CHAPTER SIX #2
Cody greets me with raised brows, already digging into a bag of chips from the basket.
“Any luck?”
I gesture toward the snacks.
“You do know that’s supposed to last longer than just today, right?”
He shrugs, mouth full of something, distorting his words, “I hab no self-contwol.”
I roll my eyes.
“Clearly. And I don’t think so. He’s kind of a dick.” I whisper.
Jasper snorts, shaking his head. “Damn, harsh.”
Cody sighs, still chewing. “I promise he’s not. He just takes a while to warm up to people.”
I reach over the table and grab a handful of gummy worms.
“What did Devin do the other night for him to react like that?” I keep my voice low, leaning in slightly.
Grady leans a little closer, elbows resting on the surface and says, “Apparently, he was trying to take photos up a girl’s skirt.”
“Shit,” I say, eyes widening.
“Yeah, I knew I didn’t like him for a reason,” Cody adds.
“Don’t take Elias too personally. He’s got a great heart under all those shadows,” Jasper says.
I contemplate for a few seconds before Grady switches the subject.
“Alright, Ramona, tell us about yourself,” he says, leaning back into his seat with an air of satisfaction, clearly satiated from his snack-fueled feast.
I smirk, stretching my legs out a little.
“What do you want to know?”
“Oh! Let’s play rapid-fire questions!” Cody jolts upright, his enthusiasm almost childlike, eyes bright with mischief.
I raise an eyebrow, but straighten in my seat, showing I’m game.
“Hit me.”
“Favorite color?”
“Orange.”
“Favorite food?”
“Chili.”
“Favorite outdoor activity?”
“Camping.”
“Favorite candy?”
“Gummy bears.”
“Favorite band—other than us, of course.” Cody clasps his hands under his chin, batting his lashes dramatically. A laugh bubbles out of me, and I roll my eyes playfully before answering.
“Hmm… probably Fall Out Boy.”
Cody nods in approval.
“Good one. Okay… favorite movie?”
“Snatch.”
Grady tilts his head, face twisting in confusion.
“What the fuck is Snatch? It sounds like a porno.”
“You’ve never seen Snatch?” Jasper turns toward him, scandalized. I point at Jasper in grateful acknowledgment.
Cody just shrugs, clearly also out of the loop.
I shake my head, laughing.
“We’ll rent it sometime and watch it on the road.”
“Favorite flower?”
“Daisies.”
Cody grins, but then his expression shifts into something purely chaotic.
“Okay, if you had to have two endless liquids that you could control with your fingers for the rest of your life, what would they be?” he asks all in one breath.
Jasper throws his hands up, exasperated.
“Dude, what the hell kind of question is that?”
“A very important one.” Cody leans forward, completely serious now. “Mine would be beer and Mountain Dew.”
Grady snorts, shaking his head. “Of course it would.”
I hum in thought, fingers tapping against my chin.
“I can’t say I’ve ever considered this before, but… prosecco and water?”
“Ooooh, classy.” Cody nods approvingly, like I just passed some kind of test.
And then, in true Cody fashion, he whips the partition curtain back abruptly, revealing Elias, still brooding in the driver’s seat, gaze locked on the road.
The sudden intrusion makes my breath catch, but not because he looks annoyed.
Because the sun is still spilling through the bus window, highlighting his profile in perfect detail as he glances over his shoulder.
His sharp jawline, the way his dark hair catches the light with an umber sheen, the way his shoulders tense, as if bracing for whatever chaos is about to be unleashed on him.
“What about you, Shadow Daddy?” Cody teases. I don’t miss the way Elias’s hand tenses further at the nickname.
“I’m not playing,” he replies flatly.
“Oh, come on, man. Humor me. I’m your oldest friend.” Cody dramatically clutches his chest, as if Elias just stabbed him.
A deep, exaggerated sigh comes from the driver’s seat. Then, finally.
“Fine. Gasoline.”
A stunned silence hangs in the air for half a beat.
“Gasoline? What the fuck, dude? You want to drink gasoline?” Cody’s face twists in pure disgust.
Elias doesn’t even flinch.
“No one said you had to drink the liquids, asshole. You’d never have to pay for gas again.”
I blink, momentarily stunned by the sheer practicality of it. I hadn’t even thought beyond consumable liquids, but Elias? His mind went straight to survival. It makes me even more curious about him.
I can’t stop myself from studying him just a little longer, taking in the subtle pull of his lips, the way he rolls his shoulders as if he’s trying to steady himself.
Cody groans in defeat, throwing himself back onto the seat. “Fair point.”
Elias says nothing, just reaches forward and pulls the partition curtain shut again, cutting himself off from the conversation.
But my gaze lingers on the spot where he sits, my mind still turning over the enigma that is Elias.
The next few hours are a whirlwind of business talk, the guys, along with their manager, Vernon, walking me through the ropes of my new role.
I’ll be running merch for both Atlas Obsidian and Hellwake, which, according to Vernon, is one of the biggest sources of income on tour.
