24. Luke
luke
. . .
For a second, I don’t know where I am. I wake up with my mouth full of cotton and my heart already sprinting.
The ceiling is unfamiliar, too white, too clean.
The curtains are cracked just enough for a blade of daylight to stab through, bright and wrong, and my stomach twists like it’s recognizing morning as an enemy.
I blink once. Twice.
There’s a pounding in my skull that feels like someone’s trying to break out.
My phone is on the nightstand. It’s vibrating so hard it’s walking in tiny circles, rattling against the wood like it’s panicking too.
I grab it and the notifications flood the screen.
Missed call.
Missed call.
Missed call.
Dave. Dave. Dave.
A couple unknown numbers.
A few texts from people whose names I don’t recognize until I stare long enough.
And then…
Noah.
My thumb freezes over his name, I haven’t heard from him since the day he left me standing in another hotel room, my world crumbling down around me.
One missed call.
Then another.
Then one more from last night.
My chest tightens, the sensation sharp enough that for a second I think I might actually be having a heart attack.
I don’t remember what day it is.
I don’t remember going to bed.
I don’t remember if I called him back. If I ignored him. If I…
The phone rings again and Dave’s name flashes across the screen. I answer without thinking.
“Where the fuck are you?” he snaps.
My voice comes out rough. “In bed.”
“Yeah, no shit. Where, Luke?”
I sit up slowly, the room tilting a fraction to the left. The air smells like stale cologne and whiskey and something sweet I can’t place. There’s a half-empty bottle on the dresser like an accusation.
“Hotel,” I mutter.
“What hotel?”
I drag my hand down my face, trying to pull my brain into place. “I don’t know.”
Silence. Then, softer, but not kinder…
“Fucking hell, Luke.”
I laugh once, bitter. Because this is my life now.
“Get up,” Dave says. “Shower. Drink water. You’ve got a session in two hours.”
I swallow, my throat dry and raw. “Two hours? I just…”
“Two hours,” he repeats. “And Luke? Don’t answer any calls that aren’t from me.”
I think about the call log again. Noah.
My voice catches. “My brother…”
“I said don’t answer,” Dave cuts in. “Not right now. Not when you’re like this. Focus on what matters.”
What matters?
Like Noah doesn’t.
Like my family doesn’t.
Like…
“Luke,” Dave says, voice sharp. “Are you listening?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
“Good. I’m coming to get you.”
The call ends and I sit there for a moment, phone pressed against my palm.
Noah called.
Why would Noah call three times?
My stomach rolls.
I try to call him back.
It rings once, then goes to voicemail.
I hang up and stare at the screen like I can force it to change.
The silence in the room gets loud.
I close my eyes, and Bailey is there.
Not in the way she’s been lately, on screens, on stages, in headlines. Not something I can pause or rewind.
In my mind she’s real. She’s my dream.
She’s standing in our kitchen barefoot, hair twisted up, wearing one of my shirts. She’s humming while she stirs something on the stove, shoulders relaxed, like she belongs there.
Like she still belongs with me.
I reach for her in the dream and she turns…
But it’s not her.
It’s a woman with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, smiling too wide like she’s been waiting for me to notice her.
I force my eyes open, my throat tight.
Bailey’s eyes are gold.
Warm. Loving. Honest.
This woman’s eyes are cold light. Nothing like her.
I press my palms to my face and breathe through it.
I have to get up.
I have to be functional.
I have to…
There’s a knock at the door.
Dave doesn’t wait for an answer, he lets himself in. He takes one look at me and grimaces. “Jesus.”
“I’m fine,” I snap automatically.
“You look like death,” he replies. He tosses a bottle of water at me. “Drink.”
I catch it, crack the cap, and swallow until my stomach rebels.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“There were a few sightings last night, but I didn’t know where you ended up. A video of you stumbling into the hotel got posted when we were on the phone, the front desk confirmed.”
Dave moves around the room like he’s resetting it, opening curtains, pushing the bottle on the dresser into a drawer, straightening things like he can rearrange the damage.
Then he holds out his hand.
“What?” I ask.
“Your phone,” he says.
My grip tightens.
“No.”
“Luke,” he warns.
“I said no.”
Dave exhales through his nose, patience thinning. “You’ve got people calling you. Media. bloggers. ‘insiders.’ They’re fishing. You’re not in a state to handle it.”
“My brother called,” I snap.
“He’ll call again,” Dave says smoothly. “Or I’ll call him. But right now? You need to focus on you.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache.
“Give it to me,” he says, softer now, like he’s trying a different approach. “Just for today. Just while we get you through the session.”
It’s the same thing he always says.
Just for today.
Just until the next show.
