Thanks for Coming Along

Chapter 1Eden

1

Eden

“ I n the trash!” a shrill voice called from above her head. “Right where she belongs!” Not only was the voice grating to her ears, but the tone was far too smug for Eden’s taste.

Eden Percy did find herself lying in garbage. The voice was annoying, but it wasn’t wrong. A soggy bar napkin clung to her head like a sad, damp party hat.

Worst. Birthday. Ever.

Today, she turned 26. And, of course, this was how her night ended. If her life had a theme, it would be this: when things could go wrong, they absolutely would, with breathtaking flair.

The stench of stale beer and something far more unidentifiable hit her nose, making her stomach lurch. This was not the kind of glamor she’d envisioned for the start of another year of life. No confetti, no champagne, just garbage juice and the faint aroma of poor decisions.

She glanced up, tracking the source of that shrill voice. Her eyes narrowed at the gang of fake-tanned, knockoff Barbies cackling like a pack of mean-spirited cats. She couldn’t believe it—one of them had actually pushed her. Into a garbage can. On her birthday . The audacity was staggering, rude in every possible sense of the word.

The cold, sticky club floor under her was bad enough, but then a stiletto heel hovered just inches from her face, its sharp point dangerously close to her eyeball. Eden froze, holding her breath as the heel wobbled, inching closer to her. One wrong move, and it could puncture her cornea—or, if the universe was feeling especially cruel, give her a lobotomy. Honestly, at this point, a lobotomy didn’t seem like the worst idea. Maybe it would stop her from getting into ridiculous situations like this—or at the very least, make her forget they ever happened.

"Not today," she muttered under her breath, pushing herself up with a grimace. The combination of garbage juice and stale beer seemed to cling to her skin like a bad omen. Eden was many things—messy, disorganized, unpredictable—but she wasn’t about to add trash to the list.

Eden swore she didn’t look for trouble—it just had an infuriating knack for finding her. Although, if she were being honest, this time maybe she had poked the bear. Or rather, Ingrid had.

Her best friend had clocked Eden’s sour mood long before they arrived at the club. Ingrid always had a way of knowing when Eden was off-kilter, and tonight was no exception. She also had a zero-tolerance policy for anyone adding to Eden’s stress. So when those girls made their snide remarks about Eden’s “shitty music,” Ingrid’s protective instincts kicked in like a mama bear ready to maul anything that threatened her cub.

It started small—just a sarcastic comment here, a pointed jab there—until Ingrid snapped, calling them “orange-hued assholes.”

That didn’t exactly diffuse the tension. Instead, it fanned the flames into a full-blown yelling match.

Eden tried to keep the peace—or at least prevent them from getting banned from yet another club—but found herself right in the thick of it. One of the platinum blondes, her spray-tanned arms flailing wildly, accidentally (or very possibly intentionally) shoved Eden. She stumbled backward, her boots skidding against the sticky floor, before she landed with a graceless thud on the concrete.

It wasn’t her worst fall, but it was definitely one of her least dignified. Her arms pinwheeled, her knee smacked something hard, and— ta-da! —garbage can debris rained down on her like the world’s saddest confetti. Wait, she did get confetti on her birthday! That was a plus. A soggy, beer-soaked, crumpled napkin kind of plus, but still, a plus.

At least the gin and tonic she’d been nursing all night dulled some of the embarrassment—or maybe it was just numbing her tailbone. Either way, the sting of her pride hurt more than her ass.

As she peeled a limp piece of lettuce off her sleeve, she shot Ingrid a pointed look.

“This,” she muttered, voice dry, “is why I stay home.”

It was a new habit for Eden to limit herself to just one drink when she went out. Not that she went out much these days. There had been a time when her nights were punctuated by stunts like crushing beer cans against her head or downing an excessive amount of shots, all in an attempt to numb the noise of her chaotic thoughts. But things changed when she began intensive therapy and came to terms with the reality that alcohol had been her crutch for avoiding unresolved issues. Imagine that, she thought wryly. Who would've guessed that she'd ever be the type to sip a cocktail slowly and not make a scene? Who was she kidding? Alcohol or not, she still made a scene most nights.

These days, she aimed to conduct herself in a way that would make her therapist proud—most of the time, anyway. Occasionally, the mood struck, and she'd still throw a middle finger at the paparazzi for fun.

