Chapter thirteen
Carter
They set me up in one of the dressing rooms behind the main stage. The walls are painted a depressing gray, and the overhead lights wash everything in a cold, sterile feel.
Mika fusses with a small panel light beside the camera, tilting it, stepping back, tilting again. Dave is behind the main camera, checking angles and sound. He taps on the mic, adjusts the boom, and checks the levels again, even though he already did that twice.
I sit in the low armchair someone dragged in from the hallway.
The leather sticks to the back of my T-shirt every time I shift, a small tacky sound that irritates me more than it should.
I take a slow breath, clear my throat, and pretend my brain isn’t still throbbing from the Singapore hangover, the long-haul flight to Stockholm, and the lack of sleep last night.
Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Vi in those cute PJs. Short shorts. Tight singlet. Bare legs. Damp hair. Nipples pressing against thin cotton. Doesn’t matter how drunk I was, that image isn’t going anywhere.
Megan sits across from me in a higher chair, legs crossed at the ankle, tablet balanced on her knee. She’s ready to go with a face full of makeup and sleek hair. Completely press-ready. She’s in her element, one hundred percent relaxed. And I’d rather shove sewing needles under my nails.
I hook one ankle over my knee and let my hands rest loosely in my lap. My foot taps once, but I force it still.
“Alright,” Mika says quietly. “Rolling.”
The red light blinks on. Megan puts on an Oscar-worthy smile.
“Good morning, Carter.”
I give her the smile everyone expects when they pay to see me. “Morning.”
“So, we’re in Stockholm, Sweden—a long way from Australia. Tell me, what was it like growing up in Sydney?”
My heartbeat trips over itself and takes off. I lean back and scratch at the side of my jaw with two fingers. “That’s right. I grew up in a middle-class suburb in Sydney, pretty standard stuff.”
“Nothing remarkable?” she asks. “No wild teenage stories?”
“Regular kid. Regular family,” I say, nodding at her tablet. “You got any real questions on there, or is this the warm-up?”
Her eyes flicker. Mika snorts under his breath behind the camera and covers it with a cough.
Megan recovers fast. “Alright, let’s talk music then,” she continues, scrolling. “Pulse is known for the chemistry you all share onstage. That connection is rare. What makes this group work the way it does, and for as long as you’ve been playing?”
I thread my fingers together in my lap, thumbs moving against each other. “We trust each other. Fully. I know what those idiots are going to do before they do it, and they know the same about me. We don’t have to think about it. We move in sync. That helps.”
She nods. “Let’s talk about ‘Closer.’ The fans scream the second you strike the first chord. You close with it at almost every show. Why do you think fans respond to that song the way they do?”
I glance past her shoulder and focus on the glowing exit sign above the door.
“It presses on something real,” I say. “Everyone has that one person they got too close to when it was the worst idea in the world. That song drags all that up. Whatever bruise that left behind—regret, want, anger—it pokes it. People feel it before they even think about the words.”
Her mouth tips into a smile. I ignore whatever story she’s building in her head.
“And the documentary,” she continues. “Why now?”
I roll one shoulder. “Time, I guess. People think this job is nothing but parties and private jets. We figured it might be worth showing the other side. The work. The grind. The parts that aren’t so glamorous.”
A moment of silence. Then she glances at her tablet again. When she looks up, her tone shifts, still light but probing.
“Some rumors have emerged online since the Singapore show,” she says. “About your health. Drinking. Drugs. Fans are asking if you’re okay.”
I keep my face calm. My hands move to the armrests, fingers digging into the leather until it gives a small protest.
“We’re done here,” I say.
She blinks. “Carter, the fans are talking. This is a good opportunity to set the record straight. If you could just clarify—”
“I said we’re done.”
The room holds its breath. Mika shifts his grip on the small light, lowering it a touch. Dave pauses, eyes flicking to Megan over the top of the camera.
I stand slowly, keeping everything measured, even though my vision swims red. Getting prodded like that is not what I signed up for.
Megan rises too, tablet held against her chest. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Carter,” she pushes out quickly. “We’re just trying to get the truth. You did agree to these interviews.”
I give her a forced smile that has zero warmth in it. “We agreed to talk about music. The shows and the band. That’s the deal. I’m not here to kill rumors or dig into personal shit. That goes for every interview moving forward.”
“Carter—” she starts.
“No,” I cut her off. “That’s it.”
Dave powers down the camera. The panel light flickers as Mika switches it off.
Megan steps closer, dropping her voice. “Look, I get it. But if you ever want . . . someone to talk to, or anything else,” she says, eyes searching my face, “I’m here for you.”
I take her in properly. Perfume, glossy mouth, eyes way too eager.
For a moment, I see the version of reality she probably imagined on day one: the broody rockstar who confides in the producer, they fuck, and she gets off on being the one who truly understands him.
There is a reality where I let that happen. But it’s not this one.
I drag my hand over my stomach, flattening my shirt. “No,” I reply. “I’m good.”
Her expression drops. Then she pastes on a professional smile again.
“Alright then.” Her voice is brisk. “We’ll regroup before Paris.”
I don’t answer, just walk to the door, stretch my neck to the left to ease the tight pull there, and step out.
Outside the room, noise from the road crew floats down the hallway. Someone is testing a snare onstage, distant feedback whining then dying. I start walking. Anywhere is better than sitting in that chair while someone pokes at a story we’ve already rewritten and rumors that cut too close.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a message to Liam.
Me
Tell the doco people to back off the personal shit.
He replies almost straight away. Newborn or not, time zones don’t matter—his phone’s always in his hand.
Liam
Goes with the territory. We agreed to this. I’ll talk to them, but you’re gonna have to give them something.
I snort and shove the phone back in my pocket before I type something that will make him call and bust my balls.
Backstage opens up ahead of me, cables taped in neat lines on the floor, stacks of black cases against the walls. Half the lighting rig for tonight is already up.
The guys are huddled near Kai’s drum kit. Xander spots me first.
“How bad was it?” he asks.
“Shit show.”
Kai winces. “Great.”
“Good luck.” I nod toward Theo. “You’re next in the hot seat.”
He flips me off without lifting his eyes from the bass he’s tuning.
I walk past them to my guitar stand and pick up my main.
My hands fall into position on the neck without thinking.
I rest the body against my thigh and brush my fingertips over the strings.
A soft chord purrs into the empty space.
My hands remember what to do even when my head is far from the music.
Movement pulls my attention toward the side of the stage.
Violet is there with Dave. She steps closer to him, showing him something on her camera. Her hair has fallen over one shoulder, and she pushes it back with the flick of her wrist. Dave says something and she smiles, a real one. The one I used to be able to pull out of her without trying.
He leans in to see the screen better. His head is right next to hers.
My grip on the guitar tightens, tendons standing out in my hand. I loosen it before anyone notices.
Enough.
Violet taps at the camera, completely unaware I’m staring holes in the side of her head. I drag my thumb too hard over a string, and it snaps sharp through the stadium.
Everyone looks over. Except for her.
My molars grind together before I force them apart.
This wall between us has been there for too long. Whatever we’re doing now—this half-truce, where we pretend we’re fine and bury everything under work and banter—isn’t working. Not for me.
Tonight, that distance ends. One way or another, it ends.
I’m done standing at the edges while someone else hovers near her, close enough to breathe the same air. I’m not letting some asshole step into a place he has no right to be.
She’s mine. Always has been.