CHAPTER twenty-two
Slowly Pulls You Under
Dallas, Texas
Sleep refuses to come, my mind a restless carousel of thoughts spinning faster with every passing hour. Resigned, I slide out of bed, grab my laptop, and settle it on my lap, hoping work will drown out the noise inside my head.
I pull up the photos and videos from the last few shows, letting the familiar rhythm of editing soothe me. I begin piecing together clips for a tour promo, fast cuts of crowd surges, flashing lights, and the guys pouring everything they have onto the stage.
It doesn’t take long to realize this plan is flawed. Trying to distract myself by editing footage of the very man I’m trying not to obsess over? Brilliant.
I press play, watching Elias unfold across the screen, commanding every inch of the stage as if he were made for it. The lights break around him like shattered stars, following his every move like they’re bound to his gravity. His voice pours through the footage like a tidal wave.
The band is performing Regret is a Monster. A song that, every time I hear it, never fails to hit me right in the chest and coil tightly around my ribs.
You feel it in your stomach
Like a stone you cannot swallow
Heavy with the weight of shame
Every breath feels borrowed
It twists around your insides
Learns your voice, steals your name
Whispers all the things you are
And everything you’ll never change
Unfixable, unworthy
Unredeemable, unlovable
Regret is a monster
It sinks its vicious teeth
It bites and gnaws and eats you alive
Until there’s nothing left to see
It doesn’t kill you quickly
Just slowly pulls you under
Leaves you standing in the dark
While it tells you who you are
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay focused.
When I’m finally satisfied with the video, I upload it to Instagram with the remaining tour dates, tagging Atlas Obsidian and linking ticket info.
I also flip over to the new YouTube channel I started for them and begin uploading the same promo there.
As the file buffers, I absentmindedly scan the sidebar of recommended videos, and that’s when I see it:
“Elias Hawthorne Drug-Fueled Breakdown”
Dated seven years ago.
My heart trips over itself, a thud against my ribs. Against my better judgment, I pop in my earbuds and click.
The video flickers to life—the guys onstage at some cramped, dimly lit venue. Only it’s not the version I know.
Elias is swaying unsteadily, clutching the mic like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His words slur into each other, the melody breaking apart. Murmurs from the crowd grow into restless boos, and then, without warning, he hurls the mic stand into the front row.
Gasps erupt. Chaos.
The band scrambles, trying to pull him offstage, trying to contain the wreckage. A litany of cracked curses rips from Elias’s throat before the video abruptly cuts to black.
I sit frozen, the tiny glow of the screen painting my face in sickly light.
The comments are even worse:
“What a fucking disgrace.”
“He should just OD and spare us all.”
“Trash. Absolute trash.”
Each one feels like a dagger twisting under my ribs. Tears blur my vision; the sheer cruelty of it is almost harder to stomach than the video itself.
Yes, Elias had lost control.
But watching it unfold—seeing that wrecked, furious version of him—it’s impossible not to see the pain under the rage, the desperation beneath the destruction.
The man I’ve come to know, the one who moves with such focus, who guards his heart so fiercely, he fought his way back from that. He wears his sobriety like armor now. He takes his music, his second chance, as seriously as if it were a matter of life or death.
Because maybe, for him, it is.
Watching him now, so burdened, the pieces of past conversations click into place.
Elias mentioning the people he’s hurt. Cody hinting at a version of him that no longer exists.
It’s clear now, he wasn’t just a struggling frontman in that old video; he was an addict, clawing through the wreckage of his own making.
And while he’s worked to rebuild his life, I can see how much he still punishes himself for the ruins he left behind.
Maybe that’s why he carries the world on his shoulders now, always the first to jump to someone’s defense, to shoulder blame that isn’t his. Like if he protects enough people, he might finally balance the scales.
I see it all: the war inside him, the battle between who he was and who he’s trying to be.
It’s a reality I know all too well, the way addiction can sink its claws into someone you love and hollow them out, leaving behind only a shell of the person they used to be. I’ve watched it happen up close, seen it strip away light, laughter, personality, and even steal life itself.
I wake to sunlight filtering through the small window above my bed, casting warm gold across the blankets and spilling into the corners of my mind. For a moment, I just lay there, blinking against the glow, replaying last night in my head.
Had it really happened? Had Elias and I actually agreed to a secret summer romance?
A slow, giddy smile creeps across my face as I sit up and stretch, the memories unfurling in my chest like a secret I can’t stop touching. Considering how this tour began, with barbed words and heavy stares it feels almost surreal. But excitement hums under my skin, buzzing louder than nerves.