Paparazzi. Panic began to simmer. She scanned the room, her eyes darting around, and noticed a few onlookers gawking at the spectacle. A cold shiver ran down her spine at the thought that someone might have filmed the entire thing.

Eden didn’t care much about the consequences for herself. Scandals were practically a second language to her; she had weathered enough over the years to turn a headline-worthy catastrophe into just another Tuesday. A slightly rowdier Tuesday, sure, but still just a Tuesday.

The problem wasn’t her. It was Ingrid. Eden’s best friend had far more at stake. Ingrid had dedicated her life to becoming a principal dancer at the prestigious New York City Ballet. She was on the cusp of achieving that dream, and her commitment to her craft dwarfed even Eden’s success in the music industry. While Eden had spent their teenage years dancing on bars and chasing boys at 2 a.m., Ingrid had been in the studio, training with an Olympic level of discipline.

Music was Eden’s passion, sure, but it had never demanded the kind of single-minded devotion Ingrid gave to ballet. It wasn’t just a career for Ingrid—it was her life.

The thought of anything jeopardizing Ingrid’s hard-earned success hit Eden like a punch to the gut. Her mind raced, already strategizing how to spin this. She’d have her publicist team on damage control by morning. She wouldn’t let her mistake drag Ingrid down with her.

Eden scanned the room again but found no phones in sight. Relief flooded her when she realized no one seemed to be filming. The VIP area of the club had a strict no-phones policy; devices were typically confiscated at the entrance. Eden and Ingrid had been granted an exception—a perk of Eden’s B-list celebrity status—but it seemed no one else had been as lucky.

"You snot-nosed, cheeto-dusted brat!" Ingrid snapped, her voice slicing through the tense air like a whip. The room fell silent for half a beat before one of the girls hurled a stinging retort, her words dripping with venom. Eden didn’t catch exactly what was said, but judging by the way Ingrid’s shoulders tensed and her fists clenched, it must have hit its mark.

And then it happened—a sound erupted from Ingrid, guttural and raw, something so bizarrely primal that Eden nearly choked on her own breath. It was a yell that defied logic, somewhere between a battle cry and a Wookiee roar. Eden blinked, momentarily stunned. Was that really Ingrid? Her poised, ethereal best friend who could float across a stage as if gravity didn’t exist?

Ingrid’s arms rose, ready to fight for her best friend, and Eden couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of warmth. It was almost comical—Ingrid, the graceful ballerina, turned into a warrior in a split second. But Eden knew that when it came to her, Ingrid didn't hold back.It felt entirely unnecessary to Eden. She had endured far worse than this. She had grown up under the weight of words meant to tear her apart, insults designed to cut to the bone. She’d built armor over her childhood scars, shielding herself from the world’s sharp edges.

Adulthood had only fortified that armor. The music industry didn’t just sharpen the knives—it threw them with precision. Eden had faced scandals, endured lies splashed across tabloid covers, and brushed off whispers that could have toppled her career. She knew how to survive the storms, how to laugh off the jabs from strangers who only knew the version of her they saw on a screen. She could handle this, just like she always had.

But seeing Ingrid step forward, unflinching, ready to throw herself into the fire for Eden, stirred something raw. It wasn’t about needing someone to fight her battles—she didn’t. It was about the fact that Ingrid would, without hesitation.

Eden blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over, her chest tightening with affection. Man, her best friend was the best.

"Whoa, ladies!" a resonant voice boomed, a burly security guard burst in from a back door. He stepped in between Ingrid and the girls. With a firm grip, he seized Ingrid's wrists, halting her flailing arms in their tracks just as she was ready to charge.

"But things were just getting interesting," Eden moaned dramatically from her spot on the floor, a sly grin tugging at the corners of her lips. The absurdity of it all was almost too much to bear. She couldn't help but feel like the luckiest person on the planet to have a friend like Ingrid—one who’d go to bat for her without a second thought.

Eden knew her manager and publicist, Sloane, would make her pay for this debacle come morning, but it was a price she’d gladly shoulder. As long as Ingrid’s image stayed pristine, everything else could be sorted out later.

"It's time to call it a night, Miss Percy," the security guard's gruff voice rumbled, clearly trying to keep things from escalating any further. Eden shot him her best smile and gave a thumbs-up gesture.

