Chapter 23
NORA
Onstage
Tonight is the first show.
And I’m more nervous than if I were the one going on stage.
We’re at the arena hours before the crowd.
The venue smells like cold concrete and warm metal and distant popcorn.
The air hums with the quiet chaos of cables being tested, lights warming up, and crew members shouting into radios.
There’s a sort of electricity in the space already, like the whole building is holding its breath.
Max disappears backstage for soundcheck, and I’m left standing by the side curtain, hands clenched in the sleeves of my jacket. I probably look out of place in my jeans and ankle boots, the only one not wearing a lanyard or headset. But nobody seems to mind.
I spot DeShawn tuning his bass, Lucas arguing with the lighting guy over a last-minute change, and Annie stretching like she’s about to run a marathon.
And Max?
He’s already transformed.
Gone is the Max who kisses me half-asleep in the pod and buys me too many kinds of toothbrushes just in case.
This version is larger-than-life. Dressed in dark jeans, boots, and a sleeveless black tee that’s downright illegal on those arms. His guitar is slung low.
His jaw’s tight with focus. His voice, when he tests the mic, is low and dangerous and addictive.
I stand off to the side, feeling invisible and oddly grateful for it.
Because watching him in his element?
It’s like seeing him from the outside for the first time.
The man I’m falling for belongs to thousands of screaming fans. And yet—he keeps glancing toward me like I’m the one grounding him.
Showtime creeps closer.
The house lights dim. The bass vibrates through the floor. The intro track begins—something cinematic and thunderous—and I feel it in my chest like a heartbeat.
And then they’re on.
Storm & Silence.
All of them, stepping out onto the stage like gods in boots and leather.
The crowd erupts.
And Max?
He owns the night.
Every lyric he sings, every guitar lick, every moment he throws his head back and lets his voice rip through the dark—he's fire. He’s chaos and command and charm.
I feel like I’m watching someone I both know intimately and not at all.
Because this version of Max—the onstage one, drenched in sweat and power and swagger?
He’s sex on legs.
And judging by the signs being waved in the crowd, I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“Marry me, Max!”
“Max, spit in my mouth!”
“Your voice is my religion!”
One fan’s holding a glittery poster that just says, I WANT TO BE YOUR GUITAR.
I nearly choke on my own breath.
And Max, that arrogant, beautiful bastard, sees it. He smirks at the sign mid-song, then rakes a hand through his hair and winks in that direction. The crowd goes ballistic.
I roll my eyes. Hard. But my stomach still flips.
Because I get it.
I really do.
He’s magnetic. Commanding. A walking, singing, sweating fantasy.
And for a second—a small, sharp second—I feel that stab of doubt.
That whisper of insecurity.
All these fans want a piece of him. All these people screaming his name, dying for his attention. And me? I’m just the bookish girl in the wings. The nerd who ended up backstage because she tripped into the right man at the wrong masquerade.
But then, mid-verse, Max looks over his shoulder.
Not at the crowd. Not at the sign-wavers.
At me.
His eyes find mine like a magnet. His mouth curves—not the stage smile, not the cocky smirk. Something real. Soft. Just for me.
And suddenly, it doesn’t matter how many people are out there screaming for him.
Because he’s singing for me.
My heart trips. My knees nearly go out.
It’s like watching someone burn down a city and knowing the fire loves you best.
The set roars on. People scream lyrics I only just memorized. They cry, they throw things onstage, they chant his name over and over like it’s a spell.
And through it all—I watch him.
My Max. Their Max.
Somehow both.
When it’s over, when the lights finally dim and the crowd is still screaming and the band is dripping in sweat and adrenaline, I wait near the back hallway for him. My pulse is still racing. My hands won’t stop shaking.
And when he finally appears, wiping sweat off his face with the hem of his shirt, his eyes find me in an instant.
“Hey,” he says, pulling me into his arms.
I bury my face in his neck and nod. “You were incredible.”
His arms tighten. “I kept looking for you.”
Now backstage is a blur of noise and neon—crew shouting, cables getting reeled in, instruments disappearing into cases.
The band’s still high on adrenaline, sweaty and smiling, throwing water bottles and inside jokes.
Max disappears for a minute to talk to someone from the label, and I hover near the edge of the green room, trying to stay out of the way.
That’s when I see them.
Three women—model-perfect, glitter-smudged, wearing barely enough to qualify for backstage access—slip past the barricade like they’ve done this before. One of them walks straight up to Max, places a hand on his chest like it’s hers, and leans in close.
I don’t hear what she says. I don’t need to.
She’s giggling. He’s polite but distant. And still, something in my chest clenches.
I turn away, suddenly needing air—or a distraction—before I spiral into some pathetic jealousy meltdown.
But I don’t get far.
Because a tall girl in a Storm & Silence tank top steps directly into my path.
“You,” she snaps, eyes narrowing. “Are you seriously with Max?”
I blink. “I—sorry?”
“Max Donovan,” she says, slow like I might be stupid. “Are you dating him, or are you just, like… a backstage hookup?”
I flush. Heat creeps up my neck like a rising tide. “That’s… not really your business.”
She scoffs. “So that’s a yes. Wow.” Her eyes scan me, head to toe, full of disdain. “You’re not even his type. You look like someone’s assistant.”
I freeze. Every sharp-edged insecurity I’ve shoved down since stepping into this world bubbles to the surface.
But before I can even open my mouth, a voice cuts in—low, rough, furious.
