Page 33 of Love Loathe Devotion (Tightrope #3)

The arena hums with sound—amps thudding, 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.”

Her expression darkens instantly. It’s like watching a glass of wine tip—slow at first, then spilling fast.

“I’m just doing my job.”

“No. You’re doing what you want. You’re in my space, constantly. And I’ve told the label I don’t want you on this tour.”

“I have a contract—”

“Then take it up with them,” I snap. “Because I don’t want you here.”

She stares at me for a beat too long, lips parted, like she’s deciding whether to cry or scratch my eyes out.

“I’ll see you at press,” she finally says, turning on her heel, hair swinging like it’s part of a goddamn shampoo commercial.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and drag a hand down my face.

Dizzy sidles up beside me a second later with a water bottle and a raised brow. “She still sniffing around?”

“Like a bloodhound,” I mutter. “Christ.”

“You want me to ‘accidentally’ spill coffee on her schedule?”

I smirk. “Tempting.”

But the smile fades fast.

Because now I’m just thinking about Laney again.

How she probably went to bed wondering who the hell that voice belonged to. Wondering why I sounded off. Why I hung up so fast.

I should’ve told her right then. Explained.

But I didn’t want to drag her into this mess. Into the embarrassment of knowing the one woman I never meant to sleep with is now following me around Europe like a damn perfume ad from hell.

And God… being away from her?

It’s worse than I thought it’d be.

I miss her laugh. Her morning voice. The way she hums when she’s doing dishes and doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. I miss her sleepy snuffles and the way she hogs the covers. I even miss a dog I never actually lived with. I miss home.

The thing is—I’ve toured for years. Slept in more hotels than I can count. But I’ve never missed anyone before. Not like this.

It’s like I’m not whole without her.

I take out my phone. Text her.

Eddie: Wish I was home right now. You, me, and Merlyn on the couch. No sound check. No interviews. Just us.

The message shows as delivered, but there’s no reply yet.

My chest tightens again.

I head toward the green room, trying to shake off the ache, trying to focus on anything but the fact that I’m a whole continent away from the only person who makes all this noise feel like music again.

It’s not just missing her. The dressing room smells like stage fog and old leather—too many years of energy and anxiety soaked into the couch cushions, too much air-conditioning trying to battle stage lights and nerves.

I’m still sweating from the soundcheck when the publicist walks me into the media lounge, cameras already set up.

There’s no sign of Tasha, thank God.

I sit, give a quick mic check, and smile for the host even though I feel like I’ve got glass lodged behind my ribs.

Fake it. Smile. Do the job.

“Eddie Carter,” the interviewer beams. “Back on tour, new cities, sold-out crowds. But you’ve been making headlines for something else lately, something personal. This Kidney Donation Chain event you’re helping sponsor.”

I nod, shifting forward a little. “Yeah. It’s a cause that means a lot to me personally. The event is aimed at raising awareness and building a chain of potential donors, people who are willing to donate a kidney either directly or through paired donation, so that more lives can be saved.”

“And this is tied to someone close to you, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “My best friend’s little boy—Joey—is waiting for a transplant.

He’s been through hell and back already, and he’s still fighting.

This isn’t just about one family, though.

There are thousands of people waiting. And if I can use my platform to get just one more person to sign up, then it’s worth every second. ”

The host nods visibly moved. “That’s powerful.”

I glance at the camera. “If you’re healthy, if you’re eligible—be a donor. Someone out there is hanging on by a thread, waiting for a match. You could be their miracle.”

By the time the interview wraps, my throat is dry, but I feel something settle. Not peace exactly. But purpose. A reason to keep going.

I grab a towel and pat down my face just as my phone buzzes.

Lucas.

Lucas: Just saw the interview, brother. Thank you. You don’t know what it means to us. To Joey.

My chest tightens, heart thudding as I stare at the message.

Eddie: I meant every word. We’re going to get him that kidney, man.

There’s no time to sit in the moment because the stage manager’s knocking on the door, letting me know it’s time.

The noise builds as I move through the hall—voices, instruments, the roar of the crowd filtering through thick walls. But under it all is the quiet thrum of one truth:

She’s not here.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I tap out a message as I wait in the wings, the guitar tech looping my strap over my shoulder.

Eddie: About to go on. I miss you like hell.

A few seconds later, her reply flashes on screen:

Laney: I miss you too. Always.

It’s enough to get me through.

The stage lights hit me like a freight train, and the crowd explodes. I wave, step up to the mic, and launch into the set—one song, then another, and another. My fingers move on instinct, my voice steady, but inside, I’m holding her like a lifeline.

Halfway through the set, I pause. The band fades out. The lights dim.

And I speak. “There’s someone back home,” I say, voice rough. “She’s not in the crowd tonight. But she’s in everything I do.”

The crowd stills.

“I wrote this song a long time ago. Never knew who it was about—until I met her.” I glance down, press my palm to my chest. “This one’s for the woman who owns my heart.”

The first notes of ‘Midnight Dune’ ring out, soft and slow. And I pour every ounce of missing her, loving her, needing her into the mic.

Each lyric is a confession. Every chord is a prayer.

By the time the final note fades, my throat is raw and my hands are shaking.

Applause thunders. But I’m already turning, walking offstage with the kind of focus that says, don’t stop me.

I see her the second I round the corner.

Tasha.

Arms crossed. Eyes blazing.

“Really?” she snaps. “Her? You’re dedicating songs to some charity case girlfriend on your headliner tour?”

I walk past her like she’s air.

She follows, heels stabbing the concrete. “You have press commitments! Reggie’s looking for you—”

“I don’t give a shit, Tasha.”

She gasps like I slapped her.

“If the label doesn’t like it, tell them to call me. Or better—tell them to call my lawyer. I’m done with you.”

I push through the crew hallway, ignoring the glares and side-eyes, and head straight for the parking lot. The city lights are a blur. The adrenaline in my veins from the performance has turned to a tight knot of tension behind my eyes.

I get back to the hotel, slam the door behind me, and lean against it, chest heaving.

I grab my phone and call Laney.

One ring.

Two.

Straight to voicemail.

She’s probably asleep.

Of course she is.

I stare at the screen like it might bring her back to me, then type out a message:

Eddie: I love you. So much. I’m sorry I had to hang up earlier. You’re everything to me.

Still not enough.

Not for what I’m feeling.

I scroll to Nico’s number and hit dial.

He answers on the second ring, voice clipped. “Yes.”

“I need your help.”

There’s a beat. No questions. Just silence.

Then: “Tell me what you need.”

“Get me everything you can on Gerald Whitmore and any of those other fuckers at the label. I’m sick and fucking tired of dancing to their tune.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks, Nic.”

“No problem, brother. Oh, and that other thing you asked me to look into?”

Randy the asshole. “Yeah?”

“Nasty piece of shit. I have someone watching him.”

The weight on my shoulders lifts a little. “Thank you.”

“Anytime. I like her for you, Eddie.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I hang up feeling slightly less like my skin is itching but I don’t think the feeling will leave me until I’m home and she’s in my arms.