Chapter Three
Echo
The motel bed springs complain the second I shift my weight, like it’s offended I’m still here.
I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, and my guitar is balanced against my thigh. The room smells faintly like old detergent and the typical Florida humidity.
The AC rattles loudly as it kicks in for what feels like the hundredth time today. The tacky outdated curtains hang crooked above the window.
I pick up the guitar, and pluck a chord, letting it ring, then pick through the progression again until it sounds like what I’m hearing in my head—something soft and aching with teeth underneath. I hum along, low at first, then louder when the melody settles into place. Words float up in pieces.
doorway… ghosted… salt on my tongue…
I scribble them in the margin of my notebook with the stubby pencil I found in the motel desk drawer. The page is already crowded with fragments—half-lines, crossed out phrases, a chorus idea circled three times like maybe I can bully it into becoming real if I stare hard enough.
Not fucking likely.
It’s been a few weeks since I arrived in Tampa.
Not long enough for this place to feel like home, but long enough that I know which gas station sells the good coffee and which one waters it down. Long enough that the bartender down the street stops asking for my ID because he’s already memorized my face.
My phone buzzes against the comforter.
I glance down, expecting another spam call or notification for yet another scam email I’m not going to fucking open.
DRAYGON: you alive?
My mouth instantly tugs into a smile.
Which honestly annoys me, because it shouldn’t be that easy.
And yet, I type back.
Because well, as much as I wish I did, I have absolutely zero self control.
ME: nope. i died. this is my ghost texting you.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then:
DRAYGON: weird. last time I checked, ghosts can’t use iPhones. don’t their hands just like go through the screen?
you eat yet?
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to, thumb hovering.
Draygon always texts like that—practical things disguised as casual conversation. Food. Water. Did you home safe? Do you need anything? Like he’s checking the locks without making it a big deal.
Truthfully it gives King energy, but quiet about it.
He’s been my only consistent contact since I got here.
However, not in-person. Despite how persistent he is, I’ve managed to dodge that since the night at the bar.
I’ve made more excuses to avoid seeing him, than anything else in my entire life.
And so far, somehow it’s worked. I’ve managed to keep it to screens and distance all while pretending I’m not thinking about his hands and how fucking good they felt on me.
Which is stupid. Beyond stupid actually. Considering I know who he is, and he has no fucking idea who I am.
I knew the moment we locked eyes across the bar, and yet, I still let Isla drag me over anyway. I still allowed myself to eye fuck him like he wasn’t completely off limits.
He’s a Speed Demon, and from what I can tell from stalking on social media, one of my brother’s best friends. Which immediately makes him off limits. Completely unreachable, like across the biggest fucking line every created.
And yet, like a total fucking slut, I made out with him anyway.
In a bathroom, like an impulsive idiot.
I feel the guilt creep up again, the familiar sting behind my ribs.
He thinks I’m just… Echo. Some girl passing through with “family stuff” she won’t talk about. He has no idea he’s been texting the baby sister his teammates didn’t even know existed.
Maybe I should've told him? There hasn’t been a single day since that night where we haven’t spoken, and yet I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.
Because if I’m honest, I don’t feel like it’s my secret to tell.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
It should be Sayshen and Talon who decide who and when to tell people, if ever. If they want the team to know, that’s their call.
Their mess. Their father. Their family.
Family.
The thought makes my stomach twist every time.
I open my phone and type out a reply to Draygon before I let the thought take root.
ME: fine. I’m alive, and no I haven’t eaten yet but i’m working on it.
DRAYGON: good.
i’m helping my parents close up the restaurant tonight
you want me to bring you something on my way home?
I huff a laugh, eyes dropping to my notebook.
There’s something unfair about being cared for by someone you’re lying to by omission.
ME: i’m good.
stop trying to feed me like i’m a stray cat.
DRAYGON: strays still gotta eat.
I stare at that line until my throat tightens for reasons I’m not interested in unpacking.
Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze, surprised.
My life has been nothing but them lately—shitty, ugly little revelations popping up like landmines. The knock comes again, heavier this time.
I set the guitar aside carefully, slide off the bed, and cross the room, tugging my sweatshirt down as I go.
It’s oversized, sleeves pushed up around my forearms, soft and worn in the way only your favorite hoodie gets.
