Page 37 of Hymns of the Broken
I glance back over my shoulder, voice sharp enough to cut. “Say my name, Sin.” I let the words drip sinfully. “When you’re alone in your bunk…trying not to moan too loud.”
Her chair scrapes across the floor—sudden, harsh. Whether she’s about to slap me, throw something, or follow me… I don’t care. I’m already walking away.
Leaving her exactly where I wanted her.
Mind spinning.
Nerves frayed.
And my name burned raw on her tongue.
Chapter 7
SAWYER
The door hisses open behind me, and for once, no one follows.
Night’s settled over the venue like a blanket that never quite warms. Stage lights still glow faintly in the distance, casting a low blue hue across the empty lot. The screams are gone. The music’s stopped. But my head is still thundering with the sound of him.
His words. His hands. That look. I can’t get him out of my head.
I tug my hoodie tighter, as if I can shrink myself small enough to quiet the chaos he left behind. I need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t smell like him.
My boots crunch over the gravel as I slip past the rows of buses and trailers. There’s a line of concrete barriers near the edge of the lot, guarding the drop-off to a small ditch. I head there, wrapping my arms around myself like a shield.
That’s when I see him.
A guy, maybe mid-twenties, already sitting on one barrier, head tilted to the sky like he’s stargazing. His arms are covered in ink, and he’s wearing a hat backwards. Drummer vibe. Familiar face—I think I saw him earlier today during soundcheck with one of the other bands.
He looks over and grins, his teeth catching the faint light. “Didn’t expect company out here.”
“I could say the same.” I stop a few feet away. “Needed a break from the chaos.”
He pats the spot next to him, easy and casual, like he already knows I’ll sit. “Then you found the right place. I’m Riot, by the way.”
I ease down beside him, keeping a respectful six inches of space between us—not that it matters. Riot has the kind of grin that doesn’t need proximity to flirt.
“Riot?” I ask, lifting a brow. “That’s your real name?”
He shrugs, resting his forearms on his knees, tattoos stretching over lean muscle. “Stage name. Real one’s Grayson, but no one calls me that unless I’m in trouble.”
“Sounds about right,” I mutter.
“I’ve seen you before,” he says, glancing sideways. “You’re with Her Last Confessional, right? Photographer?”
I nod. “First tour.”
“Damn. You shoot like someone who’s been doing this forever.”
I try not to smile, because I have, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence. We both look out at the stars. The lot’s gone mostly quiet, save for the hum of generators and a distant laugh from the crew tents.
“You okay?” Riot asks eventually. “You’ve got that ‘I’m about to cry or commit arson’ look.”
I snort. “That’s…not inaccurate.”
“Boyfriend drama?” He guesses.
