More Than An Encore (The Crooked Souls Trilogy #1)

Chapter One

Jay was already sinking.

Though he’d played hundreds of shows, the thrill was gone. Had been for a while now.

He’d been fueled by the dream when they crammed four grown men into a rusted Econoline van that reeked of sweat and cheap beer.

Ten years and six albums ago, this was the only future he wanted: headlining Bridgestone Arena with a sold-out crowd and strangers wearing the Wicked Smile rotten apple logo across their chests.

But now, standing in the wings, he felt nothing at all.

Their manager, Lionel, had appointed himself cheerleader again, slapping shoulders and talking over the backstage chaos.

Luke, the bassist, tied his mousy hair into a ponytail and let out a triumphant whoop as he strode forward.

Riley, the guitarist, followed, cracking his knuckles with the arrogance of a man who knew he was the main event.

At least they still had the spirit.

The crowd’s roar swelled, restless after two long opening acts. The vibration rattled the floorboards beneath Jay’s boots, and he forced himself to focus on his breath—not the fifteen thousand voices waiting for him.

“Jay! Have you seen Ari?” Their tour manager appeared at his elbow, frowning. She blended in with the rest of the crew, decked out in all black, though her dyed-silver hair glowed in the low backstage lights. “I’ve looked everywhere—”

“Bathroom, I think.” Jay was already moving. “I’ll get him.”

She sighed and rubbed under her right eye, smearing her eyeliner. “Tell him we’re already five minutes behind.”

Jay’s bandmates called for him, but he signaled for them to wait, fiddling with his ear monitors as he headed to the communal bathroom by the green rooms. He pulled one monitor out as he opened the door, its wire dangling over his shoulder.

“Ari. You still in here?”

The bathroom lights flickered. Ari stood at the sink, soaked hair clinging to his face and water dripping off his chin. When he wiped his hands through his curls, Jay saw how bloodshot his eyes were. His pupils were practically nonexistent.

Shit.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” Ari didn’t look at him, just kept moving—adjusting his shirt, rolling his neck, tapping his knuckles against the sink.

“Ari,” Jay pressed.

“I’m coming. Just needed to wake up.”

“You don’t look like you need to wake up. You look like you need to come down.”

Ari finally looked at him, teeth clenched. “I said I’m fine, man.”

“How much did you take today?”

“Enough.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Ari took one last look in the mirror and shoved past. Jay caught his arm.

“Goddamn it!” Ari snarled, yanking away hard enough that Jay stumbled back against the sink. The porcelain edge hit his spine, sending a jolt of cold lightning up his back.

“I’m just worried—”

“Stop worrying!” Ari threw his hands in the air, his dark brown eyes wild and glassy. “Same birthday, different people. I’m not the one who keeps crashing out.”

Jay bit down on the side of his cheek until he tasted copper.

Last week, he’d found Ari’s pill bottle and threatened to flush it.

Ari had laughed him off, claiming he had it under control.

Now, watching his brother, dread tightened around his ribs.

When was the last time Ari was even remotely sober?

The bathroom door swung open. Riley’s head appeared, taking in the tense scene with a detached expression. “Y’all coming? We’re late again.”

“Yeah, we’re coming,” Ari grumbled.

He stomped toward the door without another look at Jay, tripping over his own feet as he went. Riley noticed, looked back at Jay, and shrugged his bony shoulders.

“As long as he can hit the drums with some semblance of a beat, we’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried about his playing,” Jay said quietly.

Riley huffed. “That fucker’s fine. Come on.”

But he wasn’t fine. And they both knew it.

As Jay followed Riley toward the rest of the band, he was already piecing together the interrogation he’d have for Ari after the show. This time, he wouldn’t just threaten to flush the pills. He’d actually do it.

Wicked Smile stood in a circle by the stage platform.

Jay watched warily as Ari swayed on his feet, drumsticks tapping an unsteady rhythm against his thigh.

Lionel had positioned himself between Jay and Ari like a buffer, his eyes moving over the group before he clapped his hands together and smiled too wide.

“You’re home, boys,” Lionel said. “What are you here to do?”

“Leave it all out there!” three of them said in unison.

Jay’s answer was mumbled. Ari missed his cue entirely.

Moments later, the arena plunged into darkness, a countdown clock flickering to life on the screen behind the set. A tidal wave of screams erupted, and fans started chanting along with the timer. Riley, ever the showman, joined in.

“FIVE! FOUR! THREE!”