The security guard released Ingrid's hands with a final, almost reluctant gesture, then ushered the hostile girls out the door and onto the street.

"Let's go, Indy. We’ve got an IN-N-Out burger with our names on it," Eden declared, grinning as she grabbed Ingrid’s hand. With her friend’s help, she managed to push herself off the ground and onto wobbly feet. "My bruised tailbone is begging for sustenance."

Whoever said Los Angeles was the city of angels was sadly mistaken. The combination of the beating sun and her hangover throbbing in her temple was anything but heavenly. The In-N-Out burger from the previous night had been a delicious but vain attempt to stave off the impending hangover, and despite her best efforts, it now gnawed at her like a persistent demon. One drink had brought about this misery, just one. It was undeniably pathetic, not to mention hugely embarrassing. Yet, she recognized that she wasn't the person she used to be, and that's life. Ebb and flow.

You would think her expensive sunglasses, in conjunction with the umbrella from the table at Urth Cafe, would shield the blazing sun from her eyes, but instead, bright sunlight burned into her retinas. The bing of a text message alert set forth a sharp pain in her temple as she peered down at her phone.

INGRID: Woof, I went full attack dog mode last night. I am so sick of people talking badly about you. I just LOST it, like the already loose screws just detached themselves. And the crazy train just left the station, Choo choooo!

EDEN: Heel girl, heel. You were foaming at the mouth. Please don't worry, Indy. I have been doing so much better lately. I can handle it! But I appreciate you so much, my little Rottweiler.

INGRID: Love you, see you tonight xx

EDEN: Of course, love you xx

Her eyes blinked from the glare from her phone screen. Could eyeballs get sunburnt? Why had Quentin chosen an outdoor cafe at 9 AM on a scorching Wednesday morning? Eden couldn't help but suspect he did it partly to torture her, a thought that made her lips pursed with annoyance. A broad silhouette emerged, framed by the blazing sun. The figure's features were partially obscured by the harsh backlight.

"You look constipated," the voice declared, its tone mixed with amusement and teasing.

"Yeah, that's my signature look," she replied with a touch of sarcasm, taking a sip of her matcha latte in hopes it might wash away the bitter taste of her discontent. Her long-time friend, Quentin Ramos, plopped into the wrought iron chair in front of her. Quentin and Eden had become friends at an award show when Eden almost face-planted on the red carpet. Quentin had grabbed her arm in the nick of time when she stumbled in her four-inch heels which had been exceeding wobbly after a few "pregame" drinks. Quentin had a soft spot for strays, whether they be cats, dogs, or "messy" Eddy (as the tabloids so nicely coined her).

That had been nearly two years ago, back when she first moved to Los Angeles. Their friendship had endured the past two years, solidified by the shared experience of living under the unrelenting spotlight of fame. They often found relief in each other's company, commiserating about the pressures of life as public figures. Quentin outshone her in terms of fame. Eden still had the luxury of venturing out in public without attracting an overwhelming crowd of fans or paparazzi. On the other hand, Quentin occupied the upper ranks of international stardom, known for his roles in blockbuster superhero movies and other action-packed thrillers.

"Rough night? I hear you spat in some poor woman's eye, then proceeded to dropkick her MMA style." Quentin's voice carried a teasing lilt, the unmistakable sound of a grin in his tone. Bastard.

"Trust me, I had nothing to do with it. Ingrid was like a woman possessed last night. I have honestly never seen anything like it." Eden replied, her frustration evident. Quentin's face finally came into focus, his thick eyebrows arching beneath the shade of his blue baseball cap. "Honestly, we might need an exorcism for her later today. My main concern right now is keeping Ingrid out of the tabloids."

"I'm sure it will all blow over soon. You know how these things go. It's old news after a day or two, and TMZ will be onto the next big story." His wide shoulder shrugged, the metal of his oversized watch glinting in the sun.

Eden slouched further into her chair, taking a small sip of her matcha latte as her eyes caught a flicker of movement to her left. She turned her head, only to find an eager paparazzo clicking away with their camera, capturing candid shots of her and Quentin.

Quentin was the quintessential action hero, the epitome of all-American charm. With a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and a physique that seemed sculpted by the gods themselves, he was the kind of man cis men aspired to be and straight women daydreamed about doing their laundry on—his perfectly chiseled abs serving as the washboard of their fantasies.

