Chapter 1
Chapter one
JUDE GRAVES
The world comes back in little flashes. The first thing I hear when I wake is the AC on the tour bus.
Then the slow and absolutely brutal throb behind my eyes.
I blink up at the bunk above me, disoriented.
There’s a strip of LED lights running along the top of the bus.
It’s way too fucking bright. A clear plastic IV bag hangs from a hook someone jammed into the paneling. The tube snakes into my arm.
Beautiful. They didn’t even make it to a hospital this time.
My mouth tastes like metal and my chest burns. When I move, my vision skews sideways, and nausea claws up my throat. Someone shoved a trash can beside me. Good thinking to whoever assumed I’d puke my guts out after dying on stage.
I groan and push myself up, every muscle weak. I notice my three bandmates are here with me. Micah’s sitting on the bench across the narrow aisle, elbows on his knees, blue eyes red-rimmed. His shoulder-length blonde hair is disheveled.
Finnick and Kami stand near the door, hovering together. It looks like he’s been running his hands through his messy dirty blonde hair. Kami’s long red hair is tied into a messy ponytail, mascara smudged from crying. The fear and anger in her blue eyes make my heart sink.
“Jesus,” Finnick mutters, his brown eyes narrowing. “We thought you were—”
Kami grabs his arm for support. “What the fuck, Jude,” she cuts him off, her voice fractured and scared.
They’re good people. Too good for this shit-show.
She angrily slips off the bus before I can answer.
Finnick sighs and follows her. Before I can admit I don’t remember collapsing or the last thirty minutes of the show at all.
I peel the IV tape off my arm, ripping it out. Blood beads instantly, and I stare at it before swiping it away and standing. The world tilts hard left, and I brace a hand against the wall, knees almost buckling.
Micah rises fast, grabbing my shoulder. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You were dead, Jude.” The words hit harder than the overdose itself.
Micah’s voice cracks before he shoves it back down.
I don’t answer. I can’t when my skull feels like it’s full of broken fucking glass.
I stagger toward the tiny bathroom at the back of the bus.
It’s basically a closet with a sink the size of a cereal bowl.
The mirror above it greets me like an enemy I just can’t fucking kill.
I stare at the stranger wearing my face. His tousled black hair hasn’t seen shampoo in a week, and his eyes are ringed with bruises that were once called “hazel.” Well, back when she said they looked like whiskey in sunlight. Now they’re just...dead.
My lip is split from where I hit the stage last night. Tattoos and track marks crawl up both my arms. Half of them I don’t even remember getting. There are only a few back from a time when the music still felt like an exciting dream. When she was still mine.
Emma Easton.
The name alone smashes me like a fucking sledgehammer. I lean on the counter and breathe through the dull ache behind my ribs. We were supposed to make it, her and me.
Just two dumb kids with big dreams and wild hearts, thinking our love could survive anything.
She was sixteen when we first met at my sister’s house party.
I was seventeen, pretending I knew who the hell I was.
We were inseparable. Every weekend was dedicated to her sketching while I wrote lyrics in the Oregon sun.
We swore we’d build something big out of nothing.
We were creatives, after all. That kind of thing was easy for us, in our blood.
Then the label called. Nolan fucking Marshall.
Said he could make me a star and that I had the kind of voice that could buy us a future.
I was twenty when I left her crying on her front porch.
I had lied through my teeth and told her it was best and that she deserved someone better.
Told her nothing about the blood on my hands or the debts I’d been suddenly forced into.
Seven years later, I’m still paying.
I never loved anyone after her. Never tried.
You don’t fall in love again after someone like that.
You just look for distractions that burn a little less.
The drugs, the crowds...all of it just noise to drown her memory out.
My music went from soul to static, and somewhere along the way, I stopped trying to claw myself out.
Now I’m twenty-seven, washed up before I ever really lived. More fans than ever before, even if I always look like I’m a bad day away from dying. And, well, I am. Clearly.
“My chest hurts,” I mutter.
Micah appears in the doorway, his lean body filling the frame. “That’s because your heart stopped for almost a minute, you fucking idiot.”
The sink sputters cold water when I turn it on, and I splash it on my face before getting in the shower. Everything hurts.
The mirror is still fogged from the shower, so I wipe a streak through it and stare at the wreck staring back.
And before I can stop myself or even realize I’m doing it, I hum.
It’s only a few notes, and barely a sound.
But behind me, Micah starts humming too, sliding right into the melody.
That’s when I freeze, realizing what song it was that was haunting my subconscious.
“Right Here” by Lil Peep.
Her song. Ours.
Fuck.
My throat tightens so fast it almost chokes me. I shut the sound off in my brain immediately, jaw locking. Micah keeps humming for a beat longer, completely unaware of the pain haunting me now. I grip the counter and look away while his voice trails off.
