𝐉𝐀𝐗

Roses.

That's the first thing I noticed about her. The way she smelled like she just walked through an overgrown garden of roses.

When I felt that sharp, searing pain heat behind my ankle, I was initially pretty pissed off. I mean, who wouldn't be? It's definitely not an experience I would recommend.

Thankfully, though, for the first time in well over a year, I woke up in a relatively decent mood. So I swallowed the bark I could feel bubbling in the back of my throat.

Then when I turned around and was met with a beautiful woman with hair the same shade as copper and doe-like blue eyes, it suddenly felt like that same garden that surrounded her, somehow transferred over and swallowed me whole. The second I felt my lips curve into a smile from watching her stammer for an apology, I realized I had a newfound love for the smell of roses again.

The smell lingered the entire drive back to the hotel, and still does even now as I stand in the doorway with my foot barely inside the room.

James scrambles from his stool at the island, rushing toward me before he stops and looks at me expectantly. His short, black hair is sticking up in just about every direction, looking like he just rolled out of bed. Although, knowing him, he probably did.

I raise an eyebrow. "What's up, bud?" I ask, letting the door swing shut behind me.

He gestures toward the bag that's dangling from my index finger.

"So, is it... still in the car?" he asks, craning his neck to look behind me as if something's magically going to appear.

I look from the bag, to him, then back to the bag when it suddenly dawns on me.

The entire reason I went to the store was to grab more beer.

I tip my head back with a groan and drag a hand down my face. "Shit. I forgot, man. I'm sorry—"

He doesn't let me finish before he snatches the bag from my hand and wrestles one of the bottles free. Holding it up, he narrows his eyes at the label and scoffs loudly.

"How are we supposed to get wasted off"—he pauses to double-check the label—"Moscato?"

Before I can say the smart-ass answer that's on the tip of my tongue, the door swings open and in strolls our manager, Don.

When we arrived in Boston, the label warned us they'd stick us with someone right from the get-go. What they failed to mention was that he'd be up our asses twenty-four-seven, hovering like a bloody vulture.

Technically, we're not even supposed to have a manager yet since we aren't set to hit the road until after the record drops. But since another band screwed up their deal and couldn't fulfill their album, now everyone has to be babysat.

Yippee for us.

"What's with the yelling?" he asks, still standing by the door with his nose high in the air like he smells something rancid.

Gareth shuffles into the kitchenette, looking just as disheveled as James, and pours himself a glass of scotch.

"What's with you having a key?" he mutters into his glass, then takes a slow drink.

I can't help but laugh at the jab, but I quickly wipe the smirk off my face before Donny boy sees and pops a blood vessel.

Gareth's always been the one to just say whatever's on his mind. Which is exactly why every time James or I saw his ass sitting in the headteacher's office, we never had to question why. It was always for some shit he said to purposely piss someone off.

I guess old habits die hard.

The sound of a jacket zipper echoes behind me, followed by the unmistakable jangle of keys. When I glance over, James is already heading for the door, yanking on his hood like a pissed off teenager.

"Where are you going?" I ask, my eyes following him.

He stops, turning slightly to look over his shoulder. "To get the beer," he says with a shrug, then pulls it open.

"Hey," Don calls out. "Don't overdo it."

James rolls his eyes, muttering, "Yes, Dad," before letting the door slam shut behind him.

Now it's just Don, Gareth, and me standing awkwardly in the cramped kitchen. Which pulls a question to the front of my mind.

"Where the hell is Casey?" I ask, glancing around the room until my eyes land on a still figure under a thick blanket on the sofa.

I lift a finger, pointing at the lump and turn back to Gareth with a raised brow. "He okay?"

Gareth chuckles before tiptoeing over, and kneels beside the bald, grizzly man sprawled beneath the covers.

With one swift motion, he yanks them off him and drops the blanket to the floor.

"Babysitter's here. Time to wake up," Gareth announces loudly.

"Aye, it's not my fault you fucks were loud all night," he says with the thickest accent out of the three of us.

Sometimes even I don't know what the hell he's saying.

The hotel door swings back open, and James bolts inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He walks quickly to the island, dropping two twelve packs on it as the bottles clank together loudly.

"What's he skipping around about?" Casey asks, leaning off the sofa to watch James through barely open lids.

When he finishes unloading, he walks into the room with his arms crossed at his chest, smacking his lips annoyingly. "You guys will never guess what happened."

"Don't tell me you ran down Main Street screaming 'The British are coming,' again," Gareth half jokes, giving him a pointed look.

"Oh, come on! That was funny," James defends.

That's just one example of why the guys don't get why we already need a manager. Don's got his hands full with James as it is. We haven't even been here a full week, and he's already proving that every day.

Then I'm left confused again. He was gone for... not even five minutes. I know we're in the city, but how the hell did he get that much alcohol that fast?

"James," I call. Mid-laugh, he glances over and juts his chin toward me. I shake my head, grinning. "Where did you even get all that?"

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. "There's a whole ass store downstairs. You'd know if this wasn't the first day you actually left the ho—"

Gareth quickly elbows him in the ribs. "Shut it," he mutters through clenched teeth.

Well... there goes my good mood. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone brought it up.

