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“Come on, Cardiff!” I shout, finally breaking eye contact with Vivian to acknowledge the wider audience. “Let me hear you!”

My Welsh accent thickens when I’m emotional, and right now I’m a fucking typhoon of feelings barely contained in human form. The crowd responds, hands in the air, voices raised.

But then I’m looking at her again, unable to help myself. She’s singing along, those full lips forming the words I wrote years ago.

I want those full lips saying my name.

My chest tightens. For a split second, I wonder if I’m making a terrible mistake with what I’ve planned. Then I remember the bucket list hidden in my car, the cabin waiting in the Beacons, and something primal hardens inside me.

No turning back now, Andrew.

The final chord rings out, reverberating through the venue. I’m breathing hard, my shirt soaked through, guitar hanging heavy against my body. The crowd erupts, the sound washing over me without penetrating.

I bow slightly, murmuring thanks into the microphone. My bandmates take more elaborate bows, throwing picks and drumsticks into the audience, slapping hands with front-row fans. I stand motionless, gathering myself, my eyes never leaving Vivian as she applauds, a small smile playing on her lips.

“Thank you, Cardiff,” I say finally, my voice rough with exertion and anticipation. “You’ve been amazing. Happy Halloween.” The words feel distant, automatic.

My heart hammers against my ribs; not from the performance, but from knowing what comes next. The real show is just beginning.

See you soon, Vivian.

Chapter 2

Andrew

How do I use Chloroform?

Backstage is a fucking nightmare of bodies, perfume, and desperate eyes. I paste on the smile I’ve practiced in mirrors—just enough teeth to be polite and not creepy, not enough to invite conversation—and push through the crowd toward the bar. My height lets me scan the room over bobbing heads and Halloween costumes. The afterparty’s always like this when we wrap up a tour: record execs, local celebrities, and groupies with VIP passes, all pretending they’re too cool to care while simultaneously trying to be noticed. We should be celebrating music and our homecoming, but some of them want to fuck us over and the others want to be fucked by us. Honestly, none of them interest me.

Tonight’s special, so I’m being stopped every other second by folks I’ve known since middle and high school congratulating me. Funny, because I remember being bullied all throughout school, but those same people are like, “Hey, Andy, remember how we used to hang out?” or the classic “We’re holding a dinner soon with everyone from our class of 2006, wanna come and relive those good memories?”

If they mean “hang out” as them shoving me inside a locker as a “prank” and scarring me for life, then yeah, we “hung out.”

And if by “good memories” they mean how they almost made me give up on high school, then yeah… I want to protect my peace, thank you.

I fucking hate them. They just want to hang out because I’m famous. Not because they care. They never did. While they sleep soundly at night, I deal with trauma.

Trying to cool down, I walk around the venue—that has now become a party—and search for her, but the problem is, I don’t see her at first, and my stomach tightens. Did she leave already? Then, a group near the far wall shifts, and there she is—Vivian, her orange T-shirt like a flame beckoning me closer in the dim light, laughing at something her friend just said. I exhale slowly, careful not to look at her for too long.

I have time.

“Andrew! Amazing show tonight.” A woman in cat ears, painted whiskers and too much cleavage showing slides her hand up my forearm, her fingers lingering over my veins. I stiffen but maintain a professional smile. As much as I can without telling her to fuck off.

“Thanks.” My voice comes out gruffer than I intended. I take a step back, bumping into someone behind me. “Sorry, just need to get a drink.”

She follows, undeterred. “I loved that new song. So intense. Was it written for someone special?” Her eyes suggest she’s hoping I’ll say it was somehow prophetically written for her, a woman whose name I don’t even know and have never seen before.

“Just came to me one night,” I lie, side-stepping toward the bar.

My eyes dart to Vivian again. She’s sipping something orange, her head cocked to the side as she listens to her friend, who I know, after a lot of internet sleuthing, that she’s her coworker at the marketing agency she works at. Turns out they bonded over their asshole boss who I wish I could punch into oblivion.

Another woman appears at my side, this one dressed as a vampire, fake blood glistening at the corner of her mouth. She presses against me, the contact sending uncomfortable prickles across my skin.

“You’re even hotter up close,” she purrs, and I have to stop myself from physically cringing. I’m sure she’s nice enough, but all I can think about is how wrong she feels—how wrong they all feel. None of them are her.

“Appreciate that,” I mumble, accepting a whiskey from the bartender without having ordered it. He knows my usual from years of playing concerts here. I take a large swallow, welcoming the burn. “Excuse me, I need to check in with the band.”

I maneuver away, ignoring the disappointed looks. My bandmates are clustered near the sound booth, already half drunk and laughing. Mark, our drummer, raises an eyebrow as I approach.