Page 67 of Before You Fell

Jax counts them in. Cruz’s guitar slides beneath the rhythm, and Jett’s bass fills the space. Then Phoenix sings my words.

He stands at the mic, his lip ring catching the light, one hand wrapped around the stand, his body loose and careless in that way that makes people stare before they realize they are doing it. Every note comes out of him rough and perfect, scraping against the ceiling before dropping straight into my chest.

My lyrics turned into his power.

I sit on the battered couch and pretend I’m listening for phrasing. That I’m not watching his mouth. I pretend the sound of him still doesn’t know exactly where to hurt me.

Phoenix’s eyes never meet mine while he sings.

After all these years of friendship—after every song, every secret I have told him, and every stupid piece of trust I handed him because I thought he knew how to hold it—he cannot face me now that he has fucked me. He can put my words in his mouth and make them sound powerful and alive. He can stand two feet from me and sing, but he cannot meet my gaze.

By the second run-through, Jax is playing too hard. Cruz keeps missing cues by half a second. Attention is split between the music and the silent war unfolding two feet from the mic stand.

When the song falls apart near the bridge, Jax throws a stick onto the snare and leans back.

“All right, what the fuck?”

Phoenix turns on him. “What?”

“What crawled up your ass and started charging rent?”

“Just play the fucking song,” Phoenix tells him.

“I would love to, man, but you’re singing as if the microphone sucked your cock, called you mediocre, and then asked Cruz for a second opinion.”

The room tightens around us.

The tension has been there since I walked in, crawling through every missed cue and every note Phoenix refuses to aim my way. It’s in Jax’s too-hard drumming and in Cruz’s clenched jaw.

Cruz shifts his guitar off his shoulder and sets it against the amp. “Take five.”

“No,” Phoenix says.

Damon’s voice cuts through from the control room. “No, we don’t have time.”

“I don’t fucking care,” Cruz says, voice flat enough to cut, as he takes his guitar strap off his shoulder. “We are taking five before I say something I’ll fucking regret.”

His glare lands on Phoenix causing Phoenix’s mouth to tighten.

For a second, I think Phoenix might fight him. That’s what Phoenix usually does when someone backs him into a corner. He pushes, bites, and makes it ugly enough that nobody wants to come any closer.

But Cruz doesn’t move.

I get up before anyone can look at me. But nobody notices because Phoenix and Cruz are too busy staring each other down, and Damon is still snapping through the glass as if volume could stitch the band back together.

My bag is beside the couch. I slip my hand into the front pocket while nobody is looking, my fingers finding what they want without needing to see. The tiny pill shape against my fingertips and that ugly little pulse of relief that beats before I’ve even taken anything.

I hate the way my body now reaches for it before I can tell myself to stop. One has turned into a few, spaced throughout the day in quiet little lies I tell myself so I can keep standing. Morning. Afternoon. Whenever my skin gets too tight and my heart starts making too much noise.

Every negative emotion has begun to come with the same answer. Swallow something. Make it quieter.

I keep my face turned away while the guys are still at each other’s throats, then press the pill onto my tongue and grab my water bottle.

One drink.

One swallow.

It’s simple enough to appear innocent.