He closes the space between us and holds my face between his hands, his touch soft as he moves my hair behind my ears. “We’re behind you no matter what, you just tell us what you want, and we’ll make it happen. The world is yours, Lexi. I’ll make sure of it.”
Blake speaks up suddenly, his voice low and even. “I know you might be worried about your voice, but the doctor said it would be different, not gone. We might have some challenges in our future, but we’re in this to the end.”
Nash nods in agreement, then looks back at me with earnest eyes. “He’s right, Raina, we’re more than just a band. We’re a family. That means no one is left to face the monsters alone.”
His words make me think of all the times music had pulled me back from the brink - how the strings of my guitar or the keys of a piano acted as lifelines in the swirling chaos of my mind. Music is the only way forward…
There’s a weight in the house, dense and oppressive no matter which room I’m in. The guys always seem to hover. I know they care about me, and I know they need me to communicate with them, but I just want things to go back to how it used to be. I don’t want to have to sneak out of my own house while they’re distracted.
The cold air seeps into my bones as I sit here, on the back deck of my beach house, staring out at the gray expanse of ocean. It used to feel like home, but now it reminds me of when I wanted to end it all. My throat burns, not from the frigid wind, but from the bitterness of my uncle’s cruel words.
The tablet in my hands feels heavy, a reminder of my inability to articulate the raging storm inside me. I type out furious, fragmented thoughts, each word a slashing critique of a world that seems intent on burying me alive, only to delete them as quickly as they appear, the words lacking the power to convey the intensity of my rage.
I’m only allowed to say a few words sparingly. The doctor ordered more voice rest, my throat needing additional time to heal, and I’ve already got Gill researching the best voice therapists. At least I know I’ll be able to sing again. My music career isn’t over, no matter what Dickless says.
My lawyer is also hitting things hard, working to get us an expedited court hearing over the songs Carmen and the label stole from me, but also ensuring I’m a fully separated entity from Lexington Productions.
Things are moving forward, but it feels like my world is moving in slow motion… and I’m watching it from the other side of a thick pane-glass window.
The waves crash against the shore, the sound a hollow echo of my own tumult. I press my fingers against the screen, willing the words to take shape, to crystallize into something tangible, but all I find is the jagged edge of frustration. He doesn’t own me anymore.How can he even think that?Each moment of inaction feels like a surrender, a defeat I refuse to accept, but I can’t seem to move past the anger binding me like chains.
A flicker of movement catches my eye—Darius appears at the sliding glass door, guitar in hand, sunlight glinting off his curly black hair. He’s like a specter conjured from my memories, always a little mischievous, always just close enough to keep my heart racing. He studies me for a moment, concern etched on his features, but he moves with practiced ease, opening the sliding door and crossing the deck to settle beside me on the couch.
“Man, I’m so over winter,” he starts, breaking the silence that threatens to smother me. “We should hop on The Storm and find somewhere less gloomy. Get a little sunshine in our lives.” His voice has that lilt, a carefree charm woven through his words, and yet I feel the gravity beneath his casual facade. It clashes with the heaviness in my chest, and I can’t help but wish I couldescape to one of those sun-soaked meadows he describes, far away from this weight.
My fingers hover before I type out a sharp question, a challenge laced with my anger—why are you really here?The playful flirtation, the easy banter I expect from him seems lost in the gravity of the moment, and for a heartbeat, I see a crack in his bravado, a hint of sincerity that sets my heart racing in a different way.
“I was worried about you,” he admits, his voice lowering, revealing the underlying depth beneath his usual charm. I turn to meet his gaze, and the flicker of curiosity intermingles with the relief of having someone here who seems to understand the gravity of my situation.
I have to wonder if Darius has ever stopped being worried about me since my attack. There were so many nights he’d play for hours outside my door, soft enough not to wake me but loud enough that I’d know someone was there.
I tap the edge of the tablet against my shin, weighing what to write. He waits, thumb tracing over the strings of his guitar in a nervous, repetitive rhythm. I consider the bluntness of my first question and delete it, instead typing:“You’re not afraid of what comes next?”
He cocks his head, smirks, the line of his jaw sharpening. Then his shoulders tighten, barely perceptible, like he’s clenching all the uncertainty inside. “Of course I’m afraid. But I don’t think it’s for the reasons you’re assuming.” He glances down, plucks an open chord. “I jumped from band to band filling in; this is the first time I actually want to stick around and see things out to the end. I want to be part of the family you built.”
His quiet strumming stops, and he rests the base of his guitar on the ground, balancing the neck on the seat next to him, and he takes my hands in his. My fingers feel icy against his warmth, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“You need to remember that this is what bands do. We get washed up, dumped, replaced, and then we get pissed and write the best albums of our lives. Why do you think half the best records got written?” He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “We didn’t even care about that shitty label anyway. This is the best thing that could’ve happened. We’re musicians… We embrace our traumas and turn them into chart-topping hits.”
The answer is so Darius that I almost lose it and laugh. The smile I give him seems to light him up, his eyes losing some of the concern.
“No matter what, you come first. Always.” He reaches for me and tilts my chin up, running his thumb over my bottom lip. The gesture seems so natural, so soothing coming from him.
Always. The word settles between us like a promise. A piece of a bigger puzzle that feels both comforting and unsettling all at once. As I allow myself to feel a flicker of warmth at his concern, a defiance rises within me, feeding off the embarrassment of the anger that still stings from my uncle calling me property. Perhaps I’m not the only one fighting against darkness.
“Darius…” I start, my voice cracking, unsure of what to say, the raw emotion twisting inside me, yet hesitating on the brink of vulnerability. My fingers drift over the tablet again, ready to pour out my thoughts, and then I stop. Instead of typing, I glance at him, searching his eyes for understanding.
“Raina,” he interrupts gently, breaking the weight of my indecision. “You don’t have to hide behind that screen, and you don’t need the perfect words. Talk to me.”
He disarms me. For a moment, I forget the suffocating pressure of expectations, of fear, and the chaotic blend of hope and despair churning within. It feels easier to slip into conversation rather than try to write all my thoughts down.
He picks up his guitar, a single haunting chord fills the space, lingering in the air like a whispered secret.
I feel a tremor course through my throat, the instinct to join him and hum along so strong I almost do it without thought. Instead, I let it pull me into the warmth of my house, to the piano sitting in the corner of the living room. I’m not as good at piecing together notes as the guys are, at least not on instruments, but I need to do something to keep myself from overusing my voice.
Dare follows me without a single question. I slide onto the bench, and he sits facing the opposite direction, giving him space for his guitar. As I take in a deep breath our shoulders touch, a thread of connection weaving us together.
“I don’t know how to move forward,” I admit, placing my hands hesitantly on the keys. A fragile melody breaks free, channeling my fear and uncertainty, echoing the turbulence I cannot vocalize. Darius joins in, his guitar weaving effortlessly with the piano, our sounds creating a conversation richer than any words could express.
