Page 13 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

ELEVEN

T he empty arena buzzes with reverb and frayed nerves.

We’ve been running “Come Undone” for close to an hour, and Justine still wants another take—not because she’s off, but because she’s a perfectionist. She’s good.

Really good. Her voice threads through the melody like silk through static, grounded and sharp at the same time.

I nod to Ajay behind the kit, and he gives the count-in.

“We were threadbare lovers, tangled and torn . . .

You pulled away while I held on . . .”

Our voices blend on the chorus. Tight, practiced. Justine’s eyes flick to me on the final line, a flash of something playful, but I don’t take the bait. I just stay focused, counting beats, keeping tempo.

It’s easier this way.

When the song ends, she grins. “Okay, now all we have to do is remember this and perform it the same way tonight.”

I smirk. “We will.” I wipe the sweat off my neck with a towel and then look at the list. “Hendrix, you’re going to start ‘Stayed Too Long in Goodbye,’” I tell him. “I want to tease the crowd a bit because they’re all suspecting it to be our closer.”

“It is our closer,” he says.

“I know, but it’s good to keep them on their toes.”

“Agreed,” Elle adds as she comes onto the stage. “And then Dana will come in with ‘Hollow Days,’ giving Quinn a break.”

“I don’t need a break,” I tell her.

“Everyone needs a break,” Elle says. “And since you put the setlist together, you should know you didn’t give your bandmates a break, so I’m adding them in.”

Elle looks pissed, but this is exactly why she has final say in everything. She walks toward Dana, and they bow their heads, probably plotting my demise.

“She thinks of everything,” Justine says from behind me. I turn and take the bottle of water she extends toward me.

“Thanks, and yes, she’s bossy.”

“Efficient.”

I suppose Justine’s right. She sits on the amp, crossing her legs underneath her. “I think it might be hard for her, seeing all the women go crazy for her brother.”

“What are you talking about?” I sit on my stool and tune my guitar while Elle conducts her impromptu business meeting.

Justine laughs. “You’ve got this simmering lead guy energy. The hot, tortured rocker thing going on. The women in the crowd are freaking crazy for you.”

I shake my head. “I’m just here to sing.”

“Really? Because when I watch you perform, it’s like you’re trying to mesmerize the crowd with your voice, your lyrics. You put them in a trance.”

“Do I put you in a trance?”

She blushes and looks away. “I enjoy singing with you.”

I give her a neutral half-smile. “We harmonize well together.”

“Other than Dana, have you sung with anyone else?”

I shake my head and look over my shoulder at my sister, who is holding up our rehearsal.

“No.”

Ajay slaps me on the shoulder and gives it a good squeeze. “Mr. Broody prefers to play alone,” he tells her. I want to elbow him in the gut and tell him to get back behind the drums where he belongs, but he doesn’t give me a chance and stands out of reach.

“How did you join the band?” she asks Ajay.

“Elle asked me after I won a drummer competition their dad held.”

“Oh, I remember seeing some of that online. I didn’t realize you won.”

Ajay nods.

“Gotta say, I’m not a fan of this bonding session,” I tell him, but don’t say anything to Justine. I actually don’t mind her hanging around. She’s a nice kid and eager to learn.

Finally, Elle comes over and says we’re ready to finish so we can get the hell out of here. Tonight is the last night Talking Til Dawn will be on the tour with us. Tomorrow, they’ll head to Beaumont and start working in the studio with Liam on their next album.

We run through the setlist and then start over, but this time, we’re putting on a full damn show for anyone hanging out in the arena.

The crew works tirelessly to make sure the sound is perfect, and all is going swimmingly until, between songs, someone on the loudspeaker calls for Eleanora to report to her desk, and then it’s downhill for me even though deep down I know it’s not my Nola.

There’s too much of everything all around me. Nola’s voice in my head. The note she left me in my thoughts. Her engagement ring pressing against my chest, cutting deeper and leaving its mark because of my guitar strap.

Every damn lyric I’ve written over the past handful of years is because of her. Because I have loved her, worshipped her, and now, I’ve lost her.

When it’s time for Justine and me to perform, I need a minute. This song can’t be about missing Nola; it has to be about the music. The show. The job.

Right now, I’m a performer.

The rocker people have come to see. They expect me to sing the songs they love and don’t give a rat's ass that my heart is broken into a million shards of glass, slicing into my flesh as they try to escape.

The song ends, and it sounds like shit. Complete and utter crap. “Run it again?” I demand, walking back to the mic.

Justine lifts one brow. “It was perfect.”

“Not even close,” I mutter.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

I glance over my shoulder at my band, and we start the track again.

And again, until her voice finds mine in all the right places.

I close my eyes and let the lyrics flow from me, picturing Nola standing there, stage left, the entire time while I sing about the heartache this “pause” has put me through.

When the last of the melody is played, I open my eyes and see Justine, staring back at me with so much intensity, I have to excuse myself from rehearsal.

Elle stares at me as I brush past her. She follows, but I quickly duck into the men’s room, knowing this isn’t even a safe space away from my sister. My hands rest on the edge of the porcelain sink, gripping as hard as I can. I wish like hell I could tear this thing away from the wall, but I don’t.

The door opens. I look through the mirror, expecting to see my sister. But it’s Ben. He leans against the half wall and stuffs his hands in his pockets. I know, without a doubt, Elle sent him in here.

“You know I don’t do the emo shit,” Ben says. “But your sister is worried.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him as I turn the water on and cup handfuls over my face.

“I get it, but we were there when Nola said she wouldn’t come on tour, so I’m suspecting the little outburst and heavy lyrics are because of her?”

