“You can’t tell me?—”
“I can tell you whatever the fuck I want, you little shit,” I interrupt, and my voice drops even lower. “You’re done showing up to watch her perform. You’re done showing up at the BlackLantern. You’re done with whatever pathetic little game you’re playing.”
“You don’t know shit about our marriage,” he says, but his voice is weaker now. Blood keeps dripping from his lip, leaving dark spots on his work shirt.
“I know you showing up at her performance was deliberate,” I bark. “I know you sat right in front where she couldn’t miss you. And I know you’re done pulling that shit.”
His jaw tightens but he doesn’t respond.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” I say, leaning in even closer. “You’re going to stay the fuck away from her. You see her in public? You turn around and go the other direction. You hear she’s performing somewhere? You stay home.”
He stands there smoldering, then wipes blood from his lip and holds up his fingers as if showing it off. “I could sue you, Midnight.”
I actually laugh at that. “Go ahead. Press charges. I’ve got lawyers who’ll bury you in paperwork for fun.” I lean in closer, dropping my voice. “And you’ll have to explain to everyone why it happened. Tell this whole town you showed up at Lark’s performance to intimidate her. See how that plays out for you.”
His face goes pale. More blood drips from his lip onto his shirt.
“This town loves her, Brandon,” I continue quietly. “Ittoleratesyou.”
His jaw works like he wants to say something, wants to have the last word, but self-preservation finally kicks in. “Fine,” he mutters, fumbling for his keys with shaking hands. “Whatever.”
“You’ve been a piece of shit since high school,” I say quietly, my eyes locked on his. “So understand me when I say this.” I lean in even closer. “If I hear you’ve been anywhere near her, if you so much as breathe in her direction, I will make whatjust happened look like a fucking warm-up. I will put you in the hospital. Do you understand me?”
Fear flashes across his face, real and undeniable now. His face flushes red, anger and humiliation mixing together. But he doesn’t say anything. Just wipes more blood from his chin and reaches for his truck door.
I step back, finally giving him space. He fumbles with the handle, gets the door open, and practically throws himself inside. Slams the door hard enough to make the whole truck shake. Blood smears across his steering wheel as he starts the engine.
He peels out of the parking lot, tires squealing, spraying gravel. A few other construction workers are watching now, probably since I threw the first punch. One of them catches my eye and quickly looks away. No one’s going to say shit.
I stand there for a minute, letting the adrenaline drain out. My hand throbs. The knuckles are already swelling, skin split across two of them. There’s a little of Brandon’s blood on my hand too. I wipe it off on my jeans.
I head back to my bike, flexing my fingers. The pain is sharp but satisfying. Lark deserves to perform without looking out into the audience and seeing his face. She deserves to chase her dreams without him showing up to remind her of every insecurity he spent years building.
The label party Wednesday night is at this place in Seattle called The Vine. Exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs hanging from industrial ceilings, the kind of bar that knows what they’re doing with their cocktails.
Lark’s been buzzing with energy all day. On the drive over, she talked nonstop, jumping from topic to topic—whether her outfit worked, which producers might be there, random observations about Seattle architecture. Her excitement is contagious, and I found myself smiling the whole drive, just listening to her.
Now, standing outside the entrance, she takes a deep breath and shoots me a grin. “Okay, I’m ready,” she says, squaring her shoulders. “Or at least I’m pretending really hard that I’m ready, which is basically the same thing. Fake it till you make it, right?”
“Exactly. That’s all any of us are doing.” I put my arm around her as we walk inside. “You’ve got this.”
She’s wearing dark jeans and a black blazer that makes her look polished and confident, and I’m having trouble not staring. The blazer fits perfectly, showing off her curves, and when she moves the fabric shifts in ways that make me want to peel it off her. I shove the thought away. Not helpful.
The place is already packed, music playing low enough for conversation but loud enough to create energy. The crowd’s a mix of industry types in expensive casual wear and artists trying to look like they’re not trying too hard. Dim lighting, exposed ductwork overhead, bottles backlit behind the bar casting colored shadows across faces. Before we can even get our bearings, a woman starts making her way toward us through the crowd, waving.
“Lark? Jack?” She’s younger than I expected, maybe early thirties, with that polished LA look—statement jewelry, perfectly styled hair. “I’m Maya. So glad you both could make it.”
“Oh hello! So lovely to meet you in person,” Lark says, and I can feel the slight tension in her back under my hand even though her smile is perfect and warm.
“You as well.” Maya’s handshake is firm. She turns to me with an appraising look. “And you must be Jack? I’ve heard so much about you. Great to meet you.”
“You as well,” I say, shaking her hand.
She returns her gaze to Lark, her expression shifting to pure business excitement. “I was just talking to our A&R team about you. We’ve been following your numbers since our call last week and they just keep climbing. Really impressive growth. Your streaming numbers are up almost forty percent this month alone, so we’re so glad you were able to make it tonight.”
Lark’s smile widens. “Thank you so much! I’ve been working really hard on content consistency and engagement.”
“It shows,” Maya says. “The algorithm loves consistency, and your fans are incredibly engaged. That’s what we look for, not just numbers, butrealconnection.” She gestures for us to follow her deeper into the bar. “There are people who’ve been asking to meet you.”