Underneath, I’m in a simple brown tank top, thin straps, fitted but comfortable.
My leggings are still on, but I’ve rolled the waistband slightly where the sweatshirt bunches at my hips.
My thick hair’s twisted up into a messy bun at the crown of my head, pieces already falling loose around my face.
Thick socks slide quietly over the cheap carpet as I move.
I glance through the peephole.
Sayshen.
He’s holding a cardboard drink tray in one hand and a paper bag in the other. I open the door halfway, leaving the chain still on.
His gaze flicks to the chain, then back to my face. He doesn’t comment. Just lifts the bag.
“I brought breakfast,” he says.
“What is it with men trying to feed me?”
His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile then as if realizing what I said, it disappears. “Wait, who else is trying to feed you?”
“No one. Nevermind.” I add, leaning my shoulder into the doorframe. “But I will admit, this feels a little suspicious.”
“It’s not,” he says, steady. Then, after a beat, “Look, can I come in? Or are you going to make me stand out here like a delivery guy?”
I hesitate.
Then unhook the chain, and pull the door open, before stepping back and lifting my arm in a silent invitation for him to come in.
The moment he steps inside the room feels smaller.
Like the walls are closing in around his presence, which is surprising since Sayshen isn’t intimidating in the way Talon is.
Talon’s like a slammed door—hard, loud and final.
Sayshen dangerous in a quieter way. A controlled kind of intensity.
Calm eyes, steady hands, the type of person who watches before he moves.
He sets the bag on the small round table by the large window, and the drink tray beside it. The smell of coffee and something buttery hits the air, warm and comforting instantly making my chest ache.
“Full transparency, I didn’t know what you like,” he says. “So I guessed.”
“Hmm that’s risky,” I reply, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He pulls out a breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil and a pastry in a paper sleeve and places them on the table like he’s trying to bribe my trust.
I hate that it doesn’t work on me. Tthat my first instinct is to look for the hook.
“So,” I say, crossing my arms. “Why are you here?”
He leans himself back against the edge of the desk along the wall near the table, sliding his hands in his pockets. “Because this has been… awkward.”
“That’s one word for it.”
He exhales, gaze dropping to the carpet like he’s choosing the right way to say something. “I’m trying.”
The sincerity in his tone knocks the wind out of my sarcasm.
I glance away, throat tight. “I know.”
Silence stretches around the room for a second.
Outside, a car passes, bass rattling its windows. The motel AC kicks louder, then settles again. Sayshen clears his throat. “So, how are you doing?”
The question is simple. Normal even, yet it still feels like a trap because nothing about this is normal.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
His eyebrows lift, unimpressed.
I roll my eyes. “I’m alive.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No shit.”
He nods once, like he expected that answer. “You’ve been here a few weeks.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’ve been…” He gestures vaguely, taking in the room. “Here?”
“I’ve been around,” I correct.
Because I have. I’ve walked the neighbourhood just to feel the air on my skin.
I’ve gone down to the beach. Even found a little beach spot where the sand almost white and the waves sound like they’re talking to each other as they crash along the shore.
I’ve wandered Ybor, slipping into vintage shops and record stores, buying cheap coffee and pretending I’m just another person killing time in the city.
I’ve also rode my bike until my hands buzzed and my thoughts quieted because truthfully all I wanted to do was go back to that beach house, and have it be different this time, but I knew it wouldn't be.
Talon would make sure of that.
Sayshen watches me like he can see the chaos of thoughts in my head.
“Okay, well, you can’t just sit in here by yourself all the time,” he says, glancing around the motel room. “You should go to lunch with Bexley and the girls.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
He’s already pulling his phone out of his pocket. He types something quick, then my phone buzzes on the bed.
“I just sent you Bex’s contact info,” he says, sliding his phone back into his jeans. “So don’t pretend you ‘lost it.’”
I blink at him. “Hold on, I didn’t even—”
“They’re all meeting up today,” he says. “Bex asked about you. She really wants you there.”
It’s getting harder to process kindness lately. My brain keeps waiting for the catch. The edge. The part where it all turns on me.
“Why?” I ask, blunt.
He exhales slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck like he’s choosing his words carefully for once.