After a quick shower, I pull on the Collision Course t-shirt I scored with Sasha and slip into a pair of frayed jean shorts. I tie my hair up messily, still feeling a little weightless, a little reckless in the best way.
Emerging from my tiny room, I’m met by the sleepy quiet of the bus. Cody is still dead to the world in his bunk, one leg hanging off the side like a broken puppet. I stifle a laugh behind my hand. That man is a living, breathing cartoon character, and there’s no other explanation.
I pour two cups of coffee from the pot that Vernon must’ve started earlier, steam rising in lazy spirals. Balancing the cups carefully and a book under my arm, I make my way to the front of the bus, nudging the curtain aside just enough to slip through.
There he is.
Elias sits behind the wheel, the engine idling in the thick snarl of city traffic.
He’s wearing a loose, cut-off t-shirt, the sides sliced wide open, revealing tantalizing flashes of tattooed skin stretched over lean muscle.
The ink shifts with every casual flex of his arms, and for a second, I genuinely forget how to breathe.
Swallowing the urge to just stand there and drool, I gently tug the curtain back into place behind me, double-checking that the others are still out of sight. Setting the two coffees in the holders, I inch closer to him, a mischievous grin tugging at my lips.
Since we’re at a standstill, I take my shot. I lean down, pressing delicate, lingering kisses along the side of his neck, my lips tracing the dark lines of his tattoos like a map. His skin is warm beneath my mouth, and I feel the exact moment he smiles.
He reaches up, his fingers threading behind my neck, guiding me to him. He captures my mouth with his, a kiss that’s still lazy with sleep but heated enough to make me dizzy.
“Good morning,” I whisper against his smile.
“Good fucking morning.”
I settle into the passenger seat, cradling my coffee carefully between both hands. The paper cup radiates warmth into my palms as I take a tentative sip.
“Are you sure it’s okay that we detour to visit my brother?” I ask, turning slightly toward him, the hint of nerves threading through my voice.
He casts a quick glance in my direction, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile that silently says, seriously?
“Of course it’s okay. We don’t have to be in Denver for another four days.”
Relief floods through me, softening my shoulders.
“Thank you. I can’t wait to see him,” I say, the excitement bubbling just beneath my skin.
He just smiles again, his attention flicking back to the road stretching endlessly ahead of us.
I pull out my book, tucking it into my lap as I swing my feet up onto the dash. The sun has warmed the metal beneath my socks, and the heat seeps into my skin.
I steal a glance at him, one hand relaxed on the wheel, his profile kissed by the gold of the morning sun.
There’s a strength about him now, a steady calm that reaches across the small space between us and settles the restless corners of my mind.
It’s almost jarring, remembering the man I saw in that grainy video last night, the one drowning beneath his own demons.
The contrast is stark, almost painful in its beauty. It’s clear how much ground he’s fought to reclaim, how much of himself he had to stitch back together to become the man sitting beside me now. My chest tightens, a swell of pride rising like a tide.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmur after a few quiet beats stretch between us.
Elias doesn’t miss a beat.
“You just did,” he says flatly, lips twitching at the corners.
I turn to him, brows lifted in shock.
“Wait... was that a joke?”
He chuckles—low and unexpected, and it sends a ripple of warmth through me. “Don’t tell anyone. It could ruin my carefully crafted reputation,” he teases. “I’ll allow one more question… but only because I’m feeling generous.”
“Oh, how gracious of you,” I say with a grin, but the moment softens as I hesitate, the words catching in my throat before I manage to push them out.
“What I said back at the Oklahoma City show… about the girls…”
His body tenses almost imperceptibly. When he glances at me, the playfulness in his expression has faded.
“It felt like it struck a nerve,” I say gently. “I didn’t mean to, but… it seemed like it really got to you. Can I ask why?”
He exhales slowly, the kind of breath that carries weight. “I’ve been around this industry long enough to know how shallow it can get,” he says. “I’ve seen artists who are just in it for the flash, the fame, the hookups, the ego. That’s never been me.”
He pauses, fingers flexing slightly against the fabric of his jeans.
“You become a commodity that people feel entitled to, without knowing or caring about the person behind it all.”
“I get that,” I say.
“I think… the idea that you might lump me in with that kind of crowd hit harder than I expected. I snapped. I’m sorry.”
I shift slightly, turning toward him. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m the one who joked about it. I didn’t realize how deeply that might land. I can see how much this means to you. It’s not just some gig.”
He nods slowly, eyes locked on the floor like he’s afraid of what will spill out if he meets my gaze.
“It’s so much more than you know,” he says, voice quieter now, the edges fraying.
The words land like a confession—bare and heavy with truth.
And I don’t say anything. I just reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together in the hush that follows, letting silence say the words we can’t say.