Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Dean
Zombie
YUNGBLUD
The first thing I feel when I wake up is that my tongue feels swollen to three times its normal size because it’s so dry.
The second thing is shame. My head throbs in time with the bus generator and my mouth tastes like bourbon and bad decisions.
My mattress is doing that weird vibration thing that means Mikey’s already up and playing some game on his phone in the bunk below mine with the sound on.
I squeeze my eyes tighter and rewind last night.
The show. The high. Her in the corner, still glowing, laptop on her knees. Lily’s voice, Hayden’s quiet, “He’ll come around.” The walk back to the buses. Shots with some of the crew. The bourbon warm in my veins. Sadie’s boots on asphalt.
Her face when I leaned in and said way too much. You think I don’t know you want me to touch you? I wince and scrub a hand over my eyes. “Fuck.”
“What was that?” Mikey calls, voice muffled by the mattress between us.
“Nothing,” I grumble.
“Sounded like regret,” he chirps and I swear it’s with glee.
“Trust me, if regret made a sound, you’d need noise-cancelling headphones.”
He laughs, obnoxiously bright for this hour. “You get lucky last night?”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling above me. “No.”
“Ah,” he concludes. “So that’s the problem.”
I don’t answer. Because that’s not even close to the problem. The fact that I didn’t touch her when I wanted to? That’s the part that scares me more than the fact that I wanted to at all.
I don’t hesitate. Never have. The whole one-and-done reputation didn’t build itself. There has never been a time when if I wanted someone, it was as simple as a look, a smile, a glance over my shoulder. Easy. Shallow. Clean. Nothing messy about that.
Last night wasn’t clean. It was stupid. And it was dangerous. I swung at her defenses like I wanted them down. And when she didn’t push me away, I almost did something really fucking dumb. I almost kissed her.
Regret or relief? I wasn’t sure what I was feeling anymore. Nothing did when it came to Sadie Brooks. My stomach flips. I shove the curtain back and swing out of the bunk before I can replay it again.
The venue looks smaller in the daylight.
It’s the second night of the run. Repeat logistics.
Same schedule, just a different date stamped on the wristbands.
The crew moves on autopilot, same jokes, same complaints, different city.
I move on autopilot too. Coffee. Shower.
Stretch. Pretend I’m not looking for her. I fail miserably.
She’s by one of the loading doors, shooting B-roll of rigging going up, hair in a braid today, black tank, jeans, boots. She laughs at something Cherry says, head tipping back, throat exposed.
I choke on my coffee and suddenly find the catering table very interesting. Avoidance is a game of inches. Don’t make eye contact here, don’t linger in that hallway there, stay on the other side of rooms. Easy enough. I’ve been avoiding things my whole life.
Turns out avoiding a five-foot-something photographer on my own tour is harder than outrunning my past. She’s everywhere.
And it’s making me crazy. In the hallway outside wardrobe, going through shots with Cherry.
In the family lounge letting Larkin gnaw on her knuckles while Lily talks about set list changes.
In the seats during line check pointing her lens at empty rows and catching the way the light falls.
Every time I walk into a room, my gaze tracks her automatically, like she’s some kind of north my compass got rewired toward. I tell myself it’s habit. Self-preservation. Know where the threat is. But Jesus, I’m not even convincing myself.
By late afternoon, I’ve managed to keep our actual words exchanged to zero. Gold star for me. Emotional cowardice: A+. I’ve probably earned extra credit as well.
We’re in the tuning room with a couple of techs when Hayden looks up from his bass. “You’re quiet today.”
“I’m always quiet.” I force a smile.
“You’re extra quiet.” His eyes are too knowing.
“Maybe you’re losing you’re hearing,” I deflect. “You are getting old.” He’s only two years older than me, but it’s something we raze him for on the regular, so not stopping now.
He keeps looking at me. Hayden sees more than he says, which is why it’s a problem when he says, “If you’re planning on being an asshole to her, at least make it worth the apology later.”
“I don’t need to apologize to anyone,” I snap.
He just nods, like that’s what he expected. “Sure, man.”
The door opens. Sadie slips in, a little burst of cool air with her, camera already up. My spine goes stiff.
“I’m just going to grab a couple of shots of pre-show,” she informs Cherry, who’s right behind her. Her voice is professional, neutral. Nothing that betrays what happened last night.
I should be relieved. I’m not. She doesn’t look at me. Not once. Not even a flicker. Something ugly twists in my gut. You wanted this, I remind myself. You pushed. You’re the one who made it weird.
