Chapter twenty-nine
Frankie
Frankie woke up to warmth. Skin against skin, soft breath at her neck, Willa’s leg draped heavy over hers. The hotel room was quiet, bathed in a honeyed hush from the morning light spilling through the curtains. She didn’t move right away—just let herself feel it. The safety of it. The sweetness.
Willa stirred beside her, mumbling something half-asleep before pressing a kiss to Frankie’s shoulder.
“What time’s soundcheck?” she asked, voice raspy and sleepy.
Frankie smiled, brushing a hand down her bare back. “Not for a few hours.”
They kissed—slow, unhurried—their mouths still tasting of dreams and the night before. For a few precious minutes, nothing else existed but the tangle of sheets and the steady beat of their joined breath.
* * *
Soundcheck was smooth. Mostly.
Her voice was warm, her range landing clean in every register. Every breath fell exactly where it needed to. Her fingers moved through familiar chords like muscle memory, callused fingertips finding the frets without thought.
The band was tight—Ember on keys, Juno on bass, Malik hammering the drums like they’d been born with sticks in her hands. Precise and feral all at once. Every beat hit. Every swell surged and fell in perfect rhythm—the kind of synchronicity you couldn’t fake.
Technically, it was flawless.
It should have been enough to set her mind at ease.
And yet—Frankie’s nerves buzzed under her skin like static electricity waiting for a spark.
Not bad nerves. Not the kind that came before a shaky show.
But something else. Something alive. Because Willa was here.
She sat just off to the side of the stage, legs crossed at the ankle, that camera resting in her lap like a second set of eyes.
She wore Frankie’s favorite jeans—the ones she’d once teased her about, saying she should be arrested for looking that good in denim—and a cropped hoodie that rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin at her waist.
Frankie didn’t want to be obvious. Didn’t want to keep looking.
But she failed. Miserably.
Every time she turned her head, every time she moved to a new mark on stage, her gaze found Willa—leaning forward, that focused crease between her brows, lip caught lightly between her teeth, fingers twitching near the shutter button. Watching her. So present. So real.
And every time it happened, Frankie’s rhythm wobbled just slightly.
Her heart tripped over itself, stumbled into her throat, made her fingers twitch too hard against the strings.
“You good?” Ember asked as they finished the third run of the opening number, pulling her earbuds out and raising a brow over the rim of her glasses.
Frankie wiped the back of her hand across her temple, trying to play it cool, even as the flush at the back of her neck spread fast.
“Yeah,” she said—too quickly.
Juno slung her bass around to her back, flashing her a knowing grin.
“Are you, though?” She teased. “You’ve played that riff a thousand times, Monroe, and you just tripped over it like a freshman at open mic night.”
Frankie groaned low in her throat, scrubbing a hand through her hair.
“Shut up,” she muttered, even as laughter slipped out—too soft, too easy to be mad. “I’m just… distracted.”
And right then—like she’d been listening—Willa raised the camera to her eye.
Frankie turned her head at the exact same moment.
Their eyes locked—through the lens, through the invisible, buzzing air between them.
Willa didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.
Click.
The soft sound echoed louder in Frankie’s chest than the thump of the bass.
It echoed in the pit of her stomach. In the breath that stuttered and caught in her lungs.
The room didn’t actually go silent. Not really.
She could still hear the tuning, the shuffling of feet, the low murmur of techs setting up behind her. But none of it mattered. None of it touched her.
Because in that second, it was just them. Just her and Willa—frozen in a private, wordless moment in the middle of all the noise.
And then Willa smiled. Small. Barely there. Like she was trying to hide it.
Like she didn’t even know she was doing it.
But Frankie felt it. Felt it hit her right in the center of her chest—warm and aching and real.
She gave a crooked smile back—helpless to stop it. Soft and wrecked and home.
And just like that, her nerves melted. The static fizzled out, leaving only energy. Only certainty.
Frankie turned back to the mic, adjusted her guitar strap over her shoulder, and tapped her foot against the stage once.
“All right,” she said—casual but sure, her voice a little steadier now. “Let’s run it one more time.”
But it wasn’t for the crew. Or the setlist. Or the show.
It was for her.
For the girl with the camera.
The girl with the eyes that saw straight through her.
The girl who made everything feel real.
And this time, when Frankie played the opening riff, she didn’t miss a single note. Because every beat was for Willa.
