Chapter thirty-seven
Frankie
The lights dropped. The house went dark.
And then came the sound. Not noise—sound. A tidal wave of voices. Thousands. A scream that didn’t just hit your ears—it cracked open your chest and lived inside your ribs.
Frankie stood in the wings, breathing slow. One hand curled around the neck of her guitar, the other pressed to her stomach like she could hold herself steady with will alone.
This was it. Home. Her city. Her crowd. Her people.
The final show of the tour.
She exhaled once—hard. Then stepped into the light.
The spotlight hit her in a wash of white. The crowd surged. Their roar rose like thunder. Like worship. Like love made physical.
Frankie blinked—just once. Let it land. Let it sink into her bones.
Then she stepped to the mic, a grin tugging at her lips, too wide to stop.
“Hi, New York,” she said. Her voice cut through the chaos, rough and rich and steady. “It is so fucking good to be home.”
The scream that followed was deafening.
She laughed—real and wide, hand pressed to her sternum like she could feel her heart pounding against it.
“This is it, y’all. The last one. The final stop on this crazy, beautiful, unreal ride. And it’s gonna be the best one, too. My people are here. My girl is here. And all of you—you showed up. So, let’s make this count, yeah?”
The crowd howled. Frankie felt it vibrate straight up her spine.
She turned, nodded at Malik.
One. Two. Three—
Snap.
She pivoted back to the mic, lifted her guitar, and let the next words drop like fire.
“This is ‘She Said/I Said.’”
The crowd detonated.
The first notes ripped through the venue like a spark to gasoline.
“She said, ‘That’s just a phase’
I said, ‘Watch me blaze.’
Painted nails and power chords,
Kissing girls behind locked doors…”
Frankie moved like she was built for this. Guitar slung low, hips loose, feet grounded. Her voice cracked open the rafters, rasped from ten weeks on the road—but earned. Alive.
And from the first lyric, they screamed the words back at her. Every line. Every syllable. A thousand people chanting her truth.
But none of it mattered like her.
Willa.
Front row.
Not behind a barricade. Not behind a lens.
Just her.
Hair wild. Eyes glassy. Smile so bright it looked holy. She was jumping, laughing, singing like her life depended on it.
Frankie almost missed a chord.
Her throat caught—but she recovered. Grinned so wide it hurt, then leaned into the mic like she had something to prove.
“I like girls, I like truth,
I like singing in dirty boots…
Tried to clip my wings too soon—
But I bloom, babe—I boom.”
When the final note rang out, Frankie held the mic, chest heaving, sweat gleaming.
“You guys are insane,” she called. “I love it. I love you.”
She tore through the next few songs—Easy, Thunder in the Glass, a stripped-down House of Mirrors that left the crowd swaying like a tide.
Then the lights shifted.
The energy changed.
Frankie stepped forward, breathed steadily, fingers curling around the mic.
The room fell quiet—not silent, just admiring.
“You know…” she began, voice softer now. “Some really important people are here tonight.”
Cheers. A wave of applause.
“This tour changed my whole life,” she said. “And it’s because of someone who came on the road with me.”
More cheers.
“I thought she was gonna be my worst enemy. She came to write a story about me. I didn’t know she’d become my whole damn story.”
The crowd screamed.
Frankie swallowed. Her grip tightened.
“She came for five weeks. Seven cities. Five weeks of long-ass drives and hotel ice machines and arguing over what music to play in the van.”
Laughter.
“And somewhere in all of that… I fell in love with her.”
Chaos. Joy. Thunder.
“She’s not just my best friend. She’s my person. And I wrote this next song somewhere in Tennessee, missing her so bad I couldn’t breathe.”
Frankie looked down, then back up. Eyes locking on Willa. She didn’t need a spotlight to find her.
“This one’s called ‘Stay Right Here.’”
She strummed the opening chord.
“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”
The room stilled.
Phones rose like fireflies.
Willa didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood—eyes wet, breath shallow, like the moment held her.
Frankie held the last note of the chorus too long.
Let it ache.
When the song ended, the room stayed quiet for a beat.
Then exploded.
Frankie wiped at her cheek, mascara streaking.
She leaned into the mic, voice shaking:
“I love you, baby.”
Willa laughed through her tears, pressing both hands to her mouth.
Frankie just beamed.
She played a few more songs, riding the wave of joy and sweat and muscle memory.
And then—just one left.
The anthem.
She stepped to the mic one last time.
“You’ve been with me through everything,” she said. “From the first lyric to this last chorus. And I don’t think I’ll ever get to do something more special than tonight.”
Her eyes found Willa again. Direct. Steady. Unshakable.
