I let out a slow breath before stuffing my face with chips again.

I just can’t escape the fucker. He’s everywhere.

Always waiting for the perfect moment to ruin something.

I don’t even want to know what the pictures look like, since I know they’re suggestive.

Shit, if I recall it correctly, I could feel his fucking erection grinding against my ass.

I shudder. Even though I took the damn shot myself, was the one that made contact with him , thinking that he was Tyler, that shit still isn’t right with me.

But I don’t know what to do about his relentlessness, other than just endure it for this final stretch.

Four more days. Two more shows. And then, hopefully, I’ll never have to be anywhere near him again.

“I’ll see if we can do something about that, but since the pics are already out there... you know,” Jodie says, before standing up and tapping me on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to it and head to the stadium for setup. If you need anything, just holler.”

I give her a grateful smile before she leaves the bus, letting the door open.

“Well, at least you had some fun last night,” Missy drawls, settling better on the couch. “I mean… It looked like fun.”

“Oh no, I can’t think about that. My head still hurts.”

Missy smirks. “And your ass, I suppose?”

“Oh my fucking God ,” I chuckle on a groan, rubbing my face in mortification.

Right on cue, Asher hops on the bus. “Did someone say ass?”

Ava appears behind him, already grinning. “Is he back in the land of the living? Are we finally talking about last night’s grand performance? Because I want to know more. Missy’s review was very lacking.”

“Shut up,” I grumble, but I’m already laughing.

“I mean,” Asher says, wiggling his brows, “I thought you’d know how asswork works. If you need a refresher on the importance of lube… well, we know it wasn’t in that room—we took it with us.”

“You’re changing the damn sheets,” I mutter. “And deep-cleaning that fucking cubicle.”

“Already did,” Ava says cheerfully, hopping over the last step. “And fuck you , our bed looked worse than your bunk.”

I wince. Right. I kinda forgot about that. I mumble a half-assed, “Sorry.”

Asher smirks. “Honestly, it has looked worse. At least this time, no one cried or bled.”

Missy snorts. “You two need Jesus.”

“We had a guy named Jesus once,” Ava says, completely deadpan. “But he safeworded.”

I grab the discarded banana and chuck it at them. They duck like they’ve trained for this moment their whole damn lives. The banana disappears through the still-open door.

“Christ, Jace, we came to bring you goodies to make you feel better. Don’t assault us!” Ava exclaims, holding up a takeout bag before taking a seat on the table Jodie just vacated.

I open the bag and the smell is divine . I swear I groan out a thank you before tearing into it and straight-up moan when I pull out greasy fries and a perfectly wrapped burger.

This tour’s a disaster sometimes. A chaotic, messy, exhausting shitshow.

But these people? These beautiful, loud, ridiculous people?

They’re my chaos. And I love them for it.

Thank fuck I survived our set.

Was it hard? Yeah. Did I fumble some of my notes?

Also yeah. But we pulled through. I pulled through.

Now I’ve spent the last hour and a half trying not to throw up while waiting for the fucking duet, chugging one of those isotonic drinks I bought for Tyler when he was here, hugging Missy and Ava from where they’re plastered to my sides like my own fierce guardians.

So far, I’ve managed to steer clear of Mick. Just the thought of him grinding against me still makes my skin crawl. I only saw him once—right after our set, when we passed each other in the wings as his band went on. And of course, the fucker smirked at me. Smirked .

That’s what’s messing with my head. Because for a while, he was actually acting normal—calm, professional, almost chill enough to make me think he’d finally gotten his shit together.

But the second he saw an opening, he took his shot.

I just want him to stay the fuck away from me for the rest of this tour and thereafter. Because if he doesn’t… I honestly don’t know what I’ll do. Like I said, I don’t want to blow up our career or clash with the label.

For now, I just need to forget it all, forget the drugs, forget the duet, forget him. Just get through this tour, then figure out a way to make damn sure this never happens again.

“You sure you still want to go through with it?” Missy asks, raising her voice over the final chorus of Six of Hearts’ set. “Jodie said the label gave you the green light to skip tonight, remember?”

Usually, my band would’ve fucked off already and would be back on the bus or somewhere backstage. They do that sometimes, since I’m the only one needed on stage for the duet. But tonight? Tonight I’m so fucking glad they got my back, because my gut is churning.

It always does when I have to go on stage with Mick, I just don’t like doing it, but this feels different. Worse. Sharper.

Like something’s coming.

I can still feel the outline of his cock against my ass from yesterday, when he pressed up behind me on that dance floor.

It makes me shudder and feel so fucking vile.

It’s fucking gross . The only dick that’s allowed near my ass is Tyler’s.

Including the Tyler-dildo or any other toy he blesses with his name. Period.

Even though I’m antsy, I nod to her anyway. It feels like if I won’t do this, he’ll fucking win. And I’m not letting him win. I can do this.

A stage tech waves me forward, and I nod again, stiffly, anxious as I step out into the light, letting Missy’s hand go at the last possible second.

The crowd roars, but it barely registers.

All I can think about is getting through this tonight.

One last song. One final performance with him.

Then it’s done. Then I can go back to the bus and sleep .

And I do get through it. I’m doing it. I survive every verse, every lyric, even though I want to hurl every time he looks at me, manages to touch me, since I hate him so fucking much.

Thankfully, I evade him most of the time, plastering on a smile as I sing my lines, as I perform my act and cater to the crowd.

But apparently, Mick has other plans and wants to go out with a bang this evening.

Because right when we’re almost done, when I finally feel that creeping sense of relief, like I might just make it, he’s there .

At the end of the song, in one swift second, too fast for me to block, he presses his lips to mine and all my muscles lock up.

I’m screaming.

Screaming .