Just until the next meeting.
Just until the next crisis.
I stare at him for a long moment, then I hand him the phone. I hate myself immediately.
Dave tucks it into his jacket like it’s nothing.
“There,” he says briskly. “Better.”
I stand too quickly and the room shifts again.
Dave watches me sway and says, “Shower. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
When he leaves, I stare at the empty room like something is missing.
The studio reeks of everyone’s desperation to make something great out of something broken.
There are writers sitting around a table, notebooks open, guitars leaning against chairs. A producer with headphones around his neck. Someone tapping a rhythm with their pen like they can summon a hit song if they try hard enough.
They look at me when I walk in. Some with excitement, others with pity.
I hate both.
“Luke,” one of them says brightly. “Good to see you, man.”
I nod, jaw tight.
Dave is already talking, already spinning. “He’s been through it,” he says with a grin like it’s a selling point. “But that’s what makes this record. That edge.”
Edge. Like this is a costume.
I sit down, hands shaking slightly, and try to focus. Try to find something inside me that still knows how to do this. One of the writers slides a page toward me.
A chorus. A hook. Something about regret and whiskey and freedom.
It’s not me, and they aren't Bailey.
It’s not what we used to write when she’d sit on the floor with her back against the couch, guitar in her lap, looking up at me like she could see right through the bullshit. Now I can’t feel anything without it turning into grief.
“Let’s run it,” the producer says.
I make my way into the booth and put the headphones on. The track starts, I open my mouth and my voice cracks on the first line.
The producer stops it immediately. “Let’s take that again.”
I nod, my throat burning.
We go again.
I miss the timing.
Again.
Again.
My hands sweat. My head pounds. My body feels too heavy, too slow, like my brain is wrapped in wet wool.
Someone mutters under their breath, “This is rough.”
Dave laughs like it’s charming. “He’s raw right now. That’s the point.”
A writer shifts in his seat and says, not quietly enough, “No wonder Bailey left.”
The room goes still, and my vision narrows. I pull off the headphones so hard they slap against my neck.
“What did you just say?” I ask, voice low.
The writer holds up his hands, half apology, half challenge. “I’m just saying… This is public knowledge, man. Everyone knows she’s working with Jackson Reed. She’s thriving. You…”
Something in me lights up like a live wire. I move toward the table, headphones falling behind me, grab the nearest stack of papers and fling them across the room.
“Shut the fuck up,” I roar.
Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. I can hear my own breathing. The blood in my ears. The hum of equipment.
“She didn’t leave me,” I spit, like saying it makes it true. “She’s my wife.”
The room shifts uncomfortably and Dave steps in quickly, palms out, smiling like a handler trying to calm a wild animal.
“Okay, okay,” he says lightly. “Let’s take five. Luke’s got a lot going on.”
I glare at the writer, chest heaving.
“She didn’t leave me,” I repeat, quieter now, like I’m trying to convince myself.
Dave guides me toward the hallway, murmuring, “You’re good. You’re fine. This is good for the image, honestly.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the image,” I snap.
Dave’s smile doesn’t falter. “Sure. Of course. But everyone else does.”
He presses something into my hand.
A pill.
My fingers curl around it without thinking.
“How many?” I ask.
“One,” he says. “Just to steady you.”
Just one.
I swallow it dry.
That night, I ended up in a club I don’t remember choosing. The music too loud. Lights flashing so bright it's hard to focus. People shouting my name. A woman presses up against me at the bar. All I see is blonde hair, a tight dress and her phone already angled for a selfie.
For half a second, my brain betrays me. I see the hair and my chest aches like I’ve been hit. Then she turns her face up…
Green eyes.
Not gold.
Not Bailey.
“Luke Carter,” she squeals. “Oh my god.”
She wraps an arm around me like she’s entitled to it. I don’t even know her name.
She lifts her phone. “Smile!”
I don’t.
The picture still gets taken, and that’s all the world needs. Another image of me with another woman. Another piece of proof for a narrative I never agreed to.
I push away from the bar, heart racing, stomach twisting.
I want my phone.
I want to call Bailey.
I want to hear her voice even if she tells me to go to hell.
I search the crowd for Dave. He’s talking to someone in the corner, already watching the room like he’s tracking assets. When he finally notices me, he looks annoyed.
“What?” he mouths over the music.
“My phone,” I snapped when I reached him.
Dave’s jaw tightens. “Not here.”
“I need it.”
“No,” he says, calm and firm. “Not right now.”
“I want to call Bailey.”
“Why?” he scoffs. “Pick any other women here tonight if you need to take the edge off.”
“She’s still my wife,” I hissed, close enough that he could hear me. “I’m not moving on.”