Chapter 9
chapter
nine
“Every breath is a battle, every heartbeat a rebellion.” – Cyrus
HAVEN
The Nevada heat doesn’t just cling, it crawls along my skin. It seeps into my blood until I can taste metal on my tongue with a mix of dust and frustration. The air hums with static, and the pavement glows like it’s seconds from melting.
I slide my sunglasses higher, wipe my neck, and square my shoulders.
I belong here.
My stride is confident, but I’m caffeine, nerves, and false bravado stitched together.
A guard steps out of his booth, cool air spilling out like a taunt. The windows are fogged with frost, an icebox in the middle of hell. He squints at me over his clipboard, every inch of him radiating suspicion and sunburned arrogance that makes you want to fight.
“Rehearsals are closed to the public,” he says, his voice so condescending it sets my teeth on edge.
“I’m not the public,” I answer, grabbing my driver’s license and holding it up. “Haven Gaillard. LG Records.”
He doesn’t even blink in my direction as his mouth quirks.
“Nice try.”
Of course, I get the asshole destined to save the world one ‘No’ at a time. He reminds me of the TSA agents with his identical dickish glare that screams, “No matter what you say, I’m not going to believe you.”
“Look at my ID,” I say, but he just crosses his arms, trying to intimidate me with his thick biceps.
Unbelievable.
My fingers tighten around my phone before I call my father and deliberately put it on speaker.
“Hey, Rock Star, did you make it to the arena? Please tell me you’re not broken down somewhere.”
I look at the massive concrete bowl behind the guard and then up at the jerk in front of me.
“No, made it but a goon here working the gate thinks I’m a groupie trying to sneak in.”
The words come out sharper than I intend, but I’m already over this day.
“What is his name?”
My eyebrow lifts at Mr. Douche, and I wait for him to respond. He’s not looking so certain all of a sudden.
“Um…my name is Mike,” the security guard says.
“Mike Roles,” Dad asks.
“Yes,” he answers, a bit shaky. My father makes it his mission to know who is working at every venue. He doesn’t need to do it. There are people for that, but he insists. It is an old habit that refuses to die, and right now it’s a godsend.
“Haven, can you take me off speaker and hand the phone to Mr. Roles? The two of us need to have a conversation.”
“By all means,” I say.
Mike stares at my hand for a heartbeat like I’m holding a loaded gun. He takes the phone and wanders away, but not too far.
Man, it’s like an oven out here. Whose idea was it to do a concert in Nevada in the middle of summer? Why not start in…I don’t know…say north, anywhere north of here.
Mike’s expression changes just before he starts to apologize.
Like a snap of fingers, he goes from arrogant to sheepish in two seconds flat.
I hate asking my dad to do this, but I’m not in the mood to stand here all day on principle.
Five humiliating minutes later, he hands me my phone and mumbles an apology as he waves me through.
I use the bottom of my shirt to pull open the scalding door handle.
This is the definition of insanity.
The arena is massive, swallowing me whole. It’s not much cooler, but it’s better than the scorching sun.
The corridor is dim and hums with electricity.
I can hear people working in the distance.
The smell of hot metal and old beer hangs in the air, and the echoes of instruments vibrate in my chest. I follow the music like following the Pied Piper's flute.
My boots tap against the concrete, the sound bouncing off steel and darkness.
I’m not lost, but seriously…where the fuck is a door to the inner stage? Why is shit so difficult today?
Then I hear it.
A shout. Then another. Anger echoes down the hallway, sharp and alive like a homing beacon.
My pulse trips as I reach the black doors.
STAGE ACCESS – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
The words are painted bright white like a warning.
The noise explodes around me the second I push the doors open.
Declan sounds irritated—what else is new? He was the same in high school. He was two grades older than us and graduated before Cy and me, but even then, his nickname was Dickhead Declan.
Anita’s tone drips icicles from the iPad balanced on a chair. And in the center of it all…the man of the hour, Cyrus.
Shirtless, tattooed chest slick with sweat, hair a storm of dark brown and highlights under the lights. He’s pacing, fists flexing, the kind of beautiful chaos that makes you want to watch even when you shouldn’t.
My breath catches.
“You want me to what?” He shouts. “You want me to auto-tune my voice? Have you all gone fucking insane? What’s next? Do you want me to lip-sync?”
