Page 63 of Hymns of the Broken
Then suddenly, one of them spots me. Her gaze sharpens, mouth twisting. “Wait—who’s she? Is she your girlfriend?” She whips her phone up, lens pointed right at my face. “Are you guys together? That’s the girl from the backstage photos, right?”
Backstage photos?My pulse spikes. My mind races, scrambling to remember—did someone snap a picture of me last night? Was there something I missed, or did I dosomething wrong? I bite the inside of my lip, anxiety crawling up my spine. What the hell are they talking about?
Before I can ask or defend myself, she reaches out, grabbing at my arm like she’s entitled to answers.
Jasper’s there in a heartbeat—his arm banding around my waist, pulling me behind him. He’s not gentle, but he’s careful. He glares at her, voice flat and dangerous. “She’s with us. Back off.”
But they don’t. The questions get louder, voices shrill, flashes blinding. Someone with a battered press lanyard shoves forward, waving his phone. “Sawyer! Is it true you’re living with the band now? Are you the inspiration for the new songs? Any comment on what happened last night?”
What happened last night?My mouth goes dry. Panic consumes. Did anyone see us? Did I say something, do something, end up on someone’s story? My cheeks burn, and not in a good way. I’m suddenly sure everyone’s watching, everyone knows, everyone’s judging.
Ash tries to play it off—“We just came for fries, man!”—but the girls keep shouting, and the press guy shoves his phone even closer. Silas steps in, voice like stone. “Back. Off.”
It’s too much—too loud, too close, the spotlight I never wanted. My hand tightens on my camera bag, heart racing. I can’t even focus, my vision swimming with panic.
Jasper’s grip never wavers. He leans down, voice low and hot at my ear.
“Eyes on me, baby. Just me. Don’t give them what they want.”
For a second, I do. I look up, lock on his dark eyes, hear him calling me ’baby’, and everything else falls away. It’s just us, just that fierce promise in the set of his jaw, the way his thumb strokes circles into my hip.
The crowd hesitates, energy shifting as Jasper stares them down. The press guy grumbles and lowers his phone. The girls step back, suddenly sheepish.
Jace flings an arm around Ash. “No more interviews! We’re off the clock.”
Ash bows over-the-top, and somehow the guys herd me back toward the bus.
Jasper keeps his arm around me the whole way. The adrenaline doesn’t let up until we get on the bus. Only then does he finally let go—just enough to turn me and cup my cheek, his thumb brushing away some invisible tremor.
“This is what it’s like, Sawyer. With me, you’re never just invisible.”
His words hang between us—promise, warning, threat. Maybe all three.
And in that moment, I’m not sure if I’m terrified, addicted…or about to find out what they really saw last night.
The bus door slams shut behind us, cutting off the shouts, the flashes, the wild world outside. But it doesn’t quiet my mind. Not even close.
I barely make it to my bunk before I’m pulling out my phone, hands shaking. I need to see what they saw—what I missed. My notifications are already a disaster: tags, DMs, a hundred pings from people I barely know.
I search for my name first. It feels stupid, but necessary.
#SawyerMorrigan
#HerLastConfessional
#Backstage
There, I find videos from last night, shaky and blurry, but unmistakable. I’m in the shadows at the side of the stage, camera in hand, eyes locked on Jasper. There’s a photo of us—him standing too close, his hand just barely visible on my waist, my face tilted up, mouth open like I might say his name. Or beg for more.
My stomach knots. The comments are a wildfire.
“Who’s the new girl with Jasper?”
“Didn’t know HLC had a groupie this tour.”
“She’s the one from the leaked shot, right? Damn, look at that chemistry.”
“Wasn’t she in his IG story last night?”
