Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
Dexter
The apartment hums with static and sleeplessness.
The lights are too dim, the hallway bulb pulsing like it’s short on time or patience.
Somewhere outside, a siren wails and disappears, swallowed by the hum of late-night traffic.
Tires screech. A voice shouts, then slips into nothing.
I haven’t been here long enough to know if that’s normal—or something I should be worried about.
And yet here I am.
Wide awake in a borrowed life while I try to fix . . . my past, my future. I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing.
This is Los Angeles—sprawling, burned at the edges, trying to convince everyone it’s beautiful when bleeding underneath.
Lolita rests against the couch, her strings a little off—maybe it’s the air in here, or maybe it’s me. Still, her body settles into mine like muscle memory, like she hasn’t forgotten who I was before everything cracked wide open.
She and Rosie are the only ones who haven’t asked me to explain myself. The only ones who don’t twist the truth into something sellable. They don’t reframe the story to fit the latest spin. They just wait and let me play at my own pace.
The cursor on my computer blinks in time with something pulsing in my chest—some ache I can’t get rid of.
ECHOZONE — Private Message Sent.
Status: Delivered.
Still nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Maybe Aly’s asleep. Maybe she saw the message and turned away.
Maybe she’s finally doing the one thing I never learned—saving herself.
I roll back in the chair and press my palms to my eyes until colors bloom behind my lids. Then I reach for Lolita. She’s out of tune today. The low E string buzzes wrong, but I don’t fix it. I just let it hum.
The first strum cuts through the stillness—uneven, strained. Like a bruise surfacing beneath the skin.
I play the same three chords until they start to sound like a heartbeat.
That’s when it happens.
The words crawl out of me like they’ve been waiting. My throat hurts. Doesn’t stop me.
“You were the silence I mistook for peace,
the lull between storms I thought would never reach me.
But they always do.
They always find me.”
The melody clings to the air, soft at first. Then darker. It builds like it’s been clawing its way out of my ribs.
“They call it mercy when they break me open,
and art when I bleed.
Every headline, another bite—
and I’m still chained to the same damn rock.”
Rosie hums low beneath my palm, her body vibrating like she’s trying to answer back. Each note scrapes against something buried deep, something I haven’t touched in too long. But I keep going. Because that’s what it’s always been.
I’m Prometheus—tied to the cliff, guts carved out day after day.
They don’t even pretend to care anymore. It’s not about truth. It’s about the performance.
Every time I begin to heal, they come back. Open the wound. Print it. Profit.
I stop playing, fingers trembling. My pulse pounds like it wants to crawl out of my skin.
For years, I told myself this was penance. For being there. For letting him use me. For sharing his blood.
But it’s not redemption anymore. It’s rot.
And I’m done pretending it isn’t.
I place Lolita down gently, her last note still humming in my bones, and reach for the notebook wedged between a coffee-stained coaster and a hotel pen I forgot to return.
The pages are warped and torn at the edges, ink already bleeding through from God knows when.
I flip to a blank one and start writing like it might stop everything from splintering.
If you want a monster, I’ll show you his grave.
If you want my past, it’s carved in the scars he gave.
Feast, tear, swallow, blame—
Prometheus with gasoline in his veins.
It’s rough. Unfinished. But it’s mine. No one else’s hands have touched it. No one’s trimmed the edges to make it easier to swallow.
I drop the pen, stare at the scrawl until the words start to blur, then stand. Lolita’s still buzzing faintly from that last chord. I cross to the computer again, the glow of the monitor stinging my eyes.
Still no reply.
My inbox? Forty-seven unread files.
Every one of them is a landmine. Journalists. Lawyers. Leeches dressed in concern. I click to open the top message.
From: v.stein@
Subject: Statement Approval Needed.
“Dexter, we need your signature before two. Please review the attached language. Avoid additional public comments until further notice.”
Fuck that. We’ll look at it tomorrow.
The next one’s from someone at the label. Marketing. Something about damage control, cross-promotion, and a quote request for Spin.
Delete.
Another one—this one bolder.
From: rhensley@
Subject: You Owe Us an Explanation.
“You can’t stay silent forever, Dex. It looks like guilt. Call me back.”
I click delete so hard the computer stutters. I’m not giving them anything else. Not today and maybe never. A notification blinks in the corner of the screen.
ECHOZONE — Private Message: Opened.
I freeze.
She saw it.
No reply yet, but that small notification punches straight through my chest like she’s watching me watch her. Aly’s awake. Somewhere, on the other side of this static-lit night, she’s reading what I wrote. Maybe in her apartment. Yeah, definitely there.
I stare at the screen like if I blink, I’ll miss her. Like she’s right there behind the glass, deciding if I’m worth even this. If I’ve already drained every ounce of grace she had left for me.
And maybe I have.
The last thing I sent wasn’t some grand, bleeding declaration. Just:
I shouldn’t have left like that. I’m sorry.
No fireworks. No promises I can’t keep. Just the truth I should’ve said to her face.
A minute drags by. Then another. My pulse keeps time.
Then her reply comes through.
Aly: I won’t stop writing. Talk tomorrow.
Three seconds later, her status goes gray.
Logged off.
The screen dims as if it’s mourning something, and I just sit there. Eyes stinging. Mouth dry.
She didn’t say I forgive you.
She didn’t say I hate you, either.
She said enough.
What if I’m carrying some guilt that doesn’t exist? I’m always thinking that I have to overcorrect everything I’ve done wrong. Maybe I should go back to a therapist. Eddie is right. Fuck, I hate when he’s right.
My hand shakes as I reach for the notebook.
Prometheus. Gasoline. Her name. It’s already inked between the lines I can’t finish, tangled into the chorus like a prayer I never learned to say right.
Part of me wants to keep shaping it, smoothing the edges until it becomes something safe. Something radio-friendly.
But that would mean cutting her out of it.
And I’m not doing that.
Not this time.
I tear the page out. Fold it in thirds. Press the crease down until the paper feels worn from my hands alone.
Then I walk it over and tuck it into the guitar case beside Lolita.
The wood is still faintly humming from earlier, like the song hasn’t fully left her yet.
Maybe if I leave the words close to her, they won’t disappear like everything else I try to hold onto.
I close the lid slowly.
A knock startles me—three hard raps against the door, too clipped to be casual. Too familiar to be anyone else.
Eddie.
His voice comes through the wood, rough and annoyed. “You alive in there?”
“I’m fine,” I call out.
It’s a lie, and we both know it. I sound like sandpaper and regret. At least, I hadn’t done anything I will regret tomorrow. Going to a meeting twice a day has helped.
“You miss that meeting with legal, and I swear to God I’ll start charging you by the hour just to babysit your reputation.”
I stare at the blank computer screen. “Didn’t realize I had a reputation left to save.”
“You don’t,” he fires back. “But we’re gonna fix that tomorrow. Today, you’re coming to my place. I’m giving you one night to breathe and not completely self-destruct. I’ll be in the car. Pack whatever shit you need—including a goddamn suit. Don’t make me come in.”
The door clicks again. His footsteps fade.
Silence drapes over the apartment. I don’t move.
The air inside the room feels off-kilter, like it’s been holding too many conversations I never had. The kind of silence that waits for you to crack before it speaks.
The guitar hums softly behind me, her strings still catching the vibrations in the room like she refuses to let go of the last note. And I get it.
Because neither can I.