“This one’s called ‘Colors in the Crowd.’”
The crowd exploded again.
“I wore glitter to your church
Held her hand and let it hurt
You said, ‘That’s not what love is’—
Well, baby, I’m the counter-curse…”
It was chaos. It was worship. It was home.
They all chanted the chorus with her—
“We are here, we are proud,
We’re the colors in the crowd…
Scream it loud, scream it proud:
L! G! B! T! Q! I! A!
We’re the colors in the crowd.”
Frankie poured everything into that last chorus.
Every beat of her full, burning heart.
When it ended—when the final chord rang out—she raised her arm to the sky.
“New York,” she shouted. “I fucking love you.”
The crowd lost it.
And then—just one more breath. One more look.
She found Willa. Again. Always.
“And you,” she said, softer, fierce. “I’ll love you forever.”
* * *
Willa
The sound of the crowd still echoed in Willa’s bones as she turned to Lena and the others, heart pounding like she’d just been the one on stage.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, barely above a whisper.
She slipped away from the group and down the hallway, passing crew members, merch tables, and empty green rooms. Her steps quickened. Her pulse did too.
Frankie’s dressing room door was closed.
Willa didn’t knock.
She opened it. Stepped inside. Locked it behind her.
And there she was.
Frankie sat sprawled in a deep purple velvet chair like it had been made for her—legs wide, boots kicked off, shirt already gone.
All she wore on top was a black bra. Her tight pants clung to every curve, and her skin glowed with sweat.
A half-empty water bottle dangled from her fingers, like she’d just downed it in one long pull.
She looked up.
Still breathless. Still lit from within. Still glowing.
“Hi, baby,” Willa said softly, standing just inside the door. Waiting.
Frankie’s mouth curled into the smallest, hottest smile.
“Hey, baby.”
Willa crossed the room and climbed into her lap without hesitation, knees bracketing Frankie’s hips. She didn’t say a word. She just kissed her—hard, fierce, worshipful.
No words. No preamble.
Just everything she needed to say poured into a single kiss.
You did so fucking good.
I’m so proud of you.
You’re mine.
When she finally pulled back, both of them panting, Willa looked down into Frankie’s eyes.
“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re on stage.”
Frankie moaned and dropped her head back. “Baby, you can’t say shit like that to me right now. We’re supposed to be going out with our families and now I’m gonna be so fucking horny.”
Willa smirked, innocent and dangerous. “Or…”
She brushed her lips along Frankie’s jaw.
“I could take care of some of it now.”
Frankie nodded instantly. “Yeah. Fuck yeah.”
Willa stood up slowly, eyes dragging down Frankie’s body. “You were amazing tonight.”
Frankie’s smile was lazy and heated. “I’ve always wanted to fuck Frankie Monroe in her dressing room.”
“God,” Frankie groaned. “That’s the fucking sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Willa’s lips curved into something dark and sweet. She looked down at Frankie, still seated, legs spread, waiting.
“Take off your pants.”
Her voice dropped—low and commanding.
Frankie’s knees nearly buckled. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to drop to the floor right then or drag Willa to the bed and never let her go.
Frankie laughed breathlessly, practically scrambling to obey. “I take it back,” she said, shimmying out of her pants and underwear in one motion. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Willa dropped to her knees. Parted Frankie’s legs. Looked up once.
“This has to be quick,” she warned.
Frankie was already gripping the armrests. “It’s not gonna take long.”
Willa didn’t waste a second.
She kissed up Frankie’s thigh—soft and hot—then licked, slow from the base of her wetness to her clit.
Frankie cried out—sharp, high, ragged. “Fuck, Willa.”
Willa smirked. Then locked in.
Her mouth latched onto Frankie’s clit—sucking hard, tongue working fast and steady. Frankie’s hips jerked, hands threading into Willa’s hair.
“Jesus fuck, Wills—yes, baby, just like that.”
Willa moaned into her, let two fingers slide deep inside. Frankie clenched around them instantly, her breath falling into sharp gasps.
Willa’s free hand gripped her thigh, keeping her open, letting her fuck into her mouth. She curled her fingers—just right—and sucked harder.
Frankie’s leg slid up over the arm of the chair, spreading herself wider.
“Oh my god, Willa—I’m so close. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Willa didn’t.
She licked and sucked like she was writing it into her memory. Like she wanted to make Frankie come so hard she’d feel it the next time she walked onstage.
And then Frankie broke.
She cried out Willa’s name. Her body shook, thighs trembling around her head, hips bucking wild. The orgasm rolled through her—fast and sharp and deep.
“Fuck, fuck, Willa—I love you.”