“It’s about consistency and sound quality,” Anita says, calm and cold as steel. “Everyone does it and with your…current issues, we can’t risk another walk-off.”
“I don’t give a fuck what everyone else does.
So, what exactly is the plan? You’re going to play a track for the audience even if I’m not on stage?
No, screw that. And what the hell do you mean by my issues?
You mean the ones I genuinely have going on or the ones you created in your head for a great headline? ”
His voice is so raw and human that for just a moment, I forget that he is a demon in disguise.
“How dare you talk to me this way, Cyrus?” Anita is fuming, and I roll my eyes. Some things never change.
Declan steps forward, palms up.
“No, of course not. We will only use it so that, if your throat is sore or you’re not feeling a hundred percent, the quality is still what fans expect. Think of it as a safety net—”
Cyrus laughs, the sound bitter.
“My voice is all I’ve got. The fans don’t come for fake. They come for real. They come for me.”
Anita’s tone sharpens.
“You certainly give real emotion, son. Just not the kind we need.”
The bottle leaves his hand before anyone can stop him. It smashes against a lighting rig. Luckily, it’s a plastic bottle, and the water is the only victim of the outburst.
No one moves while Cyrus seethes in the middle of the stage like a bull ready to charge. It’s just silent.
Then he turns…and our eyes lock.
The world stutters and tilts on its axis. My stupid heart skips a beat, and I stop breathing.
His chest heaves, his jaw is tight, and his eyes are wild. I feel the past rush up my throat like a ghost.
Every wound, every word, every look that told me I wasn’t enough. That I was worthless. That he hated me. That I wasn’t worth loving. Words I buried and thought were forgotten, but I was wrong.
It all comes rushing back.
I thought fat girls floated better.
You’re a loser with no friends.
You’ll never get a boy to fuck you.
You’re unlovable.
I bet your mother died to get away from you.
I wish you’d just go away and never come back.
I hate you.
The words still echo and cut deep like he is whispering them in my ear. I’m a strong, successful, and independent woman who no longer cares about his approval. But it doesn’t feel like that right now.
I swallow it all down, straighten my spine, and climb the stairs slowly, one step at a time. The air feels thick enough to drown in while the lights buzz overhead, hot and unforgiving. Everything adds to the sweltering heat pressing in on the building.
Cyrus doesn’t move. His hands curl at his sides, trembling slightly.
“Well.” The word tastes rancid on my tongue. “You’ve always loved to chase the sound of your own chaos. I see nothing has changed. Keep destroying things and calling it honesty, Cyrus. Maybe one day you’ll stop mistaking the wreckage for art.”
No one breathes. Even the amps seem to go quiet as we wait to see what Cyrus-fucking-Vale will say next.
But, for once, Cyrus Vale looks like someone else has landed the knockout.
CYRUS
The sound of her voice hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
Haven Gaillard. Devastating in every way. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes your chest hurt, and your soul long for a single touch.
Standing on my stage like she owns it. That mouth is as sharp as I remember, honeyed in a merciless, take-no-shit tone. Her words slide under my skin and settle where all the old scars live.
I’ve spent five years building walls out of whiskey and noise. But Haven looks at me once, and every brick cracks and starts to crumble.
The stage lights hum, bathing her in a soft glow. She’s sunlight and sin, fire and ice, a memory I’ve never managed to burn out of my system, no matter how hard I try. And just like she is reaching into my chest and turning a dial up, my heart pounds out of control. One word floods my mind…mine.
I smirk because it’s easier than admitting what seeing her does to me.
“Still trying to fix me? Haven’t you learned that’s impossible?”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Someone has to, Cyrus. Before there’s nothing left to fix.”
Bullseye.
Vex whistles.
“Welcome to the jungle, Haven. It’s good to see you again.”
The others shift, waiting for me to explode. I don’t. I can’t. I just stare as if my muscles have forgotten how to move.
She turns to the group with a genuine smile.
“Hey, boys. It’s been a while.”
Ledger nods, awkwardly. Ash’s eyes ping-pong between us. Eren’s mouth opens, then shuts again, before he lifts his hand in a small wave.
She walks closer, and the scent of her perfume surrounds me. It’s soft, sweet, and cuts through the sweat and dust saturating the air.
I tell myself it’s the lights making my vision blur, the heat making my heart race. But it’s her. It’s always her.
Haven Gaillard is my favorite sin, my unfinished song, and the one apparition I can never outrun.