1 - Logan
The moment the lights hit me, I was already grinning.
That was the thing about a crowd right before a show. That split second when the arena went dark, and thousands of people sucked in one collective breath. It was better than sex. Better than whiskey. Better than the first drag of a cigarette after a hell of a night.
It was power.
It was worship.
It was mine.
The opening riff exploded through the Minneapolis arena. The bass thundered, hard enough to rattle my ribs. The crowd? They lost their damn minds.
I stalked out into the spotlight with my guitar slung low, sweat already dampening the back of my neck from the heat of the stage lights. The girls in the front row are screaming so loudly they could wake the dead. And a bra landed near my boots before I even reached the mic.
I laughed.
“Minneapolis,” I shouted, dragging the word out until the crowd got louder, “you trying to kill me before I even sing the first song?”
That got a roar out of them.
“Good,” I said, curling my fingers around the mic stand. “I like a dangerous woman.”
The arena erupted again.
Behind me, Rick hammered the drums like he meant to crack the building. Sam and Tim synced up, guitars screaming, while Brooklyn stood at her mic—cool, lethal, long blonde hair, blue eyes sharp as glass, and the kind of body men wrote bad songs about.
Unfortunately for me, she also had a mouth that could start a war in under ten seconds.
She shot me a look from across the stage.
I smirked right back.
Then I leaned into the mic and gave the crowd exactly what they came for.
For the next hour and a half, I was untouchable.
For ninety minutes, I felt untouchable. I sang with fire and moved like I owned them. Women screamed my name. Men lifted their beers. Lights flashed in white, red, blue, and gold colors. Sweat rolled down my spine, and my fingers flew over the strings like they were born there.
This right here was supposed to be enough. The music and noise. The women. The adrenaline, and the life I spent years clawing toward. And yet, between the third song and the encore, the thrill faded, and was replaced by something cold, unexpected, and unsettling.
Not enough.
I hit the next note anyway, because that was what I did. No matter what the hell was going on inside me, I performed. And by the time we finished the encore, I was drenched, breathing hard, and half the front row looked like they’d sell a kidney to get on the bus with me.
Tempting.
But tonight, even that didn’t do it for me.
I yanked my shirt off, twirled it once over my head, and launched it into the crowd. The screaming tripled.
Rick laughed behind the drums. Sam shook his head like I was a damn idiot, and Tim kept playing us offstage while Brooklyn rolled her eyes so hard I’m pretty sure she saw her own brain.
I grabbed a towel from the side of the stage and wiped my face as we headed backstage.
The second I stepped out of the lights and into the corridor, I could feel the crash of energy starting to drain out of me. The rush faded slowly, replaced by a weird, restless itch under my skin that left me unsettled.
Grant was already there, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, looking as calm and polished as ever.
“There he is,” he said. “Minneapolis loves you.”
“Of course they do,” I say, tossing the towel over my shoulder. “I’m charming. Tragic, and extremely hot.”
Grant’s mouth twitched. “Try not to sleep with anybody who can sue us tonight.”
“No promises.”
Brooklyn snorted behind me.
I glanced back. “You got something to say, princess?”
She crossed her arms. “Only that you’re getting too old to keep using that line.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “Brooklyn, baby, don’t be cruel. I’m in my prime.”
“You say that every year.”
“And every year I’m right.”
She brushed past me toward the dressing room, shoulder clipping mine hard enough to be deliberate.
That got my attention.
I followed her.
“Alright,” I called after her. “Who pissed in your vodka?”
She spun near the door to the dressing room, eyes flashing. “You.”
I laughed. “That narrows it down exactly zero.”
“It should narrow it down plenty,” she snapped. “You flirt with every woman with a pulse, then act shocked when somebody gets annoyed.”
“Annoyed?” I said. “You sound emotional. Should I be worried?”
“That’s your problem, Logan. You think everything’s a joke.”
“Most things are.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer. “You make everything a joke because the second anything gets real, you run.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to. Heat rose in my chest, sharp and sudden. I tried to hide the sting.
That was the thing about Brooklyn. She could piss me off, amuse me, and make me want to argue with her in the same breath. So naturally, I smiled.
“Aw,” I said softly, “you do care.”
She looked like she wanted to slap the smug right off my face.
Wouldn’t have been the first time.
Rick and Sam chose that exact moment to walk in, probably because God enjoyed a good show.
“Oh hell,” Rick muttered. “Round one already?”
“We’re not fighting,” Brooklyn said without looking away from me.
“We’re absolutely fighting,” I shot back.
Tim grabbed a bottle of water out of the cooler and leaned against the wall. “Can you two save it for the bus? I’m tired.”
Brooklyn turned on her heel and headed inside.
I watched her go, jaw tight. Frustration and something sharper twisted in my gut—emotions I didn’t feel like examining.
Rick came over and slapped my shoulder. “You alright?”
“Fantastic.”
He gave me a look that said he didn’t buy it for one second.