I grab my phone just to have something to hold and perhaps steady myself. I shouldn’t open her contact. I shouldn’t even fucking look, but I swipe anyway to open the blank message screen. I tap on her name and sigh when the screen flashes:
Blocked Contact.
Right. My thumb hesitates, then presses.
Unblock.
The thread opens. Empty. Waiting. I don’t think. My thumbs move on their own.
Em—
A fist slams against the door, the sound startling me like a goddamn bullet shot through the bus. “Jude,” Nolan barks. “Open the door.”
Everything in me shuts down at once. Panic tightens my grip on the phone. Delete. Block. Gone. Micah sees it, but he stays silent. I shove the phone in my pocket, force my face blank, and stare at the door like whatever part of me hummed that song is dead again.
Micah reluctantly opens it, and Nolan breezes in.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with an icy stare sharp as glass and slicked-back blonde hair.
His polished black shoes always annoy me for some ungodly reason, and that charcoal suit smells like cigarette smoke and cologne far too expensive for a man like him.
He’s my manager. Has been long enough to sound bored with my near-deaths.
And lately, it feels like they’ve been happening more often than ever.
Adriana Britton, my 30-year-old publicist, enters behind him.
Her auburn hair is pulled into a tight bun, a few strands curling around her face, sharp cheekbones catching the dim light.
She’s another person who won’t save me because she’s profiting from all of the shit Nolan’s putting me through.
Not to mention how many times she’s fucked me when I can barely see or function.
Her green eyes lock with mine, and I want to fucking vomit.
Nolan’s on the phone, voice irritated.
Damage control.
Because Jude Graves, lead singer of Dissonance, collapsed on stage tonight in front of twelve thousand fucking people. Cameras caught everything.
“Fans are already posting videos. He’s trending,” Adriana announces. Micah steps aside and lets them pass. His jaw tightens when Nolan claps him on the back.
“We need to talk,” Nolan says, eyes sliding to me. “Now.”
Adriana stands near the bathroom door, tapping her nails impatiently on the frame. I grip the counter, knuckles white. “Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper to the reflection.
He doesn’t listen. He never does.
“We have the Hawthorne event tomorrow night. You have to perform.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Nolan. I’ll be fine.”
Adriana grins and touches my arm. I wince, but not enough for her to notice.
But Micah does. He’s staring at me. “Get some rest, boys. We’re heading to New York now.
When we get there tomorrow morning, you will all rehearse once to test the equipment and sound.
Then tomorrow night, you’ll be on stage again. ”
Then Nolan continues talking, but everything starts to fade out again, like someone dunked me under water.
“Performance.”
“Rehearsal.”
“Press statements.”
“Clean yourself up.”
It’s amazing how many ways one man can say you’re property without actually using the words. Adriana steps closer, the scent of her perfume rushing up my nostrils. Her manicured fingers rest on my forearm, a soft drag of nails that probably looks affectionate to anyone who doesn’t know better.
“You scared me tonight,” she murmurs.
Bullshit. She’s the one who injects me half the time.
I swallow the dryness in my throat. “Didn’t mean to ruin your night.”
Annoyance flashes in her eyes before she smooths it out. She lifts her other hand and cups my jaw, tilting my face toward hers. “Just don’t do it again,” she whispers. “Can’t lose my boy.”
I swallow hard.
Nolan snaps his phone shut. “We’ll talk more when you’re lucid,” he says, like he’s dismissing a misbehaved dog. He turns to Micah. “Make sure he stays upright tomorrow.”
Micah’s jaw clenches so tight I can hear his teeth grind. “Yeah. Fine.”
They disappear into the front of the bus, murmuring about damage control and optics.
The second they’re out of sight, Micah blows out a sharp breath. “You shouldn’t let her touch you,” he mutters.
“I don’t really have a choice. You know that.”
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his tired eyes. “I know.”
I watch my twenty-six year old best friend, co-addict, and the only person who still pulls me back when I start floating too close to the ceiling.
He looks like hell, too. When I fall, he falls.
That’s how Nolan designed it. Two birds in one fucking cage.
My chest tightens. Maybe from the overdose.
Or maybe from the fact that I’m still breathing when it’d be easier not to.
Micah nudges the door frame with his shoulder. “You need to lie down.”
“I need to not exist anymore.”
“Close enough,” he says, grabbing my arm before the floor tilts again. “Come on. Try to sleep.”
Sleep. Right.
He gets me to the bunk, and I collapse onto it. The curtain sways as the bus rattles onto the highway, NYC-bound. With exhausted hands, I go to set my wallet in the cubby by my bed, but I hesitate. As much as I know I shouldn’t, I open it to retrieve the tiny picture I keep hidden away.
It’s a photo of the only woman I’ve ever loved, smiling back at me. After a few heavy moments of anger and sadness and self-fucking-pity, I shove it away and lie back.
I stare at the ceiling, counting the passing highway lights as they flicker across the bus interior. White. Black. White. Black.
Every flash feels like a camera. Eventually, sleep drags me under.