Page 66 of These Wicked Hearts

I don’t have social media, but even that didn’t stop me hearing how some fans called us out. And you know what? I agree with them. I did sell out. When we wrote that last album, I could barely care about it. I just want to write the songs we used to, without the air of our label pressing down around us.

Chen looks at me. A chill slips between us and I don’t think I should have said that. “Gage⁠—”

“I just wanted a couple of months to get my head together. Okay? That’s all.” Chen takes another step closer, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Only that something is me.

“We all go through it. Writer’s block.” I nearly snort. If only it were that easy. “You shouldn’t be dealing with this alone either way.”

I let out a shaky breath. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine. I’m not going to drag you into my bullshit when we’re supposed to be on a break.”

Chen’s eyes meet mine again. “Gage, I’m already in it. You’re my best friend. I’m not going anywhere.” His expression wavers and something flashes—fear then relief—across his face. “I want you to bother me, okay? I want you to complain and tell me when shit bothers you.”

“Eh, you might regret that.” I try to joke.

Chen’s eyes stay hard on me. “I’d regret leaving you to deal with this alone a hell of a lot more than getting a phone call at three in the morning because you need to talk.”

I study my friend. The words ball in my throat. For a fraction of a second I think I’ll tell him, but the closer those words crawl up my throat, the more I want to swallow them down. Chen doesn’t know what he’s asking for.

Jim offered me a chance and I took it. Simple as that.

He asked for something in return, and I gave it to him.

I was desperate and we were so hungry for this.

At the time, I thought it would stop. Just once, right? Just one time and then that would be it and Jim would help us. Only it didn’t stop. I was too young at the time, and I didn’t know how to stop it. Now here we are years later, and I still don’t know how to stop it.

Not without my whole world imploding and bringing the people I love most down with me.

FIFTEEN

Atlas

I don’t mind flying, but I sometimes get motion sickness when I do. Today wasn’t a good one, and I kept having to fight my brain each time our stewardess asked if I’d like a drink. Yes, I would, but I can’t.

As I walk up to my floor of the hotel to find my room, Gage’s words from this morning still crawl under my skin. What is it called? Depression? Nihilism? I don’t know, but to live like nothing matters feels impossible. This may all be nothing in the long run, but the things I’ve seen with my own eyes weigh on me. They matter.

When I find my room, I swipe the keycard and open the door. There’s already a suitcase in here. I wish I could stay with Knox, but I know they assigned us permanent roommates, and the captain rooms with the rookies. I grab my phone and think about texting Gage, but that’s stupid, because why would I do that?

The bathroom door opens and I nearly swallow my tongue. “Fuck.”

Rome looms in the doorway, glaring at me for a moment before he huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “Right back at ya.”

I hate his face.

Rome looks like the kind of supervillain in comic books who starts burning entire cities without a second thought. You know, now that I look at him, he looks a little like the Punisher. Rome is no antihero, though.

He fills the room without even trying, looking more like an assassin than a hockey player. The dim light in this room carves through the lines of his broad frame as he walks to his bed and sinks down. He reaches over, grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head, the collar catching on his nose that has a slight crook in it.

He looks up at me, his pale eyes filled with amusement. Theres no warmth in them.

Even sitting down, he seems enormous. Heavy and dangerous in a quiet way most predators are. Rome leans over, grabbing his lotion and rubbing it on his sculpted arms. Detached and unbothered. Like he’s already accepted being the villain in my story.

It makes me want to punch him.

“Get it out of your system, Atlas. It’ll make this season a lot easier.”

“You’re a fucking prick.”

“Ouch,” he says, deadpan, setting the bottle back on his nightstand. “Anything else?”