Page 16 of The Road to Forever (Beaumont: Next Generation #7)

Wynonna starts with a gritty, reverb-heavy riff that growls through the speakers and wraps the audience in its grip.

Priscilla follows, sticks slamming down like she’s starting a fight she knows she’ll win.

Justine stands center, her mic clenched in one hand, hips swaying like she was born under stage lights.

They don’t smile.

They don’t ask for permission.

They demand attention.

Justine tips her head back, and when her voice cuts through the air, it’s not the one I sing harmonies with. It’s sharper. Wilder. A little more unhinged.

She screams into the chorus like it’s war paint, and for a second, I forget about Nola, forget about the notebook in my case, forget about everything except the way she commands that stage like a goddamn queen.

This isn’t the soft-spoken girl writing on napkins.

This is her as a frontwoman. A force.

And the crowd loses it.

The women in Plum don’t flirt with the audience. Theydarethem.

They challenge every guy in the crowd to keep up, and they make the women watching feel like they could burn the world down and still look good doing it.

Elle leans in beside me, her voice barely audible over the amps. “You ever seen them live before this tour?”

I shake my head.

She watches a beat, then says, “They’re not just good. They’re different. People are starting to notice.”

“That’s because you make them notice. You have a knack for bringing the best out in your musicians and the fans. You’re good at this,” I tell her.

Elle leans into me again, and I put my arm around her, pulling her as tightly as possible to my side and kissing her forehead.

She rights herself and wipes at her cheeks.

She doesn’t have to thank me for what I’ve said; I know she’s grateful, and I also know she’s searching for the right words.

That’s one thing about Elle: she struggles with compliments and how to receive them.

“This will be the last tour they open for someone.”

“You think?”

I nod. “Their fanbase has grown by leaps and bounds with this tour. Once they release their next album, it’s going to soar to the top of the charts. You’ll be doing this again next year, only then you’ll have a newborn.”

Elle cradles her bump as she looks at me. “You’ll have to babysit.”

I laugh and nod in agreement. It’s not like I’ll be planning a wedding anyway at this point.

Justine hits a high note that rattles through the steel rafters, her fingers clenched around the mic stand like she might snap it in half. I cross my arms, watching. Not for her—at least not how she probably thinks—but because something about this moment feels important.

Like she’s not just another opener trying to make it.

She is the show.

And I’m not sure she even realizes it yet.

I hope what I said to Justine earlier about the sisters being jealous of her, never comes to fruition because Plum is magic on stage.

The arena feels small. The kind of small where people are packed in like sardines, and the air gets caught in your throat, and where everything echoes too loudly.

I stare out at them, the people who have paid to watch us play, while Ajay taps his drumsticks against a folding chair.

Dana hums the opening lines of our first song while Elle paces near the lighting rig, talking into her earpiece, her free hand resting on her stomach like she’s trying to keep grounded.

And the crowd chants our name. Loud and rhythmic.

I remember when I was a kid and I’d be on tour with 4225 West—the crowd was the same—and yet different in a sense.

It’s hard to explain, but when I look out at the audience now, I see a mix of men and women, but back then I only remember women being in the front rows.

Mostly with signs asking the guys to marry them, and some throwing their underwear on stage.

I’ve done a couple of shows where undergarments have landed near my feet. I’ve never asked the roadies where those items end up. Hell, I don’t even know if they’re clean. If they are, I hope they’re donated to a women’s shelter or something and not just thrown in the trash.

Over the years, I’ve kept very few things fans have given me. Mostly because if I kept everything, I’d need an entire wing of a house for storage. I’ve kept some of the flowers, shirts, and a few drawings or fan art. Anything edible goes right into the trash, along with phone numbers.

Although now I may be inclined to keep a few of those.

I can see the headline now:“Quinn James Falls for a Fan”

I suppose that’s what I did with Nola, and it should be a lesson in what not to do.

One of our roadie members signals it’s time for us to take our place on stage. I roll my shoulders back and grip the neck of my guitar.

Everything’s in place,

But I’m not, at least not mentally. She’s still in my head.

Not Justine. Nola.

The version of her I saw—or didn’t see—in the crowd earlier. That ghost has teeth. And it’s sinking them in deep, gnawing its way into my subconscious, reminding me she’s always there, lingering.

“You good?” Keane asks from the other side of the curtain.

“Fine.” The word isn’t necessarily a lie, but it’s damn close.

“Don’t forget, we changed the setlist again,” he says as a friendly and much-needed reminder. I wouldn’t be able to forget if I wanted.

The lights change.

The music changes.

The crowd roars.

I walk out onto the stage and into the noise, into the heat of a thousand eyes and the wash of artificial blue lighting that spills across the mic stand.

The opening chords of “Gravity” pulse beneath my fingers. It’s a song I’ve played so many times I could sleep through it. But tonight, every note feels like it’s dragging something out of me.

She used to sing along to this one.

I find her in the lyrics again, in the way the melody dips and stretches, in the sharp breath before the final line.

“You pulled away and I fell harder.

You left the earth and I stayed grounded.”

The crowd cheers like they felt that line. I almost laugh.

They don’t know it’s real.

They don’t know how much of her is stitched into these songs.

I glance stage left, and this time the row is empty—fully, finally.

No ghost.

Just space.

When the next song kicks in,“Echoes on the Stairs,” I let my eyes close and lean into the mic. I stop thinking and just sing. Not for her. Not for Justine. Not even for the fans.

For me.

Each lyric comes out jagged, a little louder than usual, like I’m dragging my grief into the open and daring it to flinch. The band keeps up. Dana locks eyes with me on the last bridge and mouths, “That was raw.”

I nod.

Let it be.

Let it all be.

By the time Justine walks onstage beside me for “Come Undone,” I’m running on instinct and adrenaline. She meets me with a soft smile, one that asks nothing of me but the music. I give her that. Nothing more.

We sing like we’ve been singing together for years.

And when it ends, the crowd doesn’t just cheer—they erupt.

We leave the stage. The lights fade. The applause lingers.

And for once, I feel empty in a way that doesn’t hurt.

Like maybe something left me tonight.

Something that needed to go.

That something is Nola. It’s not going to matter what happens when I get to South Carolina; we’re not in the same place we were months ago.

The greenroom is dim and quiet when I get back. There’s a bottle of water sweating on the table and a folded towel someone tossed on the arm of the couch. I sit down, head in my hands, elbows on my knees.

I’m not shaking. I’m not spinning.

I’m just . . . still.

The crowd’s roar is still fading from my ears, replaced by the sound of my own breath. Slow. Even.

For the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like I’m dragging my body behind me.

I finally feel present. On the tour. Within myself.

Whole? Not yet. But here.

I reach for my notebook without thinking and flip it open—not to the new lyrics, not yet. Just blank pages. A new place to start.

I jot a line that hits before I can question it:

You can’t haunt someone who’s already walked through fire.

I pause.

Then underline it.

There’s a knock at the door. I expect Justine. Maybe Elle.

But no one comes in.

Just a soft knock.

Then footsteps walking away.

I close the notebook and lean back.

Not everything needs to be answered right now.

Some things just need to be written down, left alone, and saved for later.

Like grief.

Like healing.

Like whatever the hell this new chapter is turning into.