Chapter 5
Chapter five
JUDE GRAVES
There’s a sound like a fly trapped in my skull—an angry, relentless buzz that won’t fucking die down. Might be the AC. Might be my pulse. Hard to tell when my head feels split open from the inside. Fuck.
Cold tile presses into my cheek.
I blink slowly, and realize I’m on the bathroom floor of the hotel suite. Half-dressed and shaking, my shirt ripped open at the collar. My knuckles are shredded, skin split in jagged little smiles that sting when I flex my fingers. Blood coats the side of the sink in rusty, dark streaks.
I push myself up onto my elbows, ribs screaming. There’s a deep ache in my side, like someone took a bat to it. Maybe someone did. A flash hits me—
My fist connecting with a face. The crunch. The way his head snapped back.
Another flash—
A bottle shattering against the bar. Liquid spraying, glass shattering mid-air, and falling to the floor.
Then—
A woman screaming for security. Someone grabbing my shoulders. Me lunging. Rage ripping straight out of my soul.
The last thing I remember clearly: wanting him to hit me back. Wanting to feel something. Pain. Punishment. Anything.
I drag myself to my feet, using the counter like a crutch. My lip is cracked and swollen, with a trail of dried blood down my chin. My reflection looks like a goddamn zombie. The fuck.
Voices slip in from the adjoining room—sharp, irritated, and far too awake for the state I’m in. “Jesus Christ, Nolan,” Adriana snaps near the window. “He looks like a corpse.”
“That’s because he practically is,” Nolan mutters, sounding far too detached. “We spin it the same way we always do. ‘Exhaustion,’ ‘dehydration,’ ‘stress from touring.’ You know the drill.”
“I can’t keep selling this. The bar fight was everywhere last night. That video—”
“I handled it.”
“You handled it?” Her laugh is sharp. “He broke a guy’s nose on camera! Right after he overdosed on stage last week! He’s having too many fuck-ups. Everyone can tell he’s spiraling.”
“Aw, do you care for him?”
“You know I do,” she snaps back.
Nolan’s silent for a beat. “He said something about his dead brother,” he replies, casual as ever. “The fans will eat that up. Makes him look human.”
Human. Yeah. Sure.
I limp from the bathroom toward the bed. The light slashes through the curtains, stabbing behind my eyes. My legs feel like I’m trying to maneuver through wet sand. I don’t regret smashing that guy’s face in for talking about Nicholas. I regret that I didn’t hit him harder.
Nolan glances over at me over his shoulder. “Morning, rockstar.”
I groan and rub my face with my torn hand. “Fuck you.”
“Glad to see you’re alive. As always.”
Adriana snatches her bag. “He’s going to die, you know that.”
Nolan sighs. “Can’t replace him. You know that. Probably even more than me…” He winks. “Baby.”
The way he says it makes my jaw clench.
Adriana scoffs. “Just figure something out, okay? I have reporters up my ass. We need to do something, because this is the worst he’s ever been.” She storms out, the door slamming so loud that it makes me flinch.
Nolan lowers himself onto the edge of the bed and lights a cigarette. “She’ll be back.”
“Fucking lovely.”
He shrugs. “Reporters are everywhere after the stunt you pulled. It’s been a fucking week, you stupid shit. I have things to do, but I’ll pick you up in a bit to sort this out.”
“Sure.” The word scrapes my throat on the way out.
He flicks ash into a half-full whiskey glass, stands, and walks out. The door clicks shut behind him. Eventually, I drag myself out into the kitchen.
Micah’s on the couch, hair a mess, hoodie half unzipped, a coffee sitting on the table in front of him. His eyes track every limp, every wince I try to hide. He lets out a long breath.
“Dude,” he says, shaking his head. “You fucked up so badly last night.”
I grunt something that might be a greeting and move toward the kitchen. Not surprised at myself one bit, honestly.
Micah watches me. “Do you even remember?” he asks.
“Not really,” I mutter, grabbing the coffee tin with scraped knuckles. The metal lip bites into an open cut. I hiss through my teeth.
Micah winces. “Dude, your hand looks like it lost a fight with a cheese grater.”
“Yeah? I’d feel better if I fucking killed the guy.”
He snorts. “That’s not funny.”
“Didn’t say it was. Still true.”
I dump grounds into the filter, hands shaking just enough to spill some across the counter. My ribs protest when I reach for the water. I pretend I don’t notice.
He sighs. “Jude...you need to shower. You smell like blood and sweat.”
“Let me have coffee first,” I grumble.
He nods at that. The coffee maker sputters to life, filling the quiet with a low hiss. He leans back on the couch, drumming his fingers against his thigh. “You might actually kill someone soon. Someone you’re not tasked to kill.”
I don’t answer. The coffee maker beeps.
Micah stands, grabs a mug, and sets it in front of me before I can reach for it. “Here. Sit. Before you fall.”
I sink onto the barstool, shoulders slumping. I take a sip. It burns like hell. Perfect. He hesitates, then pulls a small orange bottle from his hoodie pocket, tapping the lid with his thumb.