But the petty, broken part of me, the part that has never learned how to sit with wanting anything, hates how easy she makes it look to ignore me. I twist a tuning peg too far. The string snaps with a sharp twang and whips my hand hard enough to sting. “Shit.”
One of the hands a few feet away from me mutters, “Careful. She’ll catch that.”
I glance over. “Catch what?”
He shrugs. “You know. Press loves mistakes.”
I follow his gaze to Sadie. She doesn’t look up. She’s locked in; patient, professional, exactly where she’s supposed to be, but I know she can hear us.
“She’s not press,” I inform him with a bite in my tone. It comes out quieter than I expect. Still carries.
He frowns. “Thought she was—”
“She’s here to document,” I add. “That includes the good and the bad. So don’t give her either if you’re worried.”
There’s a beat. Then a short laugh. “Got it.”
I turn back to my strings, fingers tightening on the neck of my guitar.
Off to the side, Sadie shifts her stance.
Raises the camera. The shutter clicks once.
Not at me. I shouldn’t care. But I do. Because I didn’t deflect.
Didn’t pretend I didn’t hear it. Didn’t let her stand there alone.
And that feels dangerously close to choosing something.
“Dude.” Mikey grins wickedly. “You protecting camera girl?”
“I didn’t-” I start to defend, almost whining.
“You did.” He nods toward Sadie. “How’s it feel to be the good guy?”
I glare at him, then at the broken string. Hayden silently hands me a fresh pack without commentary. Sadie finishes her shots and slips out as quietly as she came in.
The show that night is louder. Hotter. The crowd rowdier, more hyped than yesterday. We hit the stage and sweat immediately. We’re in the mid-summer nights of June now, and the heat is present, even at night.
Lights in my eyes, guitars screaming, drums brutal in my bones. It should be enough to drown everything out. It usually is. But even with the roar of the crowd, with the music cranked to ten, with Luc pouring his entire soul into the mic three feet away from me, I’m hyperaware of one thing.
Her.
She’s in the pit for the first three songs, then side-stage, then up in the seats, then back in the wings. Every time I pivot, I catch a flash of her; black shirt, brown hair, those blue eyes, and the silver of her lense.
She doesn’t come as close as she did last night.
My fingers fly over the strings. I lose myself in solos that go an extra bar longer than usual, push harder, bend notes until they almost snap.
Luc throws me a quick, impressed look at one point, like he’s clocking the difference and cataloging it for later.
Lily’s somewhere out there too, I know, hands pressed to her chest when we hit certain songs. Larkin will be asleep on the bus by now, Marie humming a lullaby under her breath.
The life we built out of chaos. The life that makes all this feel less like a death march. And here I am, trying to wreck something new before it ever has a chance to be anything.
Old habits. Old ghosts. Old survival tactics. You don’t get hurt if you never let anything good stick around. That’s the way I’ve lived for so long that I just don’t know any other way.
When we come off for the encore break, I duck into the back hallway for a minute, sucking in air that isn’t saturated with fog and sweat. And wouldn’t you fucking know it, Sadie’s there.
She’s leaned against the wall, one boot braced behind her, camera hanging loose from her fingers. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Lips parted like she’s dragging oxygen back into her lungs.
For a second, I just look. She’s flushed from running the venue, a fine sheen of sweat at her temples, mascara smudged under one eye. Wrecked in a way that’s too honest for anything staged. Too real. My chest aches with it.
She opens her eyes and straightens immediately, spine snapping into place like armor. “Need the hallway?” she asks briskly.
As if we’re strangers. As if I didn’t crowd her against a trailer last night and tear at every defense she has.
“There are other hallways in this place,” I respond, taking a step back before she has to ask.
“Great.” She pushes off the wall and moves to pass me like I’m just another piece of gear in her way. Her shoulder brushes mine accidentally. My reaction isn’t.
“Sadie.”
Her name comes out sharper than I intend. She stops. Turns back slowly. Her face is neutral from the nose down. Her eyes are guarded. Professional. Closed.
“Yes?” her reply hesitant.
This is where a sane man would apologize. Say I was drunk. Say I crossed a line. Say it won’t happen again. The words sit heavy on my tongue. Ugly. Necessary. Terrifying. “I was out of line last night,” I mumble.
The sentence lands between us like something fragile I don’t know how to pick up again. Her brow furrows slightly, not softening, just… surprised.