Page 66 of Hymns of the Broken

That’s when the spell breaks, and the rest of the bus comes back to life.

Ash groans, dragging a hand through his hair, voice hoarse and amused. “Thank fuck, man. I almost pulled my dick out right here.”

Jace snorts, hiding his face behind a pillow. “Jesus. I was about to ask if we needed a ‘no public orgasms on the bus’ rule.”

Silas shakes his head, shutting his book with a loud snap. “You two are hell. I hope you realize we’re never letting you live this down.”

Jasper laughs, and I can’t help but smile—even as I pull away, thighs trembling, every inch of me throbbing with need.

I grab my phone and head for my bunk, shoving my camera bag aside, trying to pull myself together in the dark, curtained space.

Bzzz.

Macee:“Dude! When can you call? I want details. Like, all of them. I saw you in the background of someone’s video earlier… You good? Call me if you can tonight, okay?”

I swallow, fingers hovering over her name, but another buzz interrupts.

Blake:“What the fuck is all this? Your pics are all over the internet with that band. You think I wouldn’t notice? What are people supposed to think, Sawyer? Answer me.”

The heat from earlier turns cold in my veins. For a second, all I can do is stare at the screen—Jasper’s hands still burning into my skin, but Blake’s voice suddenly everywhere, poisoning it.

My fingers shake, caught between the urge to tell him off and the old, sick fear he could still ruin everything.

But this time, I’m not alone.

I’m already someone else’s secret.

And for once, I don’t want to hide.

Chapter 12

SAWYER

Iwake cocooned in my sheets, and it takes a second to remember where I am—then the rumble of the engine is gone, replaced by the strange hush of a city not my own. The bus isn’t moving. We’re parked.

Midnight’s Edge.

We must’ve arrived after I finally crashed. The familiar ache between my legs from last night’s torture session with Jasper throbs as I roll over, groggy and hungry and just a little high on the chaos of it all.

There’s movement in the hall—doors shutting, someone laughing too loudly, the scent of burnt coffee and body-wash drifting through the narrow corridor. The guys are already up.

I get up from my bunk, grab some clothes, my toiletry bag, and head towards the bathroom. I brush my teeth and add mascara to my tattooed eyeliner. I strip out of my nightclothes and shimmy into the old mini skirt—ripped, faded, and more memories than fabric. Bike shorts underneath, just in case I have to scale a fence for a shot. Cropped baby tee, soft from a hundred washes, the print cracked but perfect.

Flannel tied around my waist, camera bag heavy at my hip. I yank my hair into two half-buns, leave the rest wild, then add some lip stain because—why the hell not? Add my favorite combat boots, and I’m ready to go.

I step out, heading for the doors and passing the guys at the bottom of the stairs on my way out.

Ash whistles low. “Okay, punk rock Barbie.”

Jasper grins, all wicked heat and hungry eyes. “Don’t tempt me to drag you right back inside, Wicked Thing.”

I flip him off, tug on my choker, and grab my camera. “Let’s go cause some chaos.”

We set out into the blue of the late-afternoon sun, the sound of roadies cursing and someone testing drums echoing across the venue grounds. Jasper sticks close, hand on my lower back as if he thinks I might wander off or get lost in the chaos. The rest of the band fan out behind us, looking like they own the place.

I’m still adjusting my camera strap when Jasper leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Just so you know, this isn’t a onetime thing.” He sees my confusion. “The carnival, Little Sin. They set one up at most of the stops—something about keeping the crowds happy. That means there’ll be rides and junk food every second day, pretty much all tour.”

I blink. “You’re kidding? Like…every week?”