Page 41 of Hymns of the Broken
Just the heavy presence of him brushing my airspace like a ghost with unfinished business.
I squeeze my phone in my hand, needing the distraction, but dreading what I’ll find.
I swipe up.
Blake:“What? You forgot how to answer me now?”
Blake:“I saw the end of the tour schedule go live. Don’t think I won’t show up.”
Blake:“I’m not one of your dumb band boys, Sawyer. You don’t treat me like this.”
Blake:“Fix your fucking attitude before I make it worse for you.”
Blake:“You’re lucky I haven’t told everyone what a joke you are.”
I grip the phone so hard I hear it creak.
I don’t cry. Not for him. Not anymore.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell.
I lie there, staring into nothing, counting the seconds. My mind won’t slow down, and neither will all the feelings flowing through me.
His words replay over and over.
“The only girl I give a fuck about screaming my name—is you.”
***
I can’t sleep. I’ve tried tossing and turning, but I can’t stop thinking about him. The way he stared at me backstage. The way he said my name was like a prayer on his tongue. The way he touched me, like he had every right to, his hand around my throat—like I was already his. Everything he said after Riot left…
I need answers.
I peel back my curtain, heart already racing, and slide down from the bunk. The bus is quiet dimly lit. Everyone’s crashed or hiding.
But I know exactly where he is, and I doubt he’s sleeping.
I move through the hallway, past the kitchen nook, the lounge, and finally stop at the back—the only space on the bus with a door.
My reflection stares back at me from the small metal panel near the button to open and close the door—eyes too wide, lips parted like I’m about to confess something I don’t even understand. My hand hovers mid-air, fingers trembling. Then I raise my fist and knock once; my breath is shallow, my pulse traitorous.
The silence on the other side is worse than any noise.
JASPER
The knock isn’t loud when it comes. It’s hesitant, but it’s her. I knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep for the same reason I’m not able to.
I let her nerves simmer. Let her wonder if I’m going to answer.
When I open the door, I almost groan at the sight of her. She’s standing there in her sleep shirt—short, faded black, and oversized but slipping just enough off one shoulder to make me feral. Her legs are bare, hair mussed, eyes tired, but burning. Like she’s been pacing in her own damn head all night, trying to decide whether to knock or run.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” I say, leaning against the doorframe like I’m unaffected.
She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at me, breathing shallow, eyes flicking to my chest.
“What do you want, Trouble?” I make sure my voice is dark and teasing, just the way she likes it.
“I have questions.”
