CHAPTER ten
The Silence Weights Like Thunder
Somewhere between Philadelphia and Boston
After arranging the new snacks in the basket I brought and setting it on the counter, I settle back into a seat at the table, tucking my legs beneath me as I crack open my laptop.
The familiar rhythm of editing takes over—cropping, adjusting light, sharpening details—photos from last night’s Philly show blinking across my screen.
The bus rocks gently beneath me, a hum of movement in the background, almost soothing.
Until the sharp buzz of my phone rattles against the tabletop, cutting through the calm. I jump slightly, heart skipping. I flip it over, expecting maybe a text from Ashton or Cody being ridiculous.
But no, it’s Heidi.
The sight of her name alone sends a cold ripple across my skin, pulling me out of my warm little bubble in an instant.
I haven’t spoken to her since our heated text exchange a few days ago. And even though I have zero desire for her passive-aggressive energy, I can’t deny that I missed her a little.
I sigh, rise from the table, and slip into the back room before I answer the call.
“Hey, Ramona.”
Her voice is hesitant, like she isn’t sure how this is going to go.
“Hey, Heidi.”
There is a pause. Then:
“Look, I’m sorry about how I reacted. I am happy for you. It just made me sad that you didn’t tell me, that’s all.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Honestly, Heidi, I wasn’t really excited to tell you after the way you reacted when I first brought it up. You just… dismissed everything.”
Silence.
For a second, I think maybe she’d hung up. But then, in a softer voice—
“I didn’t mean to dismiss you. I just wanted to make sure you thought everything through. You know I support you.”
I sigh. “Well… thank you. I appreciate it.”
There is a beat. Then, her tone suddenly shifts, bright and teasing.
“Now, can we please be friends again? Because I have serious tea.”
I laugh, relieved, the tension between us finally easing.
“Yes. Tell me everything.”
We spend the next half hour catching up, filling in the gaps from the past few weeks. She tells me about some guy at work who is clearly cheating on his girlfriend and how one of our college acquaintances just had a full-on mental breakdown on social media.
And, of course, I tell her everything, the boys, the wild energy of the shows, how much fun I’m having living this crazy, unpredictable life on the road.
I even find myself mentioning Elias, almost without meaning to, including the slightly mortifying story of our post-shower run-in.
I downplay it, laughing it off like it’s nothing, but the way my heart trips over itself just saying his name doesn’t go unnoticed. Not by me. Not by her either.
She is quiet for a second. Then— “It sounds like he’s into you.”
I scoff. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
I chew my lip.
“Even if he was, it would be really messy to get involved. Plus, I don’t think he likes me, I think he tolerates me.”
“But he’s super hot right?”
I sigh dramatically.
“Well…sure, but that’s the least interesting thing about him.”
“Psh, whatever you say, girl.”
By the time we hang up—with our classic “I love yous”—the weight that has been sitting on my chest for the past few days feels a little less suffocating.
She even agreed to come visit me on tour.
During the little downtime between cities, I’ve been looking for ways to contribute more to the tour—not just selling shirts and hoodies, but also improving how things run behind the scenes.
Our current inventory system feels like it belongs in a different decade: handwritten tallies, Excel sheets with too many tabs, and no real-time syncing.
With all the technology available today, I know there must be a more efficient solution.
I start digging, researching different systems that would suit a mobile tour like ours.
Eventually, I land on a digital platform designed for merch teams. It offers real-time inventory tracking, links directly to our payment system, and automatically updates stock as items are sold.
It even lets you tag each product with size, variant, and tour city so we can track what sells best where.
There’s a mobile dashboard, low-stock alerts, and it generates custom reports, basically, it’s a merch manager’s dream.
I set up the trial and load in a few test products to demo. When it clicks into place and syncs with our Square reader, I can’t help but smile.
“Hey, Vernon,” I call, waving him over to the bench seat where I’m working.
He peers up from his phone, adjusts his glasses, and walks over to sit beside me.
“I think I found a better way to handle merch inventory,” I say, spinning my laptop toward him.
“This system logs every item digitally. It’s connected to our point-of-sale app, so it automatically tracks sales as they occur, updates inventory in real-time, and even sends alerts when an item is running low.
We won’t have to manually count or cross-reference anymore. ”
Vernon leans in, his brows rising as he scrolls through the dashboard. “It even breaks it down by city?” he asks, tapping the analytics tab.
“Yup. We can track trends, see what sells best where, and even forecast what to restock for future shows. There’s a barcode scanner too, so no more guessing sizes at the table in a rush.”
He rubs his chin, clearly impressed. “Ramona, this is solid. Let’s try it out at tonight’s show, run with it and let me know how it goes.”
“Absolutely,” I say, already excited to dive in.
As he walks off, I catch myself smiling, a warm flicker of pride blooming. It feels good to contribute more than just a friendly face behind the table. I’m helping things run smoother, smarter. And that feels like progress.
When the bus rumbles to a stop, I slip into the back room to change into my show clothes, smoothing my shirt and touching up my face in the mirror under fluorescent lights. Once I feel somewhat put together, I head toward the front.
The merch table is already mostly set up when I arrive. One of the guys even carried in my camera bag and tucked it under the table. I pull it into my lap, unzipping it to double-check my lenses. But when I open it, something unfamiliar catches my eye.
Tucked neatly inside is a brand-new, unopened bag of gummy bears.
I pause, frowning curiously. I didn’t pack these. I definitely don’t remember buying them. But they’re my favorite—down to the exact brand I always grab when I want comfort.
I tear the bag open and pop a few into my mouth, savoring the sugary chew, and glance toward the stage.
The guys are setting up for soundcheck, each locked into their role.
Cody spots me immediately and starts waving like a hyper golden retriever reunited with its owner after a three-minute absence.
I lift the bag in question, raising an eyebrow.
He responds by tilting his head and giving me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, like of course he was behind it. Of course he remembered. I shake my head, grinning. That man is sunshine in human form.
As I toss another gummy bear into my mouth, my gaze shifts to Elias at center stage, adjusting his mic stand. He’s focused, sleeves shoved up, forearms flexing as he fine-tunes the angle. Even doing the most mundane task, he’s distracting.
He glances up at just the wrong—or maybe right—moment and catches me staring. His eyes flicker briefly downward, tracking the movement of my hand as I bring another candy to my lips. I try my best to do it casually, like I’m not suddenly self-conscious.
His lips twitch, but just barely. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smirk plays at the corner of his mouth before he looks away, back to his mic stand like nothing happened.
Atlas Obsidian takes the stage in a rush of sound and color, the lights swirling in hypnotic patterns around Elias.
For a moment, it feels like the world bends around him—his figure haloed by the shifting glow, giving him an ethereal presence.
Even after seeing a handful of shows by now, I find myself just as mesmerized, caught in the gravity he doesn’t even realize he has.
I recognize the song Hollow from the many shows I’ve seen at this point:
Every light extinguished,
Every laugh turned to screams,
You poisoned every memory
Until I can’t trust my dreams
My chest is carved wide open,
A hollow where love should be
You stole the warmth from our home,
Left only ghosts inside of me
You were supposed to be my hero,
A shield to keep us whole
But you became the monster
That devoured every soul
I’m the only one still breathing,
Yet I don’t know how to live
You left me hollow—
Every photograph is ashes,
Every smile fades to black
I’d trade my broken future
For a chance to bring them back
The silence weighs like thunder,
The walls remember screams
You shattered more than bodies
You murdered every dream
My chest is carved wide open,
A hollow where love should be
You stole the warmth from our home,
Left only ghosts inside of me
You were supposed to be my hero,
The one to lift me high
But you were just the reason
That everything had to die
I’m the only one still standing,
But inside I’m buried deep
This hollow is my prison,
A place I cannot leave
The words are so dark and haunting. I feel my chest tightening, my thoughts reeling at their meaning. It speaks of not only physical scars, but the ones that aren’t visible on your skin. The kind that can lock you into a prison of despair if you let it.
Between merch sales, I steal glances toward the stage, letting Elias’s voice thread through my senses, raw and electric as it fills the cavernous venue. Each note hooks into me, pulls me closer without asking.
But then I feel it—the shift.
A shadow at my back.
Unwelcome.
I stiffen instinctively as Traeger stalks toward the booth, a smirk curving his lips.
His energy hits like static, crawling over my skin before he even touches me.
I force myself to focus on the growing line in front of me, tapping my fingers against the tablet in a silent plea for him to just keep walking.
No such luck.
He sidles up behind me, the heat of his presence too close, and lays a heavy, possessive hand on my back.
“How’s my favorite merch girl?” he drawls, his breath too warm against my ear, his hand sliding across my lower back.
A full-body shudder ripples through me before I can stop it. I step neatly out of his reach, plastering on my best neutral smile.
“Hey, Traeger,” I say lightly, swiping the next customer’s card with a steady hand. “Kind of busy here.”
“You should come to our afterparty tonight. We can get to know each other a little better.” His words come out in a slow, sensual drawl meant to be seductive but landing squarely in absolutely not territory.
“Yeah, maybe. We’ll see,” I say lightly, even though I have no intention of showing up. Traeger either can’t read the disinterest radiating off me, or more likely, doesn’t care.
“I might start to think you aren’t serious about your job here,” he says, stepping closer. “We should be able to… talk. Trust each other.” His voice dips as he trails one finger down my arm.
A chill zips through me, sharp and immediate, the hair on the back of my neck snapping to attention.
I step out of his grasp again and hand a folded t-shirt to a woman who barely notices me, her wide eyes fixed just over my shoulder.
The realization clicks a second later, the crowd has spotted him. A chorus of excited squeals rises like a breaking wave.
“You’re Traeger Nolan!” one guy exclaims, practically vibrating with starstruck energy.
Traeger laughs, and it’s not a modest sound. He raises his hands like he’s a rock-and-roll messiah, basking in the attention as if he were born for it. I swear, if he had a goblet of Kool-Aid, we’d have a full-blown cult gathering right here at the merch booth.
He leans casually against the edge of the table, drinking in the admiration from a group of fawning women, his tattoos flexing as he strikes a pose that’s all ego and no self-awareness.
If only they knew. If only they knew how he really is.
He glances back at me, flashing a smirk like he’s expecting me to be impressed too.
Traeger steps from around the booth and puts his arm around a petite brunette in the front and says, “You ever seen a tour bus before, gorgeous?”
She blushes and shakes her head.
“I’ll give you the exclusive.” He says coiling a piece of her hair around his finger. He gives me another smug look before leading her away.
My stomach turns slightly, but I return my focus ahead, folding shirts, sliding transactions.
My eyes drift back toward the stage just as Atlas Obsidian hits the high point of the song, where Elias’s singing becomes a perfectly pitched scream. He is front and center, the roar of his voice cutting through the music.
The sound hits me straight in the chest as he catches my stare.
And for a few precious seconds, Traeger, the booth, the crowd... it all fades away.
There’s only him and me, the music and his haunting yell threading between us like a line I don’t want to lose.