CHAPTER Twelve
A Hollow Where Love Should Be
Somewhere between Cleveland and Chicago
The guys have been on the road even longer than I have, and none of us are immune to the fact that our clothes have begun to take on a sentient quality and not in a charming way. We desperately need clean laundry.
We find a small laundromat tucked just off the highway, its neon sign buzzing like a tired heartbeat in the fading light. One by one, we shuffle off the bus with bulging bags in tow.
I’m about to hoist my duffel over my shoulder when Elias silently appears beside me. Without a word, he takes it from my hands and strides ahead. I blink after him.
“You don’t have to do that,” I call as I follow. He doesn’t respond, just gently places the bag in front of a washer and begins sorting his own clothes beside it.
Cody sidles up next to me, his laundry stuffed inside a plastic trash bag that is radiating a foul stench like heat off pavement.
Something catches his attention outside. His eyes widen with childlike glee.
“Ro,” he says, already halfway to the door, “can you toss my stuff in for me? There’s a taco truck out there calling my name.”
I’m elbow-deep in my jeans trying to retrieve a lipstick I accidentally left in a pocket. Its waxy red trail now brands my clothes like a scarlet signature. I blow a stray piece of hair from my face and sigh. “Yeah, I got you.”
But before Cody makes it outside, Elias steps into his path, planting a firm hand on his shoulder. His voice is calm but edged in steel. “She’s not your personal maid. You can load your own laundry before you eat.”
Cody pauses, blinking. Realization flickers in his eyes.
“Shit, you’re right. Sorry, Ro. I wasn’t thinking. I get... enthusiastic about tacos.”
“It’s fine,” I say, shooting Elias a grateful look. He just gives the faintest nod in return, already turning back to his washer.
I finally extract the lipstick tube from the bottom of my bag with a victorious grunt, though the damage is done, crimson smudges kiss a few shirts. I sigh and try to dab at one with a damp cloth.
Beside me, Elias is loading his clothes methodically, saying nothing. The silence between us stretches, not uncomfortable.
I glance over.
“You didn’t have to do that back there,” I say quietly. “Cody wasn’t trying to be rude. It really wasn’t a big deal.”
He doesn’t look up.
“It’s okay for you to say no to people, Ramona.”
His voice isn’t cold—it’s warm in the way a wool coat is. Protective. Unapologetic.
I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well... I’ve never been particularly good at that if you couldn’t tell. ‘No’ isn’t exactly in my greatest hits.”
He finally looks at me, and it’s not just a glance, it’s a full-body pause. His gaze holds mine, calm and steady, like he’s memorizing me, not judging, just... knowing.
“Then maybe it’s time to change that,” he says.
And then he turns back to his laundry like nothing’s happened, but the words linger between us until Jasper’s question cuts through.
“You coming?” he asks me, trailing behind Cody and Grady as they beeline toward the taco truck outside.
“I’ll stay here and watch our stuff. Just save me a taco or two,” I say, waving him off.
Jasper pauses, turning back with an arched brow.
“What about you, Elias?”
All three of them look at him suspiciously, waiting for his response.
“Oh, uh…” Elias shifts, trying and failing to sound casual. “I’ll stay here too. Don’t want to leave Ramona alone.”
Their smirks are instantaneous and identical.
Jasper actually snorts as they push out the door, leaving me and Elias in a bubble of quiet that feels way too loud.
I pretend to busy myself—because what else do you do when the guy you absolutely should not be this aware of is suddenly the only other person in the room? I pull out my phone and focus on the social post I’d been finishing earlier, scrolling through photos from the latest show.
Our engagement numbers have been climbing. Fans love the behind-the-scenes shots, the candid moments. It’s the one part of the tour that feels purely mine.
“What are you working on?” Elias’s voice breaks the quiet. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Oh—just some stuff on socials,” I say, trying not to drop my phone. “Posting photos from the Cleveland show.”
I move to the seat next to him, leaning over so he can see my screen. His shoulder brushes mine, barely, but it sends a warm, stupid little spark down my spine.
He studies each photo intently.
“You’re talented,” he says softly.
Heat floods my cheeks, unavoidable and immediate.
“Oh… thank you. It’s nothing really.”
“It’s not nothing.” His gaze flicks to mine, steady and earnest. “You’ve got an eye for this. How long have you been doing it?”
The sincerity in his tone straightens my spine. “Honestly? As long as I can remember. I’ve always loved capturing moments exactly as they are. Before they disappear.”