* * *
The meet and greet was everything.
She stood in front of the vinyl backdrop, her name glowing behind her in soft pink and violet hues—Frankie Monroe in bold, sweeping script that looked like it was moving even when it wasn’t. Like the letters had their own pulse.
Fans filtered through the line in a blur of excitement—denim jackets covered in enamel pins, worn-out boots and platform shoes, glitter eyeliner catching the overhead lights, wide eyes and shaking hands.
Each person buzzed with a kind of frantic, overwhelming joy that Frankie could feel just standing near them.
She grinned through selfies, signed the sleeves of jackets, scrawled on ticket stubs, drew tiny hearts on wrists and collarbones and forearms, wrote stay soft across one girl’s bare shoulder in thick black Sharpie. She hugged them like she meant it—because she did.
She listened, patient and real, when they stammered through stories about how her songs had carried them through breakups, grief, panic attacks, their worst nights and loneliest mornings.
And every single one cracked her chest a little wider.
Reminded her why she did this in the first place. Why she fought so hard to stay herself. Her heart swelled with every word they offered her.
But there was something else—something deeper—tugging at her attention the whole time.
Constant. Steady.
Willa.
She stood just off to the side, half-hidden behind a potted plant and one of the lighting rigs. Camera lifted to her eye like it was her shield, her weapon, and her compass all in one.
She wasn’t directing anyone. Wasn’t coordinating with the venue team.
She wasn’t even pretending to blend in.
She was just watching.
Watching her.
Frankie’s outfit tonight had been intentional. Obnoxiously so. A deliberate kind of reckless.
Fishnets that hugged her thighs like they were clinging to secrets.
A short, pleated plaid skirt with a hemline so high it should have gotten her arrested in three states.
A black cropped tank that barely contained her chest. Her tallest pair of boots—black leather and thick-soled—the ones that made her feel like she could kick the whole damn world over and make it beg for more.
She wore it like armor tonight.
And also? Like bait.
She hadn’t seen Willa in hours. Just teasing, sweet texts back and forth between soundcheck and press calls. But now she was here—in her line of sight. In her skin.
And the way she looked at Frankie?
It did something dangerous to her.
Willa wasn’t hiding it. Wasn’t blinking away. She was staring.
Open. Unapologetic. Bold in a way that hit Frankie harder than any applause ever had.
Frankie caught her eyes roaming more than once—lingering at her chest, dragging slow over her hips, pausing at the hem of her skirt like she was picturing things Frankie shouldn’t be thinking about while signing autographs.
The third time—when Willa’s gaze landed dead center on her tits, long and deliberate—Frankie raised an eyebrow mid-photo, fighting the smirk pulling at her mouth.
Willa didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even pretend to be sorry.
She just grinned—that cocky, wicked grin that always turned Frankie’s insides to molten—and lifted the camera.
Click.
Frankie felt the flash like a low pulse between her thighs.
She turned her attention back to the fan in front of her—grinned big for the photo, scribbled her signature onto another ticket stub—but her mind wasn’t there anymore.
It stayed tethered to the heat simmering between her and Willa. The invisible thread tugging tighter with every second.
She could feel Willa’s gaze trailing her like a touch. Could practically taste the tension between them.
And God—the photos Willa was taking right now?
They were going to be insane.
Frankie already knew it. Willa always made her look like more than just a singer. More than just a person.
She made her look mythic.
Frankie signed the last poster, tucked a lock of purple curls behind one flushed ear, and hugged the final fan tight—murmuring a real, soft thank you for being here into their ear.
Then she turned and caught Willa still staring.
Still watching her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
And just like that—Frankie wasn’t tired anymore.
She was electric.
Ready.
And already counting down the minutes until they were alone again.
* * *
Twenty minutes to curtain.
Frankie usually had a whole thing before a show. She liked her routine. Needed it, even.
Incense—lavender and cedarwood—burning in slow, smoky spirals that calmed her hands, her heart, her mind.
Breathwork—six seconds in, six seconds out—hand pressed firmly over her chest, anchoring herself back inside her own body.
A three-song playlist—curated and sacred, the same three songs she’d been playing since her very first shitty bar gig at eighteen. The playlist that had seen her through shitty sound systems, indifferent crowds, heartbreaks, wins. Everything.
It grounded her. Centered her. Reminded her who she was before the lights hit her skin.