Page 1 of Composed
Cole
Homecoming – Hey Monday
Thescreamingcrowdswallowsthe last riff of the night.
Spotlights flicker off and plunge the stage into darkness one-by-one.
Sweat slicks my forehead. I push my fingers through my hair and brush the damp strands away.
Carter hits the hi-tom a final time, Axel tugs on the bra hanging from the neck of his Ibanez bass, and Saint tosses his Fender to a roadie before jogging off stage.
I root myself to the spot, my hand tight around the microphone stand, as the stadium clears out. It's the last stop on this tour, and our last show under Riotous Records. I’d be a fool not to take a moment to soak it all in.
Ten years. One brutal contract. And tonight, we’re finally free.
My throat is raw from two hours of non-stop singing.
So fucking worth it though.
A roadie snatches the stand from my grip.
With a final glance over the near-empty stadium, I exhale a slow breath and exit the stage.
I make my way to the greenroom.
Thick tangy smoke wafts through the air. The speakers rattle, vibrating the floor as they’re cranked up to max volume. Someone offers me a capped beer. Coke and Molly come next. I refuse them all, grabbing a chilled bottle of water instead.
I sit on the couch and kick my legs onto the small, littered table as I zero in on Saint stumbling across the floor.
“’Sup motherfucker,” he slurs, his gunmetal blue eyes glassy.
He crashes into the couch, falling face first into my lap. A bottle of whiskey hangs limp in his hand, a lit cigarette between his teeth.
I don’t ask if he’s good. He’s not. My best friend is carrying more demons than even I know about. But he’ll never admit it.
Carter glances up from his phone, catching my gaze. His eyes drop to where Saint lies before he tips his chin at the door and hikes a brow.
I shake my head. Carter has enough parenting to do when we’re not on the road. I can deal with Saint on my own. No point in ruining the celebrations for anyone else.
I shift Saint's head before standing and peeling him off the couch. He stirs just enough to throw his arm over my shoulders, before all six foot three of him slumps in a deadweight.
It takes close to an hour to wrestle him into the back of a sleek black car and reach his hotel room.
I drop him on the bed and leave a bottle of water and painkillers on the nightstand.
“Hey, Cole.”
I glance down at him. “What’s up?”
“What do we do now?” He curls in on himself, a pillow wrapped tight in his arms, but his misty eyes stay locked on me.
I wish I knew the answer.
For the first time in a decade, there’s no studio time planned, no tour booked, no suit breathing down our neck. We’re free to do whatever we want. It should be exhilarating. Yet I’ve never been more scared.
Stuck at a crossroads, Reckless Abandon waits on my next move. But the road I have to take if we’re gonna still be standing after all this isn’t an easy one to travel.
I exhale a slow breath and scrub the back of my neck.