I ignored him.
That was another thing about me. I ignored a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have.
Twenty minutes later, we were loaded onto the bus and heading out of Minneapolis, the city lights sliding by the windows in streaks of gold and white.
Rick and Tim argued over the setlist. Sam wore headphones, already half asleep. Grant stayed behind with the venue people, promising to meet us later. Brooklyn sat across from me, one boot on the opposite bench, scrolling through her phone like she wasn’t still pissed.
I dropped onto the leather seat, stretched my legs out, and cracked open a beer.
“Anyone else feel like tonight was weird?” I asked.
Rick barked out a laugh. “You mean besides you and Brooklyn trying to stab each other with eye contact?”
“I mean, the crowd was insane,” Tim said. “Good insane.”
“No,” I said slowly, staring at the dark highway through the window. “I mean me.”
That got their attention.
Sam slid one headphone off. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I took a swallow of beer. “I just…”
The words stalled in my throat.
I didn’t know how to say it without sounding pathetic, so I swallowed it down. The hesitation made me feel exposed, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to start now.
Brooklyn looked up from her phone. “You just what?”
I shrugged like it didn’t matter. But it did. That was the irritating part.
I had the band, tours, fans, women, money—the life people kill for. Still, after every show, there was a split second when something in me went quiet.
Like I was waiting for something.
Or someone.
And I had no clue what the hell that meant. A hollow ache settled in my chest, impossible to ignore.
I forced a grin. “Nothing. Ignore me. I’m probably just dehydrated and devastatingly handsome.”
Sam groaned. “There he is.”
“Thank God,” Tim said. “I thought we were about to have feelings.”
Brooklyn rolled her eyes and looked back at her phone, but her voice came quieter this time.
“You’ve been off for weeks.”
I looked at her.
The bus hummed around us. Tires tore over the highway. Somewhere up front, the driver coughed.
Brooklyn held my gaze for one extra second, and for once, there was no bite in it. No snark. No challenge.
Just truth.
“You’ve been off,” she repeated.
My mouth went dry. I took another swallow of beer and leaned back. “Maybe I’m bored.”
Rick laughed so hard he nearly choked.
“With this life?” Tim asked. “I call bullshit.”
“Maybe,” I say, eyeing my reflection in the dark glass, “that’s the problem.”
Silence hit hard enough to make me regret saying it.
Brooklyn lowered her phone. Sam stared at me. Rick actually sat forward. And Tim blinked like he’d been hit.
I gave them all a lazy grin and lifted my beer. “Relax. I’m not quitting. I’m just saying, maybe I need a vacation. Or a woman with lower standards.”
Brooklyn snorted.
The tension finally broke.
Rick threw a balled-up napkin at my head. Tim muttered something about me being a dramatic bastard, and Sam put his headphones back on.
And just like that, the moment passed. But it didn’t really, because even after everybody settled back down, I felt a nagging emptiness as I kept staring out that window. The black stretch of Minnesota highway, my own reflection. All reminders that even with everything, something was missing.
A few minutes later, Brooklyn stood and made her way toward the back lounge.
When she passed me, she paused. “If you’re going to spiral into a midlife crisis,” she said, “wait until after the tour. I’m not learning a new frontman’s ego.”
I barked a laugh. “You’d miss me.”
“Debatable.”
The bus jerked, hard, as she started to move past me.
Everything happened at once. Fast and sudden.
There wasn’t any time to react.
The driver shouted something up front. Rick cursed. The beer flew from my hand, and the bus swerved so violently that my shoulder slammed into the wall.
“What the fuck—”
Tires screamed. Metal groaned. Someone yelled my name.
Then came the impact. A crushing, violent blast from the side that sent the whole world sideways. Glass shattered. Bodies flew, and the lights blew out. I also hit something hard enough to knock the air clean out of me, and pain exploded through my ribs.
Somewhere in the chaos, Brooklyn screamed.
Instinct kicked in before thought. I lunged toward the sound just as the bus rolled.
Everything flipped.
My shoulder smashed into her.
I grabbed her. Then something heavy came down on top of me. There was a crack, and then a burst of white-hot agony in my skull. And suddenly I couldn’t feel my legs.
Voices were everywhere. Yelling. Crying. Groaning metal, and the stink of gasoline.
Blood slid warm down the side of my face.
I tried to move, but couldn’t. And I tried to breathe, but barely managed it.
Brooklyn was saying something. Or maybe screaming. I couldn’t tell anymore.
The world was tilting in and out, sound going muffled, then sharp, then far away again.
I tasted copper.
I heard sirens in the distance, but saw nothing but broken glass and flashing red through the dark.
Someone was shouting for help.
Someone was praying.
And then… a voice
A woman’s voice. Soft. Far away.
“Logan…
I didn’t know who it was.
Didn’t know where it came from.
But for one impossible second, in the middle of twisted metal and blood and pain, it sounded like the only real thing left in the world.
Then everything went black.
