Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Logan
I've never been more aware of how small this RV is until now.
Gripping the wheel, I gaze out at the road, cornfields passing by as we rumble toward Chicago. Since Huck and Taylor are in the Audi and Christian's in the truck with Arya, I'm stuck driving the two people who hate my guts.
Devon passed out in the passenger seat, high on painkillers and who knows what else. He's got two black eyes, a line of stitches down his cheek and a bandage over his nose. We picked him up from the hospital this morning, but he hasn't said shit to anyone. He just crawled inside and fell asleep.
Then there's Salem, curled up on one of the bunks with her headphones in, blasting some band that I’ve never heard of—As Above.
Apparently, they're playing the same music festival that the stunt show is booked for.
She hasn't uttered a word either, though her smirk upon seeing Dev this morning didn’t go unnoticed.
Everything feels so wrong. I know the others feel it, too, which is why they all scrambled to drive anything but the RV.
Lucky bastards. I wish I could switch with someone, but Huck would try to talk about my feelings.
Taylor would try to fix everything, Arya gets on my nerves, and frankly, I just don’t know Christian that well.
So, I guess, given the alternatives, this uncomfortable atmosphere is the best option.
At least no one is yelling or hitting each other. That's a plus.
The GPS chimes, breaking the silence as we merge onto another highway.
Devon shifts in his seat and adjusts an ice pack on his forehead.
I sneak another glance at Salem through the rearview mirror.
Her face is blank, eyes closed, pretty lips mouthing the lyrics to whatever rage-filled song she’s listening to.
The fist around my heart squeezes a little tighter every time I look at her.
I want to say something. Anything, but what could I say to someone I lied to? She wouldn't believe me, anyway, so what's the point? I know Salem like the back of my hand, and this isn't something she'll ever forgive. I'm pretty sure I lost her. For good this time.
A low groan from Devon pulls my attention back to the road. “You okay?”
He sits up slowly, whiskey-brown eyes bruised and empty. “Fantastic. Where are we?”
Licking my lips, I check the GPS as I take another exit. “Twenty minutes out from Chicago.”
It's only been a couple hours’ drive, but with the tension in the air between the three of us, it felt like an eternity.
“Gotta take a piss,” he mumbles, rising from the seat to limp toward the bathroom.
I let my mind wander aimlessly until Salem plops down in the passenger seat, startling me.
“Hey,” I say lamely, cringing at myself, but she doesn't even look at me when she answers.
“We're almost to the venue. There's a specific lot we have to pull into for vendors and event guests.” Her tone is clipped, all business. Not an ounce of warmth to be found. “According to my email, we’ll pull up to a security gate and they'll verify our credentials.”
“Okay.”
Nothing else is said, not even when Dev exits the bathroom and drops onto the bunk after a furtive glance in our direction.
He doesn't speak either, just lies there and scowls out the window. The silence creeps back in, stretching wide as the road narrows into city traffic.
My throat itches to say something. About the show, about the music festival, anything that might break through this thick wall of ice between the three of us, but I don't know how.
So instead, I follow Salem’s instructions like a well-trained puppy, easing into the designated lane as we approach a massive park entrance. Tents are already popping up across the grass, banners swaying in the breeze. People in neon vests with radios wave us toward the check-in booth.
A man wearing aviators steps out of the guard shack and approaches the RV, clipboard in hand. Salem leans over me, flashing her phone through the window before I can even put us in park.
“Salem Vaughn,” she states firmly. “We’re with the Twins of Terror stunt crew. Credentials should be under my last name.”
Vaughn.
The sound of her maiden name rolling off her lips makes my heart lurch painfully.
For one brief, beautiful moment, I had a wife who said she wanted me—who might have taken my name. But I fucked it all up.
The second I park the RV among other vans and buses, it feels like we’ve entered some kind of hive-mind.
People in matching volunteer shirts run past us, shouting about load-ins and sound checks.
There’s a crew wrangling massive scaffolding beside the main stage, someone yelling into a headset about a missing generator, and what looks like a guy in a.
.. chicken suit zip-tying a speaker to a folding table.
Salem’s already out the door, speaking to an event coordinator. She snaps into her role effortlessly, born to be loud and in charge—a beautiful wrecking ball, arguing over schedule times with her hair blazing in the midday sun.
A gorgeous flame, too hot to touch. Too wild to control.
Devon moves slower, gingerly climbing down from the RV with a pained groan. I almost offer to help—almost—but think better of it.
Taylor jogs over from the Audi with Huck in tow, energy drink in hand and his sunglasses pushed onto his head. “This place looks fucking cool,” he gushes, glancing around the area. “Pretty sure I saw Symbiotic's tour bus back there.”
“Who?”
He smacks his lips in offense. “Only the best metal band ever.”
Salem scoffs as she passes us. “Pretty sure As Above has earned that title.”
Huck agrees with her, flashing a grin at his unimpressed boyfriend. “What? Their drummer is gay and also hot.”
“I thought I was hot?” Tay pouts, earning an eye roll from everyone.
Christian pulls up next with Arya and then we’re all lost to the chaos, unloading gear while golf carts and vendors zoom by.
Someone hands me a bundle of badges, another throws a checklist at Salem.
I lift a ramp off the trailer while Taylor and Christian get the bikes.
Devon curses under his breath as he drags a toolbox behind him.
I don't think he's supposed to lift anything heavy, but I'm not his keeper. Arya seems to ignore him as well, keeping her back turned. Oddly enough, not even Christian acknowledges his presence.
No one's rehearsed in days. Half the group can’t even look each other in the eye. By sheer force of necessity, though, we work together and set everything up. Just like we've been doing all month.
But as I drag our gear to the performance area and pretend I’m still part of this team, I can feel the tension simmering in the air.
Something’s going to crack. And soon.
I just don't know if we’ll survive the fallout when it does.