Eden had no interest in either of those prospects. She did wonder about the practicality of abs when it came to household chores; maybe the Victorians were onto something with their washboards after all. Abs aside, Eden appreciated the friendship they shared. She considered Quentin to be like the annoying younger brother she never had, even though he was three years older than her.

"Quentin, I am not hanging out with you anymore. Whenever we meet up, the paparazzi come. I never have this issue unless I'm with you!" Eden huffed, adjusting her sunglasses and sliding her long chestnut brown hair over her face. A thought struck her. It was slightly deranged, but maybe it could distract from the mishap that occurred last night.

"Hey, Quentin," she began, her tone shifting to a more cajoling one. "What if we pretend we're on a date? You know, to throw them off the scent from last night's drama? I'll even sweeten the deal - I'll watch one of those nerdy space documentaries with you, the ones you love. Pretty please?" Eden jutted out her bottom lip in an exaggerated begging expression.

"Think of it as a favor for Indy," she added, knowing that Quentin had a soft spot for her best friend.

"Seriously, Eden, don't we have enough rumors about us already? People have been gossiping about us since we first met." Quentin scratched his clean-shaven face, exasperated. He did have a point. The tabloids have always tried to connect the two as dating. They will latch on any morsel they can get their claws on. A quick, friendly hug turns into a secret relationship.

"Don't be a stick in the mud! It's so fun reading the headlines the next day. They always think I'm pregnant with your unborn devil spawn." Eden smiled with all her teeth, and then she slowly stretched her arm on the table and wiggled her fingers.

"Don't be shy, Mr. America. My reputation won't rub off on you with a single touch," her tone was conspiratorial. She reached out again, and Quentin sighed as he laced his larger fingers through hers, his big, tanned hands contrasting with her thin fingers and chipped dark navy nail polish. She flashed him a cheeky smile and heard the paparazzi shuffle aggressively to get the perfect shot.

"Like a moth to the flame," she whispered, batting her eyelashes behind her designer sunglasses. Quentin nodded his head listlessly, his lips quirking upward.

"Ugh, I feel like I'm holding hands with my elderly grandmother," Quentin remarked, his nose scrunching up in playful disgust.

Eden decided to lean into the act. She transformed her voice, adding a shaky, elderly quality to it.

"Come on now, Quentin dear. Do me a favor and grab me a hard candy."

"Gross, dude, that is too real. Why do old people love hard candy?" Quentin asked while laughing.

Her phone buzzed on the black metal table, the name Commander Sloane flashing across the screen. As both her manager and publicist, Sloane had earned the nickname—she commanded every room she entered with an authority that made "commander" feel less like a nickname and more like an official rank.

When Sloane spoke, everyone listened. If she tells you to jump, you don't just ask, "How high?" You ask, "Which planet? Jupiter? Shall I begin colonization efforts on Mars?" Sloane was the key that jump-started Eden's rise to fame. Before Sloane entered the scene, Eden only performed in dive bars across New York City. Don't get it twisted, Eden loved a good dive bar but dive bars aren't synonymous with fame and recognition. She released Quentin's hand and grabbed her phone.

"Fuuuuuuck," Eden murmured, her stomach churning last night's gin. "Should I just let it go to voicemail?" She pointed the phone at Quentin, who rolled his eyes. The reluctance to answer Sloane's call had less to do with Sloane herself and more to do with the fallout from "Push-gate"—Eden's personal nickname for last night’s debacle.

"Sure, Eden, if you want the wrath of the Banshee. I hear Hell has a lovely penthouse available once Sloane smites you." Quentin smiled, giving her his Mr. America smile. Eden shook her head at his bright white grin. She pressed the green button on the touch screen of her phone.

"Hey, Sloane! How are you on this lovely morning? Did you get my email from last night?" Eden attempted to inject pleasantness into her voice. She had sent out an email to Sloane late last night, so her team had ample time to frame the events of last night in a favorable way for Ingrid's sake. The email was likely filled with typos, but she hoped she got the message across.

"Oh, just peachy," Sloane's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I received your lovely email. 'SOS, Ingrid tried to bitch-slap some bitties tonight at the bar. Please don't hate us, love you, bye.' I must say, I adore these late-night reconnaissance sessions. Nothing quite like burning the midnight oil to cover up a catfight." Sloane's voice droned sarcastically.

