chapter twenty
Frankie
Frankie couldn’t stop watching her.
She’d always been there. Camera slung over her shoulder. Notebook tucked under her arm. Lips pursed in that little line of focus she wore like armor.
But today—this time—it felt different.
It was Willa’s last show. Her last soundcheck. Her last time standing in front of that barricade, watching while Frankie tested her mic, pretending she was just another piece of the crew. Pretending she didn’t matter more than the whole damn crowd put together.
Frankie strummed a few lazy chords to loosen her fingers. Juno tuned her bass. Kara was checking lights. The stage bustled around her like it always did.
But none of it felt real. Not with Willa standing in the wings, half in shadow, hair piled into a lazy bun, camera hanging limp against her hip, jeans rolled at the ankle like she’d run out the door without thinking.
Frankie’s throat burned when she sang the last note of the check. She let it ring out. Let it hang thick in the air.
And the whole time, her eyes stayed locked on Willa.
Still here, she thought.
Still fucking watching me.
Still seeing me.
Backstage after soundcheck, the energy buzzed loud and chaotic, the kind of pre-show chaos that used to settle Frankie’s nerves and light her veins on fire.
But right now, it felt like too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too everything.
She found Willa in the corner, part shadow, part anchor. Snapping candids. Documenting the end.
“Can you come with me?” Frankie asked, stepping close enough that only Willa could hear.
Willa nodded, wordless, and Frankie laced their fingers together, pulling her into the quiet of her dressing room and shutting the door behind them.
Then she kissed her—slow. Grounding. Like she needed her mouth to breathe.
“You okay?” Willa asked, pressing their foreheads together.
Frankie nodded. “Just needed a quiet minute with you.”
Willa smiled, cupped her jaw, kissed her again.
A beat later, Kara called out, “Twenty-minute time check!”
Willa pulled back like she was about to go—give Frankie the space to do her pre-show ritual. But Frankie reached for her wrist.
“Stay?”
Willa blinked. Thrown, just for a second. “You want me to stay?”
Frankie nodded. “I do. I want you here. I want to kiss you, light my incense, say my mantra. With you here.”
A breath. A beat.
Willa’s mouth quirked into something soft—shy and stubborn all at once. She kissed her. Light at first. Testing. Then deeper. A little desperate. Like she knew this was the last time it would be just them before the noise swallowed everything.
When they finally pulled apart, Willa whispered against her lips, “You’re going to fucking kill it, baby.”
Frankie closed her eyes for a heartbeat, breathing her in. Then she turned toward the little corner of the vanity where her incense waited.
She struck a match. Lit the stick. Watched the smoke curl upward, catching the warm golden light.
Lavender and sandalwood. Memory.
She clasped her hands loosely at her waist. Lowered her head. And whispered under her breath,
“Let it be love. Let it be real. Let it be mine.”
When she opened her eyes, Willa was still there. Still watching her. Still waiting.
Frankie smiled. Nervous. Full-hearted. She grabbed her guitar case from the chair.
As she slung the strap over her shoulder, she paused, almost shy. “What are your favorites?” she asked. “I want to make sure they’re in the set.”
Willa didn’t even hesitate. “Colors in the Crowd. She Said/I Said. Pretty Girls.” Each title came fast, like she’d known them by heart long before Frankie ever asked.
Frankie stepped in and kissed her again. Slow. Savoring. Tucking it into her chest like armor.
“Got it,” she murmured against Willa’s mouth.
They held hands as they walked out of the dressing room, into the hallway, into the rising noise of showtime.
At the side of the stage, Frankie turned and kissed her one last time.
“I’m going to head out front,” Willa said softly.
Frankie smiled. Kissed her again, quick and sure.
“Go wreck them, baby.”
The crowd was loud as hell.
The whole venue throbbed with it—sweat and neon and heat pulsing like a heartbeat.
Frankie stepped into the stage lights, guitar slung low, curls wild around her face. The noise hit her like a wave, but her eyes immediately scanned the front row. She found her—just left of center, camera hanging forgotten at her hip, gaze fixed on the stage. Not working. Just watching.
Frankie’s throat tightened.
“What’s up, Tennessee?” she shouted into the mic, her voice already cracking from adrenaline. “It’s so fucking good to be here!”
Then she tore into She Said/I Said, stomping across the stage like the floor might give out beneath her.
Malik was a hurricane on the drums, Juno’s bass rattled the air, and Ember’s keys burned steady beneath it all.
