16. Sixteen
Sixteen
Vince
The final chords reverberate through my chest, vibrating in my bones as the crowd erupts, a sea of faces screaming our names. Adrenaline surges, hot and intoxicating—the thrill of being on stage never gets old, but something feels different now.
I glance over my shoulder at Cass, sweat dripping down his face as he flashes the crowd a grin. Beside him, Sam tosses his bass pick into the front row, prompting a chorus of screams—that used to be my signature move. Luke’s already stepping away from the keyboard, reaching eagerly for the bottle of water waiting backstage, while Nate gives me a quiet nod, eyes sharp and observant as always.
My heart’s still hammering when I wave at the roaring crowd and step offstage. Usually, I’d be wired, riding the high of the performance straight into whatever after-party awaited. Bright lights, pounding music, and eager groupies—it’s been my routine for years, my go-to reward for another show successfully wrapped.
But tonight, like every other night on this damn one-week tour, I head straight back to the dressing room.
Sam claps me on the shoulder as I pass. “Heading back to the hotel already, old man?”
“Shut up.” I shove him lightly, smirking. “Just tired.”
“Sure,” he chuckles. “It’s called ‘parenthood.’ Welcome to my world.”
I roll my eyes, but I know he’s right. The parties, the women, the endless late nights—I used to live for it. Hell, I used to give Sam and the others shit for escaping to their quiet hotel rooms or tour buses.
Now, here I am, doing the exact same thing. Fuck, I’ve become everything I used to mock.
“You coming tonight?” Luke asks, shaking sweat from his blonde hair. “Everyone’s asking. They think you’ve lost your edge.”
I shrug, grabbing a towel off the rack and swiping it across my forehead. “Let ’em think what they want.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll pass.” I shove my wallet into my pocket, not even tempted. “But have a good time. Try to stay out of trouble, Sterling.”
“Me? Trouble?” Luke grins, feigning innocence. “I’m recently married, remember?”
“Yeah, recently domesticated.” I shoot back at him over my shoulder.
“Careful, Savage. Looks like you’re headed in the same direction,” Luke teases. “One more skipped party and we’ll have to revoke your bad-boy card.”
Nate claps me firmly on the shoulder, his expression dryly amused. “Welcome to the boring side, Vince. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”
“Funny,” I say dryly, flipping him off as I step out into the hallway.
Their laughter rings in my ears. Not so long ago, I’d have been the last guy leaving a party. Now, here I am—Vince Savage, bad boy guitarist—heading straight back to his hotel—alone.
Boring as fuck. Hell, maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I have completely lost my edge.
“Heard you were skipping out on the after-party.” I look up to find Cass leaning against the doorframe. He’s got that same knowing smirk he wore when I used to give him shit for skipping after-parties to FaceTime his daughter, Cassidy.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“Karma’s a bitch, isn’t it?” He laughs, dropping onto the couch beside me. “Remember when you drew a dick on my face that time I fell asleep during an after-party? What was it you said? ‘Only losers pass out before sunrise?’”
“Yeah, yeah.” I run a hand through my sweat-damp hair. “I was an ass.”
“The biggest.” He claps my shoulder. “But watching you sprint off stage to check on your daughter? This is pure payback.”
I flip him off, but I’m already walking toward the back. I nod at Emily and the girls as I pass them, grateful they don’t give me a hard time, even if I deserve it.
The noise from the crowd echoes through the building as security escorts me out the back entrance. The second the door closes behind me, a strange quiet descends, broken only by the soft hum of street traffic. It’s an odd feeling, leaving the chaotic energy behind—but honestly, it feels good.
I reach my hotel in less than ten minutes, nodding at the doorman as I head straight upstairs, avoiding the bustling bar and lobby filled with eager fans and curious gazes. Once upon a time, I’d have thrived in that chaos, feeding off the excitement, hunting for someone to share my bed and ease the adrenaline from my veins.
But tonight, like every night on this tour, the only company I want is back home, miles away.
Upstairs, I let myself into the suite, drop my jacket onto the chair, and kick off my boots. I’m exhausted—physically drained from the performance, mentally drained from missing my daughter, and emotionally twisted up from spending every spare moment thinking about Quinn.
My muscles ache, tight and tense from the show. I step into the shower and let the hot water beat down on me, scrubbing away the sweat, the noise, and the remnants of my old life. Fifteen minutes later, I step out feeling slightly more human.
Pulling on a pair of sweats, I collapse onto the oversized bed, staring at the ceiling. The hotel room feels empty and impersonal. Nothing like back home, where the rooms are filled with Jasmine’s toys scattered on the floor or Quinn’s laptop and notes spread across the dining room table, signs of her constant presence in our lives.
God, Quinn. Just thinking her name sends warmth rushing through me. I close my eyes, picturing the curve of her smile and how her hazel eyes light up when she laughs. My fingers flex instinctively, remembering the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips and the heat of her lips.
I’m screwed. Completely, utterly screwed.
Quinn Donovan isn’t the kind of woman you forget after one night—she’s the kind who makes you rethink your entire life. A couple of months ago, I would’ve been terrified by that thought. Now, I find myself craving it.
