Chapter thirty-three
Carter
“Thank you, New York!”
The words ignite Madison Square Garden. The sound that comes back is a detonation—a roar from twenty thousand people that could level the surrounding buildings.
“And to my brothers—Kai, Theo, Xander—” I jerk my chin down the line where they’re standing, soaked in sweat and high on the energy.
“To my manager, Liam, and our tour manager, Chris. To the entire crew who haven’t slept properly in ten months.
And to the PrimeTime+ team who’ve been with us every step of the way .
. . We’re excited to officially announce that a documentary of the tour will be dropping on your screens soon! ”
The place erupts. Stomping. Screaming.
I soak it in, letting the sound fill every cell in my body. This is it. The last show. The final moment. The end of a ten-month sprint that’s nearly broken me—and somehow saved me at the exact same time.
Tonight, every riff was for her. Every line I spat into the mic and bend of the strings. I shoved the ache of missing her into it all until my fingers burned. The crowd thought we were putting on a show. But I was bleeding out onstage.
I give the arena one last salute and imagine she’s out there—where she should be—down in the pit with her camera glued to her face, locked on me.
But her spot’s empty.
I turn and walk offstage for the last time this tour. As soon as I’m out of view and the arena lights burst on, the usual high collapses into a sharp, bittersweet moment.
Best show I’ve ever played. But without her with me, it’s still one step short of what it could’ve been. A fucking masterpiece.
I hand my baby off to the tech, and a towel hits my palm a second later. The tour routine, down to muscle memory.
Liam and Chris are waiting, both grinning. Liam hauls me into a hug, arms tight around my shoulders. “We fucking did it,” he growls into my ear. When we break apart, there’s a loaded moment where we look at each other. We know what it cost both of us to get here. What’s still on the line.
Chris claps my back. “Epic fucking show, man. End of a goddamn era.”
I let out a laugh and roll my shoulders. Thank fuck it’s over. Ten months of airports and hotel rooms, running on caffeine, nicotine, and maybe two hours of crap sleep at a time. Not to mention the constant cameras in my face and no whiskey. It hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park.
The only part that made it worth it is fourteen hours ahead of me, probably sitting at home thinking I dropped her without looking back. That she blew this up. She couldn’t be more wrong.
I’m not fine without her. Offstage, I’m barely holding it together.
The guys start filtering toward the green room, shouting at each other, still riding the adrenaline. Someone tries to hand me a beer, but I bat it away without looking.
“Last of the media,” Liam says, looping an arm over my shoulders and steering me toward the press room. “Stay on script, don’t wing it.” His gaze flicks to my cheek. “Makeup first, though. Sweat’s eaten through the bruise cover. I don’t want close-ups of my handiwork everywhere.”
“I know,” I grumble. I’ve been drilling answers all day for every possible question they can throw at me. I’m done. All I want is to walk out of the loading dock, hijack the nearest black SUV, and tell the driver to gun it to the runway, so I can get on our plane and fly straight to Sydney.
“Then we show our faces at the wrap party, shake hands, and say thank you.”
“Fuck me,” I grumble, rubbing my eyes. “It’s never-ending.”
Liam squeezes my shoulder. “Almost done. Then you go do what you need to do.”