Frankie tossed her head back and howled into the chorus—and Willa still didn’t look away.
Not once. The charge between them was no longer just electricity. It was gravity.
* * *
Later, after a final slam into the last chords, Frankie stilled—breathless and radiant, the energy still humming through her. She scanned the crowd and found Willa in her spot—in front of the barricade to the right of center, a big smile ofher face, heart wide open in her eyes
Frankie slung her guitar back over her shoulder and stepped up to the mic.
“This one’s raw. Still figuring it out. But it’s for a very pretty girl who’s got me all torn up right now. I hope she likes it.
The crowd screamed. Frankie didn’t flinch.
She sat down on the stool, cradled her acoustic guitar close, and let her fingers find the strings. The room shifted with the first soft strum—like the chaos had on folded itself back to listen.
She kept her eyes down at first, watching her hands, breathing through the nerves that always came when she bared too much. Then she let her gaze lift, meeting hers again.
Frankie’s chest tightened. She leaned into the mic and began to sing.
“You kiss me slow, like you’re afraid
Like if I touch too deep, you might fade
But baby, I’m not going anywhere
It’s your pace, your time—I’ll meet you there.”
Her voice shook on the first line, just enough for her to hear it. By the second, she steadied. The chords carried her, the words dug their way out of her ribs, raw and unpolished but real. She swore the room went quieter, like everyone knew this wasn’t just a song—it was a confession.
She flicked her gaze at Willa again on the chorus.
“I know you’re scared ‘cause people leave
And you don’t know what to believe
But I’m not walking away
I’ll stay right here.”
Willa’s eyes softened, even from the distance. Frankie could feel it like a live wire straight through her.
She pushed on, voice breaking in places she couldn’t cover, fingers slipping once when she let her focus blur. But it didn’t matter. The lyrics weren’t armor—they were her, standing exposed under the lights, telling Willa everything she couldn’t yet say out loud.
The last note hung in the air, trembling. Frankie let it ring out, her fingers stilled on the strings, her chest heaving.
For a beat, the room was silent. Then the crowd erupted, loud enough to rattle the stool beneath her.
Frankie blinked hard against the lights, trying not to look only at Willa—but failing.
She found her again, eyes shining, mouth parted like she’d just witnessed something Frankie hadn’t meant to show.
Frankie swallowed, leaned toward the mic, and forced a crooked grin. “Guess that one’s out in the world now, huh?” The crowd screamed again, Frankie laughed softly into the mic. “Y’all are too good to me. Thanks for letting me be messy with you.”
She stood, trading the acoustic for her electric as a tech jogged over to switch guitars. The weight of it in her hands steadied her, pulled her back into the set. She rolled her shoulders, cracked her neck once, and leaned into the mic again.
She stepped to the mic, grin sharp, voice rough with adrenaline. “Alright—this one’s for my people. For every single queer kid who’s ever been told to shut up or sit down. Sing this one with me.”
Malik counted them in.
The first riff tore loose, heavy and bright, and everyone in the club erupted. Glitter in the lights, hands shooting up, rainbow flags lifting above the crowd like fire catching. Frankie leaned into the mic, spitting out the opening line with a smirk.
“I wore glitter to your church,
Held her hand and let it hurt—”
The fans screamed it back before she even reached the chorus. By the time she hit We are here, we are proud, the whole room was chanting the letters with her.
“L! G! B! T! Q! I! A!”
The floor shook. Frankie laughed between lines, purple curls wild, voice raw from pushing harder than she should, but she didn’t care. This wasn’t about perfect notes—it was about belonging.
She caught sight of Willa at the barricade, lips moving with every word, camera forgotten at her side.
That image seared into Frankie like a second spotlight.
She raised her fist for the bridge, yelling it like a prayer.
“Doesn’t matter if you’re femme or masc,
Doesn’t matter how you dance or laugh—”
The crowd’s voices thundered with hers, a chant rolling like a storm, wave after wave crashing back onto the stage. Frankie felt it in her bones—their voices, their joy, their defiance.
When the last chorus hit, she stepped back from the mic, letting the fans scream it for her, the words vibrating through the whole venue. For once, she didn’t have to carry it alone.
She strummed the final chord, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and the roar that followed was deafening. Frankie grinned, wide and wild, and pointed into the crowd. “That’s why we’re here,” she shouted. “That’s why we’ll never shut the fuck up!”
