Page 23 of First Verse

Her royal blue hair sways in my peripheral vision as she shakes her head in lingering disbelief. “TheAlex Iloka. I can’t get over it.”

“It’s pretty surreal,” I agree, throwing a quick smile her way and an even quicker glance at the navigation screen on my dash. There are three more miles before I have to change lanes for a left-hand turn, but I put on my blinker anyway and merge over while no one is beside me.

I’ve freaked out over the article plenty myself, but right now navigating the dark, wet roads takes precedence. I’m hyper focused and ultra-defensive, my eyes swiveling between mirrors and the windshield, my palms damp on the wheel.

According to Rye, my aversion to driving at night is merely another trait in a long list proving I’m an old woman in a twenty-three-year-old’s body. I tried explaining astigmatism once but got nowhere, probably because it was a flimsy excuse and he knew it. My astigmatism—if I even have one—is minor and nowhere close to the real reason, which is so embarrassing I’ve never told my best friend.

I’m afraid of the dark and have been since I was a little kid and got lost in the woods during a camping trip. Unfortunately, the phobia didn’t fade as I grew up. It matured right along with me.

I almost wish darkness were still synonymous with monsters under the bed. It seems simpler, somehow. Now the threat is both bigger and more nebulous. The danger of the unknown and its hidden potential for shock and pain. Plus spiders.

Most days, I manage okay. The fear is easier to ignore when I’m with others, and when I’m onstage it doesn’t bother me at all. I generally feel safe at home, too. As long as I take precautions, I’m even fine using my hot tub at night—although I still freak out occasionally and sprint soaking wet into my house.

But no matter where I am or who I’m with, I can’t sleep without multiple nightlights. I won’t check the mailbox at the end of my driveway if it’s close to sunset. And I absolutely hate driving at night.

The only reason I’m behind the wheel right now is because I don’t trust a stranger to drive us. That, and I volunteered to be the designated driver so Lily can unwind. Between her full-time job and classes, she deserves a night to let loose and celebrate.

Her sudden, giddy laugh makes my lips twitch. “You know what I can’t get over? How we had no idea he was there. Just did our thing, totally oblivious.”

“Same.”

Especially since my first thought after reading the article was a cynical one—that someone had pulled strings on our behalf. Despite knowing Alex’s reputation as strictly unbiased, I’d immediately called my dad and grilled him. He swore he had nothing to do with the critic’s presence in the audience and even called the Ashburns to confirm they didn’t overstep, either. I’ve since accepted that it was dumb luck. He’d been there to see the headliners, The Remnants, and happened to show up early.

“If wehadknown,” I say dryly, “would we have made it onstage?”

“Definitely not. We would have been too busy puking.” Lily groans, palming her stomach. “Actually, even thinking about it in hindsight makes me want to hurl.”

I smirk. “That’s from the shots you did before we left. Told you they were a bad idea.”

“I know,” she whines. “I’m just really nervous.”

“You’re gorgeous and fierce as hell. Now eat the granola bar I hid in your purse.”

She grabs it with a laugh. “Thanks, Mom.”

I roll my eyes, then glance at the navigation screen. Seven more minutes until we arrive at the party The Remnants invited us to. Lily’s nervous because she has a crush on their drummer, Tyler, after chatting with him last weekend and texting with him all week. I know she’s anxious, too, about the party itself. It’s not at a club, bar, or in someone’s cramped apartment like we’re used to, but in a private home in a nice neighborhood.

The Remnants and their ilk definitely aren’t our usual social circle. To use Alex Iloka’s metaphor, they’re at least a dozen rungs ahead of us on the success ladder. While only a few years older than us, the men are full-time musicians with a label, four albums, and two international tours under their belts. Their sound is a little too niche for music charts or consistent radio play, but they have a rabid fanbase who think they’re the second coming of Depeche Mode.

I’m nervous, too, but for different reasons. I haven’t been to a party like this in three years and never without Wilder, Eddie, and Jax. It’s a weird feeling. An almost vulnerable one. I won’t have a clear purpose like I did before—Lily isn’t Wilder. I won’t need to babysit her so she doesn’t do anything crazy or downright dangerous.

The thought should bring relief but instead leaves me unsettled, a feeling that intensifies as I turn onto a darker, residential street.

Lily finishes the granola bar and tucks the wrapper back in my purse. “Are you excited to see Michael again? That man looked at you with boners in his eyes after our set.”

My stomach flutters at the mention of The Remnants’ lead singer. “First off, ew. Second, I guess? Maybe? I don’t know. He may not even talk to me.”

“You’re delusional. I think you should go for it. He’s hot. Those dark eyes? The smile?” She fans herself.

I side-eye her. “You sure you’re interested in Tyler and not Michael?”

She grins. “I can appreciate a good-looking guy, but you know I prefer the teddy-bear types. Perfect example: Rye Henderson. Now there’s a bear I wouldn’t mind pawing my underwear off.”

I almost miss a stop sign, slamming on the brakes at the last second. Thankfully, there are no other cars around us.

“Dude,” I moan.

Lily giggles. “Sorry.”

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