“It’s not complicated,” he assures me. “We load everything in, set up the table, and you sell during the show. I’ll handle restocks and help out if needed.”
“The hardest part is just keeping up with the inventory, but we’ve got a system that shouldn’t be hard for you to learn.”
I nod along, taking mental notes. It sounds straightforward, but also important; a responsibility I don’t take lightly.
“I’ll cover for you when you need a break so you can get photos during the set,” Vernon adds, glancing at me over his glasses.
I appreciate that. More than anything, I want to document this experience, capture the energy, the chaos, the music.
The guys seem confident in me, and I like that. There’s something comforting about the way they’re welcoming me in so seamlessly, like I was meant to be here all along.
By the time we roll into Lexington, we have a few hours to kill before the show.
Cody is already deep in research mode, scrolling through his phone as we park the bus behind the venue.
“Alright, there’s a brewery a few blocks that way,” he announces, pointing in the direction before leading the charge without waiting for a response.
We follow him through the downtown streets, weaving past old brick buildings, neon signs glowing faintly in the afternoon haze. The air is thick with the scent of brewing hops and grilled food, a mix that feels oddly comforting.
Cody slows his pace just enough to fall into step beside Elias, slinging an arm around his shoulder. He launches into a rambling monologue about what superpower he’d choose—something between teleportation and shooting flaming nachos from his hands. Classic Cody nonsense.
Elias walks stiffly at first, arms hanging straight at his sides, expression unreadable as Cody babbles on. But when Cody tugs him a little closer, Elias finally gives in. His posture loosens, and he slips an arm around Cody’s waist, pulling him in with a reluctant smirk.
The brewery itself is quaint, industrial with exposed brick walls, dim string lights overhead, and massive steel vats visible through a glass wall behind the bar. The air smells of malted barley and aged wood, with hints of something citrusy and sharp wafting from freshly poured pints.
We grab a long picnic-style table near the window.
A flight of craft beers makes its way to our table, everyone grabbing a glass except for Elias, who sticks to soda water.
The guys fall into easy conversation, bouncing between old tour stories and heated debates about which album defined their teenage years.
I feel like I’ve been here forever, even though it’s only been half a day.
It’s an easy, natural rhythm, the way they include me, the way they joke and tease like we’re already family.
Except for Elias.
He’s here, but not really here.
While the rest of us are locked in a conversation about the best movie soundtracks, he sits across from me, his head dipped toward a small, leather-bound notebook, fingers gliding across the pages with a smooth motion.
I find myself watching him, drawn in by the swirl of ink adorning his hands, the precise slant of his handwriting.
I can now make out the words that are tattooed across his knuckles, lost and soul.
Even the way he holds his pen, graceful but firm. I can’t see what he’s writing, but I can tell that it matters.
I shift slightly in my seat, the noise of the table fading into the background as I gather the nerve to engage him again. I’m determined to get him to open up.
“What are you writing?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up immediately. He pauses, lets his pen hover for a moment, then lifts his gaze—and when his amber eyes lock onto mine, I forget how to breathe for half a second.
“Lyrics,” he answers simply. His voice is calm, low, edged with something distant.
I pick up a fry and bring it to my mouth.
“Do you write all the band’s songs?”
He holds my gaze for a fraction of a second longer before glancing back down, tapping his pen lightly against the page.
“Yes.”
I chew on my fry, nodding.
“That’s cool. Feels rare these days. A lot of bands don’t write their own stuff anymore.”
For a moment, I think I see something flicker across his face—the smallest hint of a smile, so quick I could have imagined it. But then, just as quickly, he lowers his head again, returning to his notebook like the conversation never happened.
I don’t push. Instead, I smile to myself, a little victory settling in.
Because even if he won’t admit it yet, I’m going to crack him.
Suddenly, Cody shoots up from the table like he’s been launched out of a cannon, sending all of us flinching back.
“Aw shit, it’s your favorite, Elias!” he crows, jabbing a finger toward the weathered speaker bolted to the side of the building—now blaring the opening wail of Crazy Train by Ozzy Osbourne.
Before any of us can react, Cody climbs onto the picnic table, nearly kicking over someone’s basket of fries, and launches into the most dramatic air-guitar solo known to mankind. He thrashes his head back and forth, hair flying, belting every word in a pitch that is aggressively not Ozzy’s.
The surrounding patio goes silent for a beat, everyone watching the chaos ensuing.
We’re all mouthing apologies to the other diners, hands pressed to our faces as we try (and fail) to stifle our laughter. Someone in the corner actually claps.
Cody finishes his performance with a final, theatrical strum, jumps down, and plops back into his seat like nothing happened. He immediately slings an arm around Elias and pulls him in.
“Ozzy is one of our biggest inspirations, right, big guy?” he says, still breathless from his stunt.
Elias remains perfectly deadpan, even as Cody scruffs up his hair like an annoying little brother. Something tells me that Cody is the only person that Elias allows this kind of treatment from.
“Right,” he says, voice flat as concrete.
Which, of course, only makes all of us lose it even harder.