* * *
Willa
The venue still buzzed with noise and bodies when Willa slipped down the backstage hallway, her press pass hanging half-loose from her jacket. Her steps were quick, her camera forgotten.
She didn’t knock—just pushed the door open.
Frankie was there. Towel slung around her neck, hair damp, lips parted as if she still hadn’t caught her breath. The flush in her skin looked fresh, like she hadn’t stepped offstage at all.
Their eyes met. Held.
Willa let her camera bag slip to the floor with a soft thud. Her legs moved before her brain caught up, carrying her across the room. She cupped Frankie’s face in both hands, palms pressing to warm cheeks, feeling the quick pulse beneath her skin. The shallow breath.
“Baby, that song…” Willa whispered, searching Frankie’s face. “It was—” She shook her head, overwhelmed. “It was everything. So goddamn real.”
Frankie’s eyes fluttered shut for a beat, leaning into her hands. “I was playing it just for you,” she murmured.
“I know,” Willa breathed. “I felt it.”
The kiss started soft, tentative—then broke into urgency, Frankie clinging like she needed proof that Willa was real. Willa let herself sink into it, meeting her hunger with her own.
When they pulled apart, Frankie’s forehead rested against hers. “Can we skip going out with everyone?” she asked, voice low and rough. “And just go back to the hotel? Just us.”
The question caught Willa—part of her wanted to say yes instantly, to lose herself in Frankie without thinking.
But Kara had planned a whole thing at a bar down the street, the crew who had carried Frankie all this way.
Willa brushed her thumb along Frankie’s jaw, choosing carefully.
“Kara’s throwing that goodbye party for me—and I do want to say bye to everyone, I leave so early tomorrow. But maybe… just for a little bit?”
Frankie’s smile was instant. Relieved. “Of course. Then after… it’s just you and me?”
Willa kissed her again, slow and sure, the promise landing warm against Frankie’s lips. “Just you and me.”
* * *
The place was cramped and loud in the best way—low ceilings, neon beer signs buzzing in the corners, and the smell of fried food and spilled whiskey baked into the wooden floors. A local band played too loud from a makeshift stage, a wall of sound that rattled the barstools.
The whole crew was already there, crammed into two pushed-together tables near the back. Laughter burst out from the corner every few seconds—drinks clinking, arms draped lazily over each other’s shoulders.
Kara spotted them first, raising a shot glass high.
“Look who made it!” she hollered over the noise. “Our star-crossed idiots!”
The table erupted in cheers, fists thumping the wood, a few catcalls tossed in for good measure.
Willa flushed but didn’t pull away when Frankie’s hand slid to the small of her back—possessive, steady, warm. If anything, she leaned into it. Their bodies brushed with every step—small touches that kept her grounded in the chaos.
Someone shoved a shot of tequila into her hand the moment they reached the table.
She raised it like a white flag and downed it without flinching, the burn hitting hard. She coughed once, laughing into her fist.
Frankie grinned at her like she was the best thing she’d ever seen.
They didn’t stay long. Neither of them wanted to. But Willa made the rounds, because she couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.
She hugged Malik first, reaching up to wrap her arms around their shoulders. Their leather jacket smelled like worn-in smoke and cheap cologne.
“Thanks for the playlists,” she said, smiling against them.
Malik squeezed her back, laughing low. “You’re welcome. You’ve been cool. Don’t let Frankie turn you into a groupie.”
“Too late,” Juno muttered into her beer, and the whole table cracked up.
Willa pulled away and mock-glared at her, then hugged Ember, who held on tighter than she expected.
“If you break her heart,” Ember said, voice soft but deadly serious, “you’ll have to answer to all of us.”
Willa nodded. “I know.”
She saved Kara for last.
Kara didn’t say much—just pulled her in tight, arms strong around her back. The hug lasted longer than the others.
“You’re good for her,” Kara murmured against her hair, low and fierce. “And I don’t say that lightly.”
Willa swallowed, a lump rising in her throat. She nodded, pressing her palm once to Kara’s back before pulling away.
When she looked up, her eyes immediately found Frankie.
Leaning against the wall, trying and failing to look casual. Her curls were still a mess. Her eyes, soft and heavy-lidded, locked onto Willa like she was gravity.
Willa tilted her head toward the door.
Frankie didn’t hesitate. She pushed off the wall, gave the table a final nod, and was at Willa’s side in three easy steps.
They didn’t say a word, just grabbed their jackets, slipped through the crowd, and stepped out into the cool night air.
* * *