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Not while there’s still hope.

28.Eddie

The arena hums with sound—ampsthudding, drums testing snare pops, voices bouncing off concrete walls. It’s organized chaos, the kind that always used to electrify me. That pre-show buzz in my veins, like caffeine and adrenaline and the echo of something big about to happen.

Now?

Now it feels hollow.

I’m onstage, guitar strapped across my chest, checking levels and balance. The guys are scattered—Jay tuning his bass, Isla yelling something at the tech about her pedal board, Tony messing with lighting cues. We’ve done this a hundred times, in a hundred cities. It’s muscle memory.

But today, it’s off.

Everything’s off.

Because my heart’s somewhere else.

More specifically, it’s curled up in our bed back home in one of my t-shirts, probably hugging Merlyn and trying not to show how upset she was when we hung up last night.

God, that call.

I felt it—the way her voice dipped, the hesitation, that quiet breath she took when the background noise broke through.

Tasha’s voice.

Of course it was fucking Tasha.

She’d cornered me just as Laney and I were mid-call, whining about some press detail I don’t even remember now, saying my name like she was auditioning for a porno and completely ignoring my very clear boundary to leave me the hell alone.

I cut the call short, and I heard it all in Laney’s voice before I hung up. That flicker of hurt. Of doubt. And I hate that I caused it.

I hate her hearing another woman’s voice like that—especially that woman.

The memory makes my jaw tighten as I strum a final chord and let the guitar tech give me a thumbs up. Sound check wraps with a hiss of static and a few shouted notes over the comms, and I yank the strap over my head, handing the guitar off before stepping off the riser.

And there she is.

Tasha Monroe.

Leaning against the barrier with a clipboard she never writes on, her dress cut to her navel, lips glossy like she’s going on camera—not managing one.

“Oh my God,” she sing-songs, stepping into my path, “you’ve been on your feet for two hours, you need to eat something. You’ve got that press slot at six. I reminded you, like, four times, but I’ll walk you back just in case—”

“I’m good, Tasha,” I mutter, brushing past her.

She trails behind me anyway, stilettos clacking across the concrete like gunfire.

“No, but seriously, you need to pace yourself, Eddie. If you’re not sleeping right—your skin looks a little dull, by the way—and you know stress can mess with your vocal cords—”

I stop walking. Turn. “Tasha.”

She straightens, smiling like she thinks I’m about to flirt back.

“I don’t need you to fucking mother me.”

The smile falters. “I—sorry, I was just—”

“I’ve got a manager. A tour manager. A nutritionist. A band. A brain. I don’t need someone shoving protein bars at me and reminding me to breathe like I’m five.”