“She’s exactly my type.”
Max.
He appears out of nowhere, stepping between us with a controlled, dangerous calm. He doesn’t yell. Doesn’t posture. He just radiates that kind of quiet power that makes people back the hell off.
The girl’s face pales slightly.
“She’s not a hookup,” Max says, voice like steel. “She’s not a groupie. She’s mine. So if you’ve got something to say, you can say it to me.”
The silence crackles.
The fan blinks. Mumbles something under her breath. And then vanishes into the crowd like smoke.
I exhale slowly, pulse thudding in my throat.
He takes my hand—right there in front of the crew, the hangers-on, the lingering fans—and laces our fingers together.
“I hate this part,” he says quietly. “The ones who think I’m some fantasy they’re owed. Fuck the noise. Fuck the groupies. Fuck anyone who doesn’t see how lucky I am to have you here.”
***
We’re back on the bus.
The noise of the venue is a memory now—just the low hum of the engine, the muted snoring of someone in the pods, the occasional creak as the bus shifts lanes on the highway.
Max and I are curled up in the rear lounge, a blanket slung over our legs and Melody snoozing like a queen in a pile of pillows.
I shift just enough to reach my phone from the armrest and tap out a quick text to Emily.
Nora:
Still alive. Still slightly obsessed with him. Tired, happy, kissed senseless twice today. But beautiful women are everywhere, and they all want his attention. It’s maddening.
A second later, the typing dots appear. Then:
Em:
Okay, first of all: you are hot librarian gorgeous and no one can compete with that. Second: He’s obsessed with you. Remember who he kissed senseless. Twice. So don’t let it mess with your head. Love you!
I haven’t said much to Max since the show.
Since her.
That fan with the sharp eyeliner and even sharper tongue.
I keep thinking about her words. The way she looked at me like I was temporary. Laughable. A bookmark in Max’s very full, very wild chapter.
“You’re not even his type.”
And the thing is—she’s probably not wrong.
He does have a type. Or he did. Before me.
I sip my water slowly, gathering the nerve to ask the question that’s been burning holes in my throat all night.
“Max?”
He turns his head toward me, eyes soft despite how wrecked he looks. “Yeah?”
“Have you ever…” I trail off, then force myself to continue. “Have you slept with your fans before?”
He’s quiet for a beat. Not cagey—just thoughtful.
Then he nods once. “Yeah. I have.”
The answer stings more than I expect it to. I look away.
“Nora,” he says gently, “I’m not gonna lie to you. In the beginning? Yeah, it happened. A lot more than I’m proud of.”
I turn my gaze back to him, eyebrows raised.
He runs a hand through his hair, sighing.
“Everything was new. Fast. We were nobodies one week and playing packed clubs the next. It felt like the rules didn’t apply.
Girls would wait outside the venue, slip me their numbers, show up at the hotel.
I didn’t think much of it back then—I was just a guy with a guitar and too much energy to sleep. ”
“So it was… often,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He meets my eyes. “Yeah. It was.”
I nod slowly. My stomach twists, but I keep listening.
“But that didn’t last,” he says. “After a few experiences that got… weird, I stopped hooking up with fans altogether. One girl followed me to another city. Another kept showing up at my mom’s place.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
He nods grimly. “Yeah. And then there was one who lied about using a diaphragm—tried to get pregnant on purpose because she thought it’d keep me tied to her.”
My stomach turns. “What?”
“Yeah.” His eyes are serious now. “It scared the hell out of me. Ever since then, I’ve been careful.
Really careful. No matter how drunk or lonely or whatever—I never went there again without full control of the situation.
If I was gonna mess around, it was with someone far outside that world.
No more backstage hookups. I had to keep my distance. ”
I nod slowly, trying to process all of it. “That must’ve felt like… betrayal.”
“It was,” he says simply. “I wasn’t even mad she wanted something from me. I was mad she tried to steal it. It messed with my head for a long time.”
***
Max is asleep now.
Stretched out on the narrow couch in the back lounge, one arm slung above his head, the other loosely draped over his stomach. His shirt’s rumpled, hair still damp, lips parted slightly with the kind of soft, unguarded breath that only comes when someone’s truly out.
He looks… young like this.
I sit beside him, blanket tucked over both our legs, Melody curled into a loaf near his feet like the world’s tiniest, fluffiest security system.
And I think.
About what he told me.
About all the women who threw themselves at him—some bold, some calculated, some just… opportunistic. The one who tried to trap him. The ones who followed him across state lines.
I used to think I was the odd one out.
Twenty-nine years old. A virgin. More comfortable with library databases than eye contact. I’d always assumed that made me the na?ve one. The one behind.
But now…
I glance down at Max’s sleeping form. The soft crease between his brows. The faint scar along his jaw. The calluses on his fingers that brush against mine even in sleep.
Now I’m not so sure.
Because what’s lonelier? Waiting for something real your whole life?
Or giving yourself to people who only want to borrow you for a night?
Maybe I haven’t been missing out.
Maybe I’ve been preserving something.
Something sacred.
I watch him breathe. Wonder what that version of Max felt like—untouchable, wanted, but never truly seen. Just a body. Just a name on someone’s fantasy checklist.
And suddenly, I feel it. A sharp, aching sympathy that sits heavy in my throat.
I lean my head back against the cushion and close my eyes.
And the last thought before sleep finally finds me is:
Maybe it’s better to be untouched than to be used.