Page 44 of Sustain

“No, wait!” I lurch to my feet, struck by possibility. “Your timing’s brilliant actually. How do you fancy substituting as a Chaos Fuel honorary member tomorrow? My fret hand is downright fucked, and well, now we all are.”

Logan blinks while the rest of the band perks up. They gape open-mouthed as the magnitude of the offer sinks in. But Logan looks like he might be on board. He’s curious at least.

“I’d have to ask the guys and Mac, but I don’t see why not,” he says, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “I mean, I know most of your songs. I think.”

Brad finds his voice first. “Fucking hell, you’d consider it? That’s incredibly decent of you, man.”

“We’d be beyond honored,” Emmett crows, scrambling up to shake his hand eagerly. “Hell, we all love your stuff.”

Amused surprise touches Logan’s sharp features before a genuine willingness settles in. “Well shit, I’m happy to help if I can.” He turns to me. “We should talk to Mackenzie, and make sure this isn’t going to be a problem.”

“Right,” I nod. “I’ll go talk to her.”

Fuck. Now I have to admit to something else to her. I’m a shit manager who can’t keep his band together.

Mental note to Mackenzie that I’ll never mention: Sure, jump into a relationship with me. I’m a lying loser who can’t do a fucking thing right. What’s not to love?

My mental notebook is getting fucking full.

twenty-nine

. . .

Find the Beautiful

Mackenzie

A knock precedes Ian shuffling into my room, his smile not quite reaching the strain in his eyes. I’ve already heard the news about the band’s bassist skipping town, and his filling in, but he doesn’t know that I know. I brace for impact, taking in his worn edges as he sinks onto the bed.

“So, change of plans it seems. My reckless reprobates are suddenly short one bassist for the festival.”

He proceeds to explain the lineup adjustment opportunity, but I catch only pieces. I’m distracted tracing the new shadows in his face. The last hours etched deeper grooves of tension around his mouth, faint bruises underscoring his downcast eyes. Marks of someone shouldering simmering troubles he doesn’t want to give a name to. I can’t help but think about how much stress he’s under since taking on this new role.

I tune back in as he finishes explaining the angle to involve Logan in the band’s set, a now familiar crease between his brows that betrays the lightness in his tone deepening. I want to wipe it away. Soothe his distress somehow.

“Obviously no pressure in the last-minute loan, but Logan is up for it. Of course, I wanted to discuss this before committingyour guy. So, what do you think?” He attempts a roguish grin that my sudden scrutiny cuts short. “Mackenzie?”

I realize my fixation on him as his façade of control shows itself. Something in my chest twinges, and I’m hesitant to pry where I’m not invited, but I’m even more unwilling to ignore his obvious suffering. Obvious to me anyway.

“Ian, are you really okay? And I want the truth this time, no more brush-offs.”

His pained gaze drops to his restless hands, thumb worrying his faintly scarred knuckles. When he finally speaks, the admission sounds like it’s dragged unwillingly from some deep hollow inside of him.

“I suppose...this debacle with the bassist has rattled my confidence a little bit. Questioning my own competencies and all.” He attempts a sardonic chuckle, but it cracks brittle, letting me know how he truly feels. “Maybe I’m not cut out for the hot seat after all. Barely had time to memorize everyone’s names before fucking chaos struck. And I clearly failed at damage control if Frankie could fly away faster than I could even know about the problem.”

“That’s not your fault--”

He shakes his head bitterly, a man unaccustomed to fumbling control suddenly losing it. “Now it feels like they’re all looking to me to snap solution after solution like a magician. And I’ve got nothing but dead doves up these hopeless sleeves.” He picks at the rolled-up wrists of his button-down shirt helplessly.

“Well, that’s darkly poetic and all, but seriously--”

His eyes find mine again, hints of shame darkening the stormy green before turning away again. “Maybe you should take over primary management here. At least until I get my feet under me.” He tries for a self-deprecating smirk, but uncertainty tarnishes this man who I know rarely asks for help. Hell, he’sthefucking heroin everything I know about him. Behind his troubled eyes, a real fear of inadequacy looms large, but it doesn’t feel complete, either. There’s something more bothering him, and I’m itching to uncover whatever else is snagging at his spirit. “You know how to do all this. I obviously don’t.”

My hand covers his gently, my heart aching over the harsh self-judgment he’s putting on himself. It’s too much. It’s way too fucking much.

“Ian, you’re being way too hard on yourself. No one expects you to be perfect, least of all me.”

His shoulders relax slightly as warmth returns to those emerald eyes, finally daring to meet mine again. Bolstered by his response, I shift closer, urgent that he understands this. Hehasto know he’s better than this.

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