To be fair, Eden had always managed to keep Sloane on her toes. From her initial ascent in the underground rock scene to her more recent journey into more mainstream music, Eden had never been one to play by the rules. Whether it was partying into the early morning hours or causing mayhem at various award events, Sloane was often left with the unenviable task of damage control. Eden couldn't help but cringe at Sloane's words while Quentin responded with a thumbs-up, showcasing his tanned and thick thumb. It just looked obnoxious. Did his solitary thumb bench weight?

"Surprisingly, that isn't what I'm calling about. Although I think we have it under control. There will be some coverage of last night but nothing too damning. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a wizard." Eden could practically hear Sloane's eyes rolling over the phone.

"Anyway, I've been approached by BNN regarding doing a documentary about you." Sloane's voice lowered dramatically. "I know you haven't done any formal interviews in the past, but this may be a good opportunity for you. Especially with you working on the new album."

"My knee-jerk reaction is no. I have never done any interviews, so why start now?" Eden replied. She was always hesitant when it came to sit-down interviews. She honestly never felt comfortable doing them. There was a lot in her life that she wanted to keep a mystery. She liked keeping her private life, well, private. There were things she didn't want the whole world to know.

"Well, everyone wants to know more about you. And I mean everyone , not just your fans," Sloane urged, her voice filled with conviction. "You've kept your past so under wraps that it's got people even more curious, not just your fans. Your lyrics give only a glimpse into your life. Doing this documentary could be a game-changer, helping take your career to the next level. Think about playing bigger venues and reaching way more people."

Eden hadn't gone into music for the money. She genuinely and wholeheartedly loved music. She obviously needed to make a living, but she was happy playing to a crowd of 5 people as long as those people enjoyed her songs. Music was the lens through which she saw the world; it was how she expressed and interpreted her emotions, her innermost thoughts. Music was the one constant in her life, alongside Ingrid and Quentin. Unlike people, who often proved fickle, she knew music would never betray her trust.

She learned the hard way that people can’t be depended. When push comes to shove, people leave when things get complicated. She knew it was cynical to believe that, but throughout her life, this theory had been proven time and time again. She was accustomed to loss. She had lost her biological family, her fiancé, and then her original bandmates—loss that was inherently rooted in the fickleness of the human condition and the mercurial heart.

She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she was the problem—that maybe she was so unlovable it made people leave. Even the two people who were supposed to love her unconditionally, her parents, didn’t. She was always more surprised when people like Ingrid and Quentin decided to stick around. She’d lost count of how many friends had come and gone. Ingrid always said it was just the superficial nature of Los Angeles, but Eden wasn’t so sure. The thought that the issue might lie with her still haunted her.

"Can I have some time to think about it? I'll get back to you soon. And I'm sorry about last night. It was all just a big misunderstanding." Eden said in a subdued tone.

"I'll send over the contract for you to review." Then the line clicked.

"You should do it!" Quentin declared loudly as if the thought had a mind of its own. "You can't keep your past hidden forever, and who knows, your story could help someone out there." Quentin flashed his best puppy-dog eyes, a well-practiced expression.

"Okay, Mr. America. Relax yourself." Eden grumbled with a playful eye roll.

8/26 7:06 AM PT

EDEN PERCY'S MESSY BIRTHDAY NIGHT OUT

Eden looked ready to party as she showed up for dinner on Thursday night to celebrate her 26th birthday. The singer showed up in a baby tee with the words "Sex With You Sucks" with an oversized leather motorcycle jacket and showed off her long legs in a micro mini skirt. She stepped out with chunky combat boots and smokey makeup. She was accompanied by long-time friend and ballerina Ingrid Dubois, seen in a simple cropped button-up sweater, oversized jeans, and pumps.

Inside the club, Eden took to Instagram to share a blurry, sexy selfie in the bathroom. An hour later, bouncers escorted the pair out. Eyewitnesses state that the pair were fighting with a group of girls.

The pair were spotted entering their UberX, with Eden flicking the middle finger to the cameras. Things have been messy for Eden since her breakup with long-time Ex-Fiance Liam Oliver. When will Eden clean up her act?