Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
JUDE GRAVES
I can still feel her. The taste of her, the way her fingers curled against my hoodie right before I pulled away. It’s fucking burned into me.
EMMA
Why don’t you?
Dammit, she has no idea what that does to me. I type three different replies before settling on I can’t tonight. I need to control myself, because I almost lost it the moment I kissed her.
I close my eyes and try to breathe past the ache in my chest. All I want is to get in the car, drive until I see her front porch light, and show her how much I’ve missed her.
But that’s not how this works. Not for me.
Not anymore. I don’t know how to navigate all of this right now.
She’s far too important to be so flippant.
I hit send and toss the phone onto the nightstand. The sound feels too loud in the quiet.
Is she looking at the moon right now? My mind won’t stop replaying that kiss—how easy it would’ve been to carry her to her bedroom. I tell myself it’s better this way.
But Portland’s coming, and it’s never good.
Alexei’s name on Nolan’s lips earlier still sits like a wildly uncomfortable weight in my gut.
That man is the worst one Nolan has ever worked with.
A Russian crime lord? The fuck is he even thinking getting involved with him?
Not to mention, high-paying clients like him always mean danger. And danger means blood, unfortunately.
I roll onto my side, stare at the silver moonlight bleeding through the window. I press the heel of my hand to my eyes.
Just a few more days, I tell myself. If I can make it through fucking Portland.
Friday morning hits way too bright. I didn’t really sleep—just drifted in and out until my alarm went off, stomach already twisting with what’s ahead. Portland. Alexei. The “clients.” Whatever that means this time.
I shower, dress, and take some oxy before I can think twice. The sharper and annoying edges soften. My thoughts slow enough that I can breathe. That dull warmth floods my veins, and for a few minutes, I can almost pretend the day won’t end in blood. My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
EMMA
Hey, what are you doing this weekend?
I hesitate before answering. She doesn’t need to know the truth, but lying feels wrong now.
Portland. Work stuff. I’ll be gone a couple days.
There’s a pause, then her reply lights up the screen:
EMMA
Okay. Be careful, please. I might get a hotel over there. Just in case you need somewhere to go. You don’t have to come, but I’ll be there.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
You don’t have to do that, Em.
EMMA
I know. I just want to.
That one gets me. I shut my eyes, jaw tight. The drug vibrates under my skin, but it doesn’t quiet the guilt. I type out a thank you, something small and meaningless compared to what I want to say. Then I toss the phone onto the bed and grab my jacket.
Outside, the air smells like rain. Nolan’s already in the driver’s seat of the limo, engine running. Adriana’s in the passenger seat, oversized sunglasses, lipstick too red for this early in the day. She doesn’t look back when I slide in beside Micah.
Micah’s tapping his knee, restless. “You good?” he mutters.
I nod. Lie. “Yeah.” The leather’s cold against my skin. Adriana finally turns around just enough to flash me a smile that makes my stomach turn. Nolan says something about “Alexei’s expecting us by seven,” and my chest tightens. I glance down at my text thread with Emma.
Just in case you need somewhere to go.
My throat burns. I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling as the car pulls away from the curb.
The city is a blur of neon and drizzle by the time we pull up to the penthouse.
Same one as last time. Same doorman who doesn’t look us in the eyes.
Portland looks alive tonight, but to me it just feels hollow.
Every time we come here, it’s the same script—Adriana plays my girlfriend, Nolan cracks his jokes, and Micah and I play the good boys.
“Bring your guitar up,” Nolan demands as we get out of the car. “You’re high, right? We’re going to need that soul. And fire.”
I swallow. “I’m always fucking high.”
Adriana narrows her eyes, but I don’t give a damn.
We ride the elevator in silence. The higher we go, the tighter my chest feels.
Nolan’s scrolling through his phone, Adriana’s humming to herself, and Micah catches my eye.
That look he gives me—half dread, half warning—it says you know this won’t be good.
The doors slide open, and Alexei is waiting, tall and sharp in a gray suit.
He looks like money and malice in human form.
“Ah, boys,” he says, spreading his arms like he’s welcoming family.
He claps my shoulder too hard, his cologne biting at my nose.
“You look better. Getting some good rest on your little break, da?”
I give him a tight smile. “Something like that.”
He laughs, then glances at Adriana. “Keep him that way.”
