Page 11 of Before You Fell

It is chaos by the time I reach the doorway.

Jax is shirtless within seven seconds, because apparently fabric is a personal insult after every show.

Cruz drops onto the couch with two girls immediately orbiting him, one on each side, both leaning in as if gravity has turned slutty. He doesn’t even have to try hard to be a bad decision. He just breathes near women and they start making peace with a future regret.

One of them laughs too hard at something he hasn’t even said yet. Cruz grins anyway, lazy and filthy, because attention is attention and the bastard has never cared if it comes with a name attached.

Jett stands near the drinks table, quiet, a bottle of water in his hand, as his eyes move across the room.

Always fucking watching. Annoying twin number two who sees way too fucking much.

I step into the room and the energy shifts the way it always does.

Heads turn. Mouths curve. Eyes drag over me. My damp shirt clings to my chest, open at the throat, silver rings catching under the harsh backstage lights. My hair is a mess but none of that matters.

They don’t want polished. They want ruined.

A blonde near the bar whispers my name.

A brunette in a silver dress doesn’t bother whispering. Her gaze drops straight to my mouth, then lower, as if she has already decided where she wants her hands.

Good girl.

At least someone in this room knows how to make things simple.

The room fills fast. Crew. Label people. Friends of friends. Women who probably got backstage passes by smiling at someone and lying about who they know.

I don’t care. They are pretty, warm, and view me as if I am the answer to a filthy question and they are brave enough to ask it with their mouths wide open.

A brunette in a silver dress slides closer before I even sit down. Her hand brushes my arm. Her nails are red. Her mouth is redder.

I plan on fucking those red lips tonight.

“You were incredible,” she says.

I give her the smile. Not the real one. I don’t hand those out. I only hand out the smirk that makes women lean in and forget they were pretending to be subtle.

“Yeah?”

Her fingers trail down my tattooed forearm. “Yeah.”

Behind her, Damon is still talking. Something about tour numbers. Streaming spikes.

I hear none of it, because Willow has walked into the room and my attention snaps to her so hard it should make a sound.

She does not glance at the brunette with her hands on me.

That bothers me. It shouldn’t but it fucking does.

Willow moves through the room as if none of this touches her. Not the groupies or the bottles already sweating on every surface. Not the drugs appearing on the table in neat little lines. She has been around us long enough to stop flinching at the mess.

Her honey-brown hair falls loose around her shoulders, soft and a little messy, as if she has been pushing it away from her face all night while writing down every place we fucked up and every place we accidentally made magic.

She doesn’t appear impressed.

People keep drinking. Laughing. Touching. Performing their own little versions of important.

Seventy thousand people just screamed my name as if it was the only word left in the world, and Willow Hart walks into the room with ink on her fingers and a notebook pressed against her ribs, looking as if she might tell me my bridge needs work.