She deserves more than the scraps I’ve always given the women who drifted through my life—moments of pleasure followed by forgotten faces in the morning light. Quinn deserves someone steady. Someone who can give her stability, who won’t run at the first sign of trouble. Someone reliable.
Could I ever be that man?
I sit up, running a hand through my damp hair. Being Jasmine’s dad has forced me to change more than I ever thought possible. I’ve learned to put someone else first and to cherish moments rather than rush through them. And Quinn—she fits into that new life effortlessly. She sees beyond the fame, past the tattoos and bravado. She makes me feel worthy.
And if I’m honest—that’s scary as hell. But not so scary that it stops me from pulling out my phone to FaceTime her. But as my fingers hover over the keys, I see the time flash on the bedside clock. Midnight. That means it’s 4 AM on the East Coast. Dammit! I can’t call her this late. That would be cruel.
Instead, I scroll through my messages and read the last update from Grace. She sent a picture of Jasmine earlier, fresh from her bath, wrapped in that ridiculous butterfly towel Quinn bought her. Even through the screen, I can almost smell her baby shampoo and see the way her eyes light up when she grins that smile that gets me every time.
Two months ago, when that tiny bundle showed up on my doorstep, I was terrified. Didn’t think I had it in me to be anyone’s father. But now, I can’t imagine my life without her. Without those morning cuddles, her determined little face when she’s trying to crawl, the way she babbles at me like she’s telling me about her day.
One more show. One more night in an empty hotel room, and then back to the chaos of home. To tiny hands that have me wrapped around her little finger. And to Quinn, whose eyes see right through any walls I’ve built, whose observations are sharper than any reprimand.
The thought of them waiting for me makes this separation both harder and easier. Harder because every minute away feels like lost time. Easier because now I have something real to come home to. Something that matters more than sold-out venues and screaming fans.
Tonight was the last show—the finale of our West Coast one-week tour. The crowd was insane, the energy electric, but now, in the quiet of my dressing room, exhaustion hits me like a freight train. My muscles ache from six straight days of performances, and the lack of sleep is finally catching up to me.
I stretch out on the leather couch, telling myself I’ll just rest for a minute before heading back to the hotel. The familiar post-show buzz hums through my veins, but it’s muted now, overshadowed by bone-deep weariness and an ache to be home.
Just for a minute, I think, letting my eyes close...
Soft hands slide up my thighs, and in my half-conscious state, I lean into the touch. My mind, still fuzzy with exhaustion, conjures Quinn—her teasing smile, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking. A low groan escapes me as those hands move higher, and I reach out, expecting to find curves I’ve only dreamed about.
But something’s wrong. The scent isn’t right—too much cloying perfume, none of Quinn’s subtle citrus. The touch is too practiced, too calculated. My eyes snap open to find a stunning blonde in a barely-there dress straddling my lap, her fingers working at my zipper.
“What the fuck?” I grab her wrists, brain struggling to catch up. The dressing room comes into focus—the leather couch, the dim lights, the lingering echo of the night’s performance still hanging in the air.
Reality crashes in. This isn’t Quinn.
The blonde gives me that practiced seductive smile, I’ve seen a thousand times before. “Don’t you remember me, Vince? Your last tour here in Seattle? We had quite a night.”
For a split second, my body responds—pure instinct after months of celibacy. The old Vince would’ve already had her pressed against the wall or under me in ten seconds flat—eager to sample everything she was so willing to offer. But all I can think about is Quinn’s smile, the way she looks at me like I’m more than just a rockstar fantasy.
“That was a different time.” I ease the groupie off my lap, standing to put distance between us. “I’m not interested.”
“Since when?” She scoffs, reaching for me again. “You’ve never turned down a willing woman before. What’s changed? Got some girlfriend waiting at home?”
I catch her wrists again, firmly this time. “I said no.”
Something in my tone finally reaches her. She steps back, confusion and hurt pride warring on her face. “The rumors are true then? The great Vince Savage has been tamed?”
“Not tamed.” I guide her firmly toward the door. “Just grown up. And you shouldn’t be in here.”
“It’s that baby they’re talking about, isn’t it? Or her mother?” Her lip curls. “Never thought I’d see the day—“
“Don’t.” My voice turns to ice. “Security will show you out.”
After she’s gone, I lean against the door, running a hand down my face. My heart’s racing, not from desire, but from how close I came to falling back into old patterns. From how easily I could’ve fucked up everything that matters.
Because that’s the truth, isn’t it? Quinn matters. What we’re building matters. And my daughter? She deserves better than a father who hooks up with random groupies in dressing rooms.
I pull out my phone, clicking through my photos until I find my favorite—Quinn rocking Jasmine, both of them bathed in morning light, completely unaware they’re being photographed. The sight centers me and washes away any lingering temptation.
For the first time in my life, I want more than just a quick fuck—a temporary fix. More than the hollow satisfaction of another nameless encounter. I want morning coffee and baby giggles, real conversation, and Quinn’s quiet strength keeping me grounded.
Guess I have changed—gone soft, lost my edge—tamed.
And you know what? I don’t give a shit what anyone thinks about it.
I grab my jacket and stuff my phone in my pocket. It’s time to go home.