“You’re hurting,” he says quietly. He doesn’t say I know what you need. He doesn’t have to.
I reach out, jaw tight. “Just one.”
He shakes his head. “We both know you’ll need more than one.” He twists the cap off anyway. He drops two into his palm, then two into mine. We don’t look at each other as we tip them back. Just toss them. Swallow dry.
Micah rubs his face. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
“This.” He gestures at me—my swollen lip, the torn shirt, the bruises blooming across my ribs.
“The fighting. The drugs. The disappearing for hours. I had no idea where you were. I texted you, called you.” He shakes his head.
“I agree with Adriana, for once in my goddamn life. You’re spiraling.
” He pauses, swallowing hard. “You’re on death’s door, man. ”
I shrug and take another sip of coffee. “I’ll get past it.”
Micah’s jaw clenches. “Get past it? Jude, you fucking OD’d last week. You beat the shit out of someone last night.”
I stare into my mug. “He talked about Nicholas.”
Micah flinches. The name always does that.
My little brother died when a drunk driver slammed into our car on Christmas Eve one year.
Luckily, I had been knocked out and didn’t see anything.
Considering I was beside him in the backseat.
But Vanessa saw, and she spent years in therapy because it was.
..brutal. I can’t even count the amount of times she’d sneak into my room in the middle of the night and just cry in my arms as I held her.
A deep anger sprouted inside me after that night, and I haven’t shaken it.
Despite the hours of anger management and therapy.
“Still doesn’t mean you should’ve broken his face,” he sighs, pulling me back from my thoughts.
“I don’t give a single fuck,” I mutter.
Micah drags a hand through his hair, but he chooses not to respond to that. The pills begin to soften me, and the raw pain behind my ribs dulls to an ache that’s almost manageable. My limbs feel looser. My heartbeat steadies.
Micah watches me closely. I know he can’t stand that we’re stuck in a chemical dependence together. Every day, multiple times a day, we need them to function. His eyes linger on my knuckles. “You’re scaring me,” he whispers.
I swallow hard and sip my coffee. “I’m sorry.”
This part of New York City smells like exhaust and rain-soaked concrete.
Everything is slick, loud, and alive in a way I’m not.
I shove my hood up, step over a pile of cigarette butts, and light one of my own.
The bitter smoke scratches its way down my throat.
My hands shake around the lighter. They always do in the mornings—withdrawal, nerves, whatever parts of me are still fighting to stay alive.
Thank fuck the paparazzi hasn’t found me. We ditched the bus, and Finnick and Kami texted the band group chat saying that they were heading home for a bit. I assume it’s because I fucked up so bad that we’re pausing the tour. I’m likely about to find out.
By the time Micah and I reach the tinted limo, Nolan’s waiting outside. Adriana’s leaned against the door, one hip cocked, scrolling on her phone like always.
“Finally,” Nolan says, his tone dripping in annoyance.
I grunt.
He laughs. “We’re heading to the label. A few updates. Adriana’s cooking something special for you.”
Great. Yet another plan I never agreed to.
I climb into the back, slam the door harder than I need to, and let my head fall against the cool window. When I push up my sleeve, the faint scars along my forearm catch the light—track marks, half-healed cuts, reminders of every night I tried to disappear.
Little trophies of failure.
The ride stays quiet except for Adriana’s nails tapping across her screen. When we pull into the underground garage of our label, she dives right in. “So. New angle.” Her voice echoes off the concrete. “The press loves a redemption arc. ‘Troubled rockstar seeks help.’ Very sympathetic.”
I nod without looking at her, stepping out of the car and wincing at the harsh lights. “Whatever, Adriana.”
“It’ll be good for your image,” she says smoothly. “We’ll announce you’re taking a break from tour to focus on your health. A chance to reset. Micah will stay with you for support.”
Micah snorts beside me.
Adriana’s gaze narrows on me like she’s actually worried.
I exhale smoke and shrug. A car drives past, looking for a spot, and I watch its headlights sweep over the wall. “Just tell me where the fuck I’m supposed to pretend to heal this time.”
Nolan and Adriana exchange a look. “You’ll love this one,” Nolan says. His grin sharpens. “Quiet coastal town. I think you’re familiar with it.”
Adriana tilts her head. “Seaside.”
The cigarette slips between my fingers and hits the concrete floor.
My stomach twists. Seaside.
Home.
The word punches the air out of me. Micah tenses beside me. I stare forward, New York’s lights suddenly too bright. I haven’t been back there since I walked out on…her.
Seven years ago.
Seven years since I stood on her porch and then disappeared. My throat tightens, but all that comes out is, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Nolan’s grin widens. “Think of it as coming full circle. Plus, we have some possible deals going on in Portland. So we’ll keep you out of the press for a bit. There’s someone there who could change everything for us.”
I look down at the scars on my hands and wonder what Emma Easton would see now if she looked at me.
Probably a dead man walking. A ghost.