I press my lips together. "No, it's okay. He's right. I'm just..." I glance down, trying not to let the familiar pang drag me under, but it's clearly a losing battle. "Still not used to the idea of her being gone."

James's expression shifts, and his shoulders slump. He walks over until he's beside me, nudging my shoulder a few times. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to..." He pauses and awkwardly runs his hand through his hair. "She'd be proud of you. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I know." I gesture toward the counter. "Go on and open your bottles. See if you can get Donny boy to loosen up while you're at it." I offer a forced smile before turning and sinking onto the sofa beside Casey.

He yawns, arms stretching high before one drops lazily behind me.

"So," he mumbles, still mid-yawn, "when are we expected in the studio?"

I glance over at him, then let my head fall back against the couch, eyes locked on the ceiling fan spinning above. "Exactly one month."

Each blade rotates, pulling me further into scattered thoughts that I can't escape.

Did James have a point about me never leaving the hotel? Yeah, sure. But the last year of my life has been... well, shit. So can they really blame me?

First there was the divorce, then Mum being ripped away, and then two weeks later, I was expected to pack up and travel back to America. It's all just felt like too much.

The label gave us a few extra months at home, which helped in some ways. But they could only delay things for so long before they'd have to take back their offer. Honestly, though? I needed the extra shove. Otherwise, I'd still be glued to her living room floor.

Realizing she's really gone—that I'll never get another phone call about some new hand-painted figurine she found at an antique fair, or asking me to hang another shelf for them—it fucking guts me. The number of times I rescheduled visits for things that didn't even matter... I truly hate myself for that. I think I always will.

Then I woke up this morning and could physically feel her with me, and somehow I just knew that from now on, everything was going to be okay. I'm not exactly sure if it's because today marks six months since she's been gone, or if my brain finally ran out of room for the grief. 

Then later the same day, I felt my heart come back to life. The overwhelming happiness I felt just by looking into the eyes of a beautiful stranger made me realize how lucky I am to still be here. To be able to live through the dreams my mum fought so hard to give me.

"Jax!" Gareth's voice booms out of nowhere, suddenly towering over me.

My eyes snap to his while he stares at me with his eyebrows drawn tight.

"Yeah? Why are you yelling right now?" I ask with a chuckle.

"I said your name like four times, mate. We were gonna go over the plan for tomorrow." He drops down beside me and gives my shoulder a quick shake. "You want a drink or something? You look like you could use one."

I start to shake my head, but then my eyes catch on the wine bottles from earlier. The merlot and the Moscato sit side by side, begging me to test if she was right about it being the perfect mix of fruit and alcohol.

"Actually, yeah," I mutter, already pushing off the couch.

I grab the Moscato and twist off the cap, relieved it's not a bloody cork since I'm pretty sure hotel rooms don't typically come with them. Plus, there's the fact I wasn't even supposed to be looking at wine.

Reaching up, I quickly snag a glass from the cupboard and pour a generous amount, then reluctantly press the glass to my lips. I let it sit on my tongue for a moment, savoring the taste of exactly what she said—the perfect mix of fruit and alcohol.

A loud slam makes me flinch, nearly spilling the wine.

I glance over. Casey's at the minibar, pouring a beer into a glass, giving me a side-eye. Why he insists on pouring it instead of drinking straight from the bottle is beyond me, but hey, I'm not here to judge how the guy drinks his beer.

I clear my throat. "So, what do you think of Boston so far?" I ask awkwardly.

I'm still trying to figure out how to talk to the guy. He's only been with us two years, and his tendency to keep quiet doesn't exactly help. James, Gareth, and I? We all went to school together. That's ten years of playing in a band, learning each other's quirks, and figuring out how much pressure we can handle. But ever since Max left and Casey stepped in, it's like we hit a social reset button and forgot how to hold a conversation.

Which leaves Casey as a giant question mark to the three of us.

What we do know is that he's a damn good drummer, he likes video games, and he grew up in Scotland. And that pretty much sums up everything we know about Casey Price.

He takes a slow sip of his beer, sets the glass down, then squints over at me.

"I mean, we haven't been here long enough for me to get a feel for it," he says. "I'm sure I'll figure it out. But if Boston's what's making you drink frilly wine, I might have some doubts." He chuckles and nods at the glass in my hand.

Says the guy drinking beer from a glass.

I shrug. "Just expanding my taste buds," I say, half lying since there's no way in hell I'm telling any of them I ran into a girl at the store.

Why would I bother saying anything? All they'd do is harp on me about calling her to see what other recommendations she had. They think I need some sort of... distraction. Or a hookup. The word alone sends a chill down my spine.

Emelia is the only person I've ever been with, so why would I sign myself up for that kind of humiliation? Just to feel numb? I already feel numb most days, so that's already taken care of.

That's why I promised myself this tour is strictly about dreams, and making them come true. For me, for my mum, and for the guys.

We've worked our asses off to get here, and it's finally paying off. No more playing in my dusty garage or doing those shitty open mics at the local pub.

This is when shit gets real.

There's no time for anything else but working on this record. Even if they make my heart feel like the pieces are slowly melding back together, or they smell like roses and have the most gorgeous set of blue eyes I've ever seen.

There's just no room for feelings when you're about to go on tour. So why would I ask for her number when it's not even a possibility that it would go anywhere?