The penthouse smells like expensive liquor and cigarette smoke. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, looking out at the city lights. A small band’s playing in the corner instead of the obnoxious playlist last time when Adriana rode me in front of all of their wealthy friends.
Micah mutters, “This place gives me fucking hives.”
I huff a laugh and grab a drink off a tray just to have something else to hold.
Alexei motions to the corner table where a few men in suits are seated—clients, obviously. “We are celebrating a partnership tonight,” he says. “But one of our friends is getting...cold feet.” His eyes flick to me. “You’ll take him out for us after a quick performance. Sing something beautiful.”
I nod, jaw tight and suddenly nauseous. Goddammit. My eyes dart to Nolan.
“I told him how useful you are,” he says with an evil grin. “How you and your anger are truly something to see.”
Of fucking course you did.
I clear my throat. “Sure.”
Alexei waves the small band off with a lazy flick of his hand. So I do what I’ve always done. I perform.
I take the stool on the stage, the city lights burning behind me through the glass. A single mic. My old guitar. It still smells faintly like smoke and whiskey and nights I can’t remember.
Micah sits at the bar, watching me with an intensity that says he knows I’m not okay. My veins are buzzing, and my fingers tremble as I test a chord. The room quiets. The hum of the city fades. And then I start.
My fingers find the strings like muscle memory. The melody comes low and rough, rising from somewhere in my chest. My voice cracks on the first verse, but I keep going, the lyrics pouring out like my dirty fucking soul:
“Been walking through shadows, chasing a flame,
Caught a glimpse of the light, but never her name.
Still burning the spark that refuses to fade,
I’ll find my way home through the mess that I’ve made.”
The crowd leans in. Heads tilt, a few sway.
But I don’t see them. I see her. With paint on her hands, hair loose around her shoulders, smiling at me.
She’s the only person I’m really gentle with.
My rage is a monster clawing beneath my skin, desperate to tear free and rip every one of these fuckers to shreds.
I tighten my grip on the mic, forcing the next verse out:
“There’s gold in the ashes, I swear that it’s true,
The fire still remembers the color of you.”
It’s lighter. Hopeful. And it hits harder because of it.
The audience is eating it up. I can feel the energy, the pulse of it rolling through the room.
Adriana’s perched at the bar, biting her lip, her eyes dragging down my chest like she owns me.
I look away before I’m sick. Instead, I find Micah again.
He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
He knows. He fucking knows who I’m singing about.
The lights burn hotter. The world narrows to the vibration of the guitar under my fingers, the faint crack in my voice when I hit the chorus again.
Faces blur into shapes. Glasses glint. But I’m not here, not really.
I’m nineteen again, playing for her on my bedroom floor, her laughter blending into the melody.
The last chord hangs in the air too long before dissolving into silence. For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then the applause hits. It’s full, thunderous, and genuine. Alexei leans back in his chair, smiling like a demon.
I step down from the stool, the guitar strap slipping from my shoulder.
“Now that,” Alexei calls out with a smirk, “is how you sell a soul.”
“Yeah, not bad for a burnout,” Alexei’s assistant says, brown hair slicked back and beady eyes looking down at me. He looks like he’s barely twenty, the stupid little fucker. His friends laugh.
My throat goes dry. I catch Micah’s glance again, the silent don’t do it. But I can already feel that heat crawling up the back of my neck.
Alexei’s voice drips through the air behind me, smooth as oil. “He’s got more fire than you think. Come.” He motions toward a narrow hallway lit only by the amber glow of the lamps. My pulse kicks up, my fingers flexing at my sides. Micah falls into step beside me, silent.
We follow Alexei into a private office—a room that smells like cigar smoke and money. A single chandelier hangs above a heavy mahogany table. Nolan’s already there, perched with a drink in hand, Adriana at his side, one manicured hand resting on his knee.
Across from them stands a man I don’t recognize. Late forties, clean-shaven, expensive suit, smile sharp enough to cut glass. His black hair is tied back into a bun, and he has cruel, sharp blue eyes.
“This is Nathan Bravera,” Alexei says. “Longtime associate. Handles distribution, investments, and other matters we don’t discuss in daylight.”
Bravera’s eyes rake over me like I’m an item up for auction. “So this is your little rockstar pet,” he says finally. “Does he sing, or just snort?”