Page 120 of Before You Fell

Inside, though… I’m still looking for the woman who wrote the words coming out of my mouth.

The next song starts. It’s the kind that always sounds better live because the crowd turns the bridge into a wound.

I sing it and the words taste different now. They used to feel like mine because my voice carried them. That was my favorite trick. Take what Willow wrote, bleed it through my throat, and let the world call me brilliant. Now every line is evidence that she gave me the best parts of herself and I wore them onstage like leather.

Even as the crowd screams for me, it doesn’t feed me the same way. Not when every lyric bears her fingerprints and every cheer sounds like they are thanking me for something I stole.

The rest of the set burns through sweat, lights, and muscle memory. I grin. I flirt. By the time we hit the last song, my shirt is stuck to my back, my throat is raw, and the crowd is screaming loud enough.

I give them one last filthy smile. One last chorus before the lights cut out, the stadium erupts, and we all walk offstage, exhausted.

The green room is exactly what it always is. Loud. Hot. Full of alcohol, expensive perfume, bad decisions, and people who pretend backstage access is the same as knowing us.

Some blonde chick is laughing far too hard near the drinks table, doing everything short of setting herself on fire to get our attention. Jax already has a woman on each side of him. Cruz is leaning against the counter while some brunette whispers in his ear, his beer in one hand, the other resting low on her waist, as if they have known each other longer than the last three fucking minutes.

Jett is the only one not playing the game. He’s backed against the wall, a marker in his hand, signing whatever shit gets shoved at him. Shirts. Programs. Arms. Tits.

He catches my eye across the room and gives me a slight nod.

Come here or save me. With Jett, it is usually both.

I shove through the crowd, already having a marker shoved into my hand before I even reach him.

“About fucking time,” Jett mutters.

I laugh and start signing whatever comes in front of me. Programs. Shirts. A phone case. A woman’s thigh. Tits.

My hand moves on instinct, my signature coming out the same every time, while women laugh, flirt, press closer, and try to catch my attention.

Two weeks ago, I would have been eating all this shit up. Tonight though, it is just ink.

I still flirt, then act bored enough to make them try harder, because this shit is muscle memory and my muscles are excellent little whores when fame tells them to dance.

A brunette with tits that deserve their own management team steps into my space and pulls the front of her tiny top down far enough to make her intentions impossible to misinterpret.

“Sign here,” she says, tapping the curve of her chest.

Old me would have had three dirty comments ready and one hand already checking the return policy on her underwear.

Current me still notices. I am not dead, for fuck’s sake. My cock recognizes a willing woman with her tits out. It has always been a professional in that department. After the miles I have put on the bastard, I expect it to clock in when there are obvious knocks.

It does. My cock stands at attention, ready for some action.

I take the marker and lean in with my usual grin. “You sure, sweetheart? Ink stains. I’d hate to ruin something that looks that good.”

She laughs, breathy and pleased, as if this were foreplay.

I sign my name across her skin, black and bold, exactly where the old me would have put his mouth next.

She looks up at me through her lashes. “You want to see what else I’ll let you sign?”

There it is. Easy. Obvious. A door wide open, with no feelings standing in the way. No history under the floorboards and no woman with hospital eyes telling me I let her down.

I cap the marker and hand it back to the person behind me.

“Not tonight.”

Her smile falters. “Seriously?”