I lean over the sink and let the water drip off my face. Ben is trustworthy and he’s my brother. There isn’t a reason I shouldn’t tell him.

Except I’d be asking him to keep something from his wife, and I don’t think that’s fair to him.

“Yeah . . .” I say, dragging the word out. “What musician doesn’t write about what’s going on in their lives?”

“I’m no professional, but I do know a handful of them.” Ben laughs. “And y’all can be pretty emo when you’re singing about the women in your life.”

Or out of it .

“As you said, it’s no secret Nola didn’t want to come on tour. I respect her decision, but I miss her. I thought we’d explore each location and make some memories, make the best of the tour.”

“So, she stayed back for school?”

No, she didn’t, and honestly, I have no idea what she’s doing in South Carolina. She didn’t tell me if she planned to transfer or what.

“Yeah, but she’s also visiting her parents. She misses them a lot.”

“I can understand that.”

I nod and appraise the man staring back at me in the mirror. Sad, disheveled, with bags under his eyes. How can anyone find this attractive?

It’s the fucking lighting .

“I’m fine,” I tell Ben again. “Or I will be. Hearing her name over the loudspeaker just threw me off a bit. Can you tell my sister I’ll be out in a second and we’ll finish?”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

I right myself and walk toward my brother-in-law, placing my hand on his shoulder. “I would never ask you to keep a secret from my sister.”

Ben nods. “I hear ya, but she’d understand. She has her twin to talk to, she’ll have to respect the fact that you need someone to talk to as well.”

“Yeah.”

I end up walking out with Ben, surprised my sister isn’t standing outside the bathroom, waiting to pounce. No one seems to care that I’ve been gone, or they do care but don’t want to call attention to my desire to have this one song perfect, and when it isn’t, I’m storming off stage.

At least I came back.

We pick up where we left off and finish the rehearsal decently. By tonight, every little glitch will be ironed out, and the show will be perfect. People will rave. They’ll scream our names and line up to do it again tomorrow.

Until then, I’m going to sit my ass in the back booth at the dive bar across the street from the venue. It’s half-empty when I walk in, lit with neon beer signs and the occasional flicker from the corner jukebox that skips every third song.

This is exactly what I needed.

No cameras. No pressure. Just noise low enough to ignore and cold beer on tap that comes in a pitcher.

I’m shredding a napkin when Justine slides onto the empty bench across from me. Her lavender hair is pulled into a messy, twisted-looking knot, her eyeliner is smudged, and she’s wearing a leather jacket. She looks like someone who belongs in music—wild and grounded.

While I look homeless.

I adjust my beanie, bringing it lower and wishing I had a ball cap on to hide my face now that she’s on the other side of the table.

Her hand reaches for my glass and pulls my beer to her, taking a sip. Her face scrunches, and she makes a gagging sound. “This is disgusting.”

“It’ll taste different when you turn twenty-one,” I tell her as I take the glass back and take a sip, not really caring that she took a drink. “How’d you find me?”

Justine laughs. “Elle has your location. She needed a volunteer to come over and see what’s what.”

“And you volunteered?”

She sighs. “Well, not exactly. Ajay has his kids here, so he didn’t want to come. Keane has Chandler. Dana’s getting her hair dyed. Elle thought if she sent Hendrix in, neither of you would come out.”

“Winner, winner by process of elimination.”

She shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“Good to know.” I take a drink and watch the TV out of the corner of my eye. I was hoping to catch some news on Noah’s football team.

“Are you always this broody?”

“You sound like Ajay. I don’t brood,” I deadpan.

She arches a brow. “Quinn, you literally walked out of rehearsal today like a haunted poet who forgot how to sleep.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“You’re not wrong.”

She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So . . . Nola.”

I stiffen. The name lands like a shot I didn’t ask for.

“I don’t want to talk about her,” I say, my voice low.

Justine nods. “Fair. But for the record, I wasn’t bringing her up to talk about the elephant in the room. I was just . . . acknowledging that I’m not the only one who sees it. Just the one willing to say something.”

“Did my sister pay you to come over here?”

Justine smiles widely. “No, process of elimination, remember.”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine.” I scrub my hand over my face. “What happened earlier won’t happen again.”

She shrugs. “You wear your pain like a backstage pass. Doesn’t mean it’s a bad thing.”

I stare down at my drink. “I’ve never heard that euphemism. I sort of like it.”

Another smile. I kind of like her smile.

“I really like singing with you,” she says, changing the subject.

“Once we release the song, it’s going to be a massive hit. Are you ready for it?”

“Elle says the same thing. I think the girls are jealous, though.”

I nod, understanding. “You haven’t known each other very long?”

Justine shakes her head. “Not at all. I joined their band, and now here we are, on this tour, and I’m singing with you. They’re still nice, but I’ve noticed some cold shoulder stuff.”

“It happens,” I tell her. “Especially when one has more talent than others.”

There’s a silence between us, with the bar noises filling the space.

She looks at me with a warm, sweet gaze. For the first time, I feel something in the center of my chest, and it’s not the ache of the ring.

“Do you ever think maybe music is where your truth lives now?”

Her question is out of the blue and catches me off guard. I don’t know what to say to that. If I’m singing about heartache and Nola no longer being in my life, am I predicting myfuture?

“Maybe,” I say because I’m not sure.

Justine picks up a napkin and pulls a pen out of her pocket. She starts writing words down and then passes it to me, along with the pen. For the next hour, we write words down until we’ve covered a half dozen napkins and have a full song.

Now we just need a melody.