Page 5 of Hymns of the Broken
The crowd is screaming, but I can’t hear them. And Jasper walks off stage without a glance back.
I stand there for too long, the camera heavy against my chest, my throat dry and my legs unsteady. His stare still burns under my skin, marking me in a way I didn’t consent to.
Finally, I force myself to step off the stage, weaving through the crew and coiled cords as if I’m on autopilot. My head is foggy, and my body still hums with an unsettling energy that I can’t quite name.
I need air. Distance.
I head straight to the bar. I need something strong to smother the fire in my chest before it consumes my bones.
I have no idea what just happened. The way he looked at me made me feel like I had stepped into the wrong spotlight
The bartender slides my drink towards me, and I down the vodka in one go, hardly tasting it as the burn travels down my throat. But it’s not enough. Not enough to erase the way he looked at me. Not enough to erase the feeling of being watched.
It feels like a finger pressed to the back of my neck. I roll my shoulders, push my hair back, glance around like I’m bored… but my stomach’s coiling tighter with every passing second.
No one is looking. Not directly.
Just roadies moving gear, crew darting between cases, people running on too much caffeine and too little patience.
So why does it feel like someone’s breathing down my spine?
I take a slow sip through the straw, trying to ground myself and focus on the bar. Drops of condensation slide down the glass as the bass thumps faintly through the walls. I try to concentrate on anything else but the uneasy feeling crawling beneath my skin.
I breathe in sharply, exhale slowly. I turn back to the bar and mutter under my breath, “Jesus, get a grip.”
But the goosebumps down my arm?
Yeah, they’re still rising.
JASPER
The noise doesn’t stop when I step offstage—not the music, not the crowd, not the chaos ripping through my chest. Because she’s still here.
Her back’s to me—one boot hooked on the foot rail, fishnets climbing up to black denim shorts. Her shirt clings like sin, unapologetic.
I don’t know her name. Don’t need to. She’s already mine.
Even from here, I can see her hands tremble as she accepts her second vodka—straight, no chaser.
She’s shaken. Good. It means she felt it too.
I stay in the shadows, watching the way her fingers toy with her straw, her lip catching between her teeth as she scans the room like she’s trying to stay invisible. Wrong move.
You don’t walk into my world and expect to disappear.
She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve already made the call—she’s going to be assigned to my band for the rest of the tour. Told my manager the second I walked off stage, and I didn’t wait for a reply. He’ll get it done.
At first glance, I knew I had to have her near me. I needed to own the look in her eyes when she aimed the camera at me like a weapon.
She doesn’t see me yet, but I see everything. The way she nurses that drink like it owes her an apology, the way her shoulders tense every time someone passes.
Enough waiting. I cut across the room without hesitation. People move out of my way. They always do.
She doesn’t flinch until I’m at her side.
“Rough night, or do you always drink like you’re trying to forget something?”
She doesn’t answer. She turns her head, slowly, looking up as if expecting a stranger, only to find the heat of a lit fuse staring back at her.
