The cool air kisses my skin and I smile to myself.