“Y’ALL FUCKING READY?!” Luke shouted, nudging Jay’s shoulder.

Jay figured he was as ready as he’d ever be.

The countdown ended with a jarring buzzer, the crowd’s roar intensifying. Jay took center stage. Ari was elevated behind him at the drum set, flanked by flame canisters set to blaze during the first song’s final bridge. Riley stood to Jay’s left and Luke to his right.

The lights rose, spotlights pinning Jay as he purred into the mic, “Well hello, Nashville.”

Only three words and the screams were deafening. He flashed his signature boyish smile—the one that belonged to the performer, not the man. After ten years of this, slipping into the persona had become muscle memory.

Lionel wanted him to skip the monologues, but this part wasn’t filler. This was how he became the version of himself that could make it through the next two hours—how he ensured the mask was on just right.

“We’re so damned stoked to see y’all tonight,” Jay said, his bandmates riffing behind him. “Hard to believe it all started right here in Music City.”

The crowd cheered again. Jay chuckled, pushing his blue hair out of his face and freeing the mic so he could move around. The thousands of bodies in the arena moved in waves below him. He watched them like he was somewhere else entirely.

“I wrote my first song in a garage about eight miles from this stage.” He pointed vaguely east. “It was terrible. You’re welcome that we aren’t playing it tonight.”

Riley and Luke began the opening notes of their first song. Ari joined moments later, the kick drum thumping like a heavy, irregular heart.

“You might know this one,” Jay said over the music. “It’s one worth singing. So get off your asses, and sing it with me.”

Riley launched into his showy intro, the melody filling the auditorium. This was one of the songs that got them started all those years ago—one of the songs that struck fucking gold.

Jay nodded along with the tempo before launching into the first verse.

The lyrics came from a part of his brain that didn’t require his soul to be present.

As they made it to the bridge, the instruments dropped out, leaving only the haunting echo of Jay’s voice and the restless energy of fifteen thousand people.

Luke and Riley jumped back in for the crescendo.

The beat didn’t follow.

Jay turned.

Ari was swaying behind the drums, unsteady. His eyes rolled back, and then—he tipped. He slid off the stool, toppling five feet from the platform to the stage below with a sickening, dull thud.

Jay’s voice stuck in his throat. The mic slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a concussive boom that echoed through the monitors. Feedback screeched as Riley and Luke’s playing faltered.

Jay reached Ari first, turning him over. Blood trickled from his mouth, his pulse faint. Ari lay still, and his chest barely moved.

All Jay could process were shouts and gasps from the crowd until his vision tunneled and the arena vanished. His hands were shaking—no, his whole body was. He tried to breathe and couldn’t. The air wouldn’t come. His chest locked up, ribs turning into an iron cage.

Not now. Not here.

“What the fuck happened?!” Luke dropped beside Jay, snapping him back to reality. Gripping Ari’s shoulders, Luke shouted, “Ari, man! Talk to me!”

Jay opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His hands hovered uselessly over Ari’s chest.

Arena staff and the band’s crew flooded the stage, their black clothes turning the world into a funeral. They pushed and pulled, demanding the band move back.

Do something. Move. Help him.

He couldn’t.

“Jay—Jayesh, come on.” Their security guard’s voice was a distorted growl. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, lifting him.

“Medic needs through! Move!”

Jay yanked free, but his legs turned to water. He hit the floor hard, landing outside the frenzied circle of people.

He still couldn’t breathe. He could barely think.

Their tour manager was on her phone, shouting. Event staff scrambled to shield Ari from the audience, but there were thousands of phones recording, already capturing everything.

Jay’s vision blurred now. When his chest heaved, it only pulled in air that didn’t satisfy. A familiar weight crushed down. It was the same suffocating pressure he’d felt a dozen times before but never like this and never here where it mattered most.

His hands pressed against the stage floor. It was cold, but it was real. He tried to focus on its rough texture.

Breathe. Count. Four in, hold, four out.

Someone was talking to him. Jay forced himself to nod and move when they pulled him. His body obeyed even as his mind stayed stuck on the image of Ari’s lifeless face.

The stage was supposed to be the one place he had control.

Tonight, he’d lost it.

The hospital waiting room churned around Jay. He sat still in a chair with itchy fabric and watched everyone pace like caged animals. They were taking phone calls, discussing logistics, or scrolling through headlines. He wasn’t sure how they could function normally.

Who cared about the press? Who cared if the rest of the tour would go on? Who cared about any of that when Ari was behind the emergency room doors?