“That’s cool,” he says, nodding. “How long have you worked at The Riot Room?”
It hits me then—this is easily the longest conversation we’ve ever had. And he’s actively trying to keep it going.
He wants to talk to me.
Or maybe he’s just trying to fill the silence? Something that has never seemed to bother him before.
“About two years,” I say. “I wish I could afford to work there full time, but it’s a great side gig. Saves my sanity more than I care to admit.”
He nods again, slower this time. Like he gets it.
The silence stretches thin, and before it can snap, I nudge it forward. “Tell me something about you.”
He rolls his shoulders.
“What do you want to know?”
I pretend to think deeply, tapping my chin.
“Hmm… what would be your death row meal? Last thing you ever get to eat?”
He gives me a look—half smirk, half incredulous amusement—like that’s what I landed on? But he plays along.
“Steak and lobster,” he says after a beat. “With a side of chocolate cake.”
I laugh, loud and genuine.
“So… protein, protein, and chocolate. Got it.”
“Exactly.”
“And what movie would you watch while you eat it for the last time?”
“Reservoir Dogs,” he answers instantly.
I blink. “Why does that make perfect sense for you?” I tease.
He just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, and there—just for a second, the ghost of a smile flickers across his face. Not wide. Not full. But real. And it hits me harder than it should.
He doesn’t laugh, not fully. He never does. And I haven’t yet cracked whatever shell he keeps around his joy.
But I will.
Because I can feel it—buried somewhere behind those guarded eyes and short answers, Elias has a real, unrestrained laugh in him.
And I’m not stopping until I hear it.
Chicago, Illinois
The past few weeks have flown by in a blur of city skylines, van life, late-night gas station stops, and endless laughter. My days are spent slinging merch, running the band’s social media, and soaking in the energy of the road.
And honestly? I am having the time of my life.
My social media efforts are paying off—Atlas Obsidian’s following has grown significantly, and I am starting to see the difference in real time. More and more fans show up early for their set, singing along, wearing their merch, holding up signs.
Vernon and the band are over the moon.
I won’t lie—it feels good knowing my work is actually making a difference. This band deserves recognition, and seeing them start to get it? Yeah, it makes all the long nights worth it.
I feel like I’m slowly chipping away at Elias.
Every interaction is feeling less like a tense standoff and more like an unspoken truce.
I rode up front with him during one long stretch, though most of the time was spent in companionable silence.
The hum of the engine, the rhythmic thud of tires against the asphalt, and the music filling the small space between us seemed to be enough.
I also didn’t miss the half-eaten bags of savory snacks that I had chosen specifically for him.
I haven’t gotten any soul-baring confessions, but still, the small conversations we’ve had are something. Little glimpses into who he is, little details I tuck away and store like prized possessions.
We make it to Chicago and have time to enjoy our first extended break since the tour started. We decided to settle into a swanky hotel for a much-needed stretch of days off. No cramped bunks, no venue back rooms, no late-night drives through the middle of nowhere.
Just warm sun, relaxation, and the rooftop pool calling our names.
Jasper’s girlfriend, Sasha, has joined us for the week from Pittsburgh, the band’s hometown, and we hit it off immediately. Bonding over reality TV, complaining about the boys, and sharing our love for fruity cocktails, it is instant friendship.
Sasha is the kind of beautiful that turns heads without even trying. Her deep caramel skin glows under the sun, a flawless contrast to the cascade of silky jet-black braids that fall down her back. Hazel eyes—warm, flecked with gold—hold an easy confidence.
She’s wearing a black cutout one-piece that hugs her curves like it was made for her, the sleek fabric accentuating every dip and line of her figure.
A crisp white ball cap sits atop her head, the words Always Hungry embroidered across the front in bold black letters.
Even as she lounges, drink in hand, she moves with a kind of relaxed grace, as if she’s perfectly at home no matter where she is.
Armed with a book, my strongest SPF, and a cooler full of drinks, I settle in on a lounge chair next to her, feeling the sun kiss my skin.
“It’s nice to finally have some estrogen around,” I joke, stretching out on my towel. “I’ve been drowning in sweaty testosterone for weeks.”
Sasha laughs, adjusting her sunglasses. “Oh man, I bet. I love my man, but he’s definitely not winning any awards for hygiene. I swear they think looking and smelling grungy is part of the lifestyle.”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I rub sunscreen along my arms. When I try to reach my back, my fingers fumble awkwardly against my shoulder blades, falling just short.