I’m screaming inside.

I’m frozen. In a state of limbo.

The lips on my mouth press harder. The hands on the back of my head and ass yank me closer— squeezing —and I swear I’ve never felt this kind of dread. Never felt this violated . I almost wish I was blissfully high again, so I don’t need to be so fucking aware of how this feels.

I swear I can feel his fucking tongue against my lips.

I’ve handled grabbing before. Handled pushy fans before. Handled unwelcome hugs, sweaty high fives, and people throwing themselves at me with too much enthusiasm.

But nobody’s ever kissed me.

Nobody’s ever touched me like this—

Intimately. Publicly.

Without my fucking consent and claiming me in front of the entire fucking world to see.

It feels like I’m withering on the inside, like a piece of me just fucking dies right then and there. My fists are itching to push him away, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Not without making a scene in front of the entire fucking stadium.

He knows I’m not single.

He knows I don’t want this.

I said no. I said no so many fucking times.

But if I say no now —if I push Mick fucking Heart away in front of an audience of fifty thousand people? Fans who are screaming, catcalling, cheering us on like this is some kind of twisted love story?

Fans who hardcore ship us.

Who have fucking shipnames for us.

Who’ve written fanfics about us.

I just can’t.

I promised Ty it wouldn’t come to this; I fucking promised him this wouldn’t happen, that this was just some stupid crush on his end. That he’ll get bored with and would fade, eventually.

That I’d never let it turn into anything.

That this —this nightmare—it wouldn’t happen.

But I never even imagined Mick doing this . That he’d stoop this fucking low.

After last night, I should have seen this coming.

I know he’s an arrogant piece of shit who’s been in the spotlight way too long, who has a skewered view of the world outside of his own little bubble. He’s used to everyone around him catering to his every need, used to all people being obsessed with him, devoted to him, wanting him.

But I don’t fucking want him. I’m not devoted to him. I’m not obsessed with him.

I never fucking will be.

The shame is like a separate entity, slithering into my body one inch at a time, suffocating every shred of my integrity as my hands clench on his waist to push him away. I have to push him away. I need to push him away.

But my hands freeze.

All that’s running through my mind is my friends, my bandmates, our career. Because if this was just about me? I’d punch him in the fucking face without hesitation and be done with it.

But the audience… The label… Our music… Our future…

My future. Tyler.

This is all wrong. So fucking wrong.

Tyler means more than any-fucking-thing.

So I push .

But he pulls back at the same time, smoothly, likely having anticipated my response so it doesn’t appear like I pushed him. Those dark-green, lust-filled eyes narrow in satisfaction, and he gives me a filthy smirk like he just won.

And I almost vomit. Right then and there.

But I smile back for the sake of the crowd while I’m silently screaming.

I step back to get away from him while I’m slowly crumbling.

The cheering is deafening. Overwhelming.

People are fucking buying this shit.

When Mick finally lets me go and steps back, I almost collapse from the sheer fucking relief—but I have to tolerate this all-encompassing sense of wrongness just a bit longer, have to smile and fucking wave to the crowd, thank them for this wonderful show and the amazing night.

I don’t know how I do it. How I finally get off the damn stage and flee to the wings, bursting past a wide-eyed Ava, Asher, and Missy and run to what I hope is the empty dressing room.

But I do. Somehow, I do.

Ev is there. Sitting on a bench like a statue, staring at me like he knows how much this costs me. Like he somehow felt my despair. The sorrow and anger rolling off him, of this man of steel, nearly fucking levels me.

“Take me to the airport,” I croak, not wanting to wait on my friends, I just can’t… can’t face them. Not yet.

I need to get out of here, stat.

He nods and gets up. No questions. No hesitation.

The only things I grab on our way out are my jacket, phone, and wallet, and before I know it, I’m in a sedan Ev somehow conjured up—sitting beside him as he drives us to the airport.

I’m done. I’m going home. I’m going to Tyler.

Oh god, Tyler .

The footage about this should be over the whole fucking internet right now like a viral fucking nightmare.

I press my fist to my mouth and hunch forward, rocking slightly, trying to stay fucking calm as Ev speeds through the city like he’s auditioning for a live-action remake of Cars .

I have to call him. I have to.

I need to explain. I need to tell him I love him. That it wasn’t real. That it meant nothing. That it wasn’t me . That I pushed.

Oh God, I’m going to lose him, anyway. I fucking cheated on him. On the love of my life.

No—scratch that. Of my entire existence .

With shaking fingers, I yank my phone from my jeans and tap his name. My heart jackhammers as it goes straight to voicemail. I try again. And again. And again. And fucking again. I grow more desperate with every second that passes, until finally, I smack myself in the forehead, hard.

Shit. Practice.

I check the time. Fuck, he’s right in the middle of it.

My fingers go numb. My chest tightens. The phone slips from my grip into my lap and I just sit there, frozen, heart racing so fast it feels like it’s tearing holes in my ribs.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t fucking breathe .

I swear my damn lungs are collapsing in on themselves or something stupid like that, panic bubbling up from somewhere deep and very fucking ugly. The air in the car feels too thick, the silence too loud. What have I done?

Ev doesn’t say much. He just pulls the car into the drop-off lane like it’s any other day, any other flight. Calm. Steady. Unshakable.

But when he parks, he turns to me.

“Come on,” he mutters quietly, and reaches over to tug the hood from my jacket up over my head. Covering me. Shielding me. Like I’m something fragile.

I nod, but I can’t speak. I can’t feel my legs. I just follow him. Out of the car. Toward the terminal. Toward—

I don’t know.

Tyler.

Toward the end of the fucking best thing that has ever happened to me.

Every step feels like walking